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Title: The Catholic World; Volume I, Issues 1-6 - A Monthly Eclectic Magazine
Author: Rameur, E.
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "The Catholic World; Volume I, Issues 1-6 - A Monthly Eclectic Magazine" ***

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[Transcriber's notes]
  This text is derived from

  Several scanned pages are obscured by being too closely glued at the
  spine. I have interpolated the missing text where it seemed obvious
  and left "??" where it was in doubt.

  A few cases of inaccurate typesetting such as misplaced words or
  lines have been corrected.

  Although square brackets [] usually designate footnotes or
  transcriber's notes, they do appear in the original text.

  This text includes Volume I;
    Number 1--April 1865
    Number 2--May 1865
    Number 3--June 1865
    Number 4--July 1865
    Number 5--August 1865
    Number 6--September 1865
[End Transcriber's notes]

_Fine Binding_


_A Monthly Eclectic Magazine_










  Ancient Saints of God, The, 19.
  Ars, A Pilgrimage to, 24.
  Alexandria, The Christian Schools of, 33, 721.
  Animal Kingdom, Unity of Type in the, 71.
  Art, 136, 286, 420.
  Art, Christian, 246.
  Authors, Royal and Imperial, 323.
  All-Hallow Eve, or the Test of Futurity, 500, 657, 785.
  Arks, Noah's, 513.

  Babou, Monsieur, 106.
  Blind Deaf Mute, History of a, 826.

  Church in the United States, Progress of the, 1.
  Constance Sherwood, 78, 163, 349, 482, 600, 748.
  Catholicism, The Two Sides of, 96, 669, 741.
  Cardinal Wiseman in Rome, 117
  Catacombs, Recent Discoveries in the, 129.
  Chastellux, The Marquis de, 181.
  Church of England, Workings of the Holy Spirit in the, 289.
  Cochin China, French, 369.
  Consalvi's Memoirs, 377.
  Church History, A Lost Chapter Recovered, 414.
  Canova, Antonio, 598.
  Cathedral Library, The, 679.
  Catholic Philosophy in the Thirteenth Century, 685.

  De Guérin, Eugénie and Maurice, 214.
  Divina Commedia, Dante's, 268.
  Dinner by Mistake, A, 535.
  Dramatic Mysteries of the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries, 577.
  Dublin May Morning, A, 825.

  Extinct Species, 526.
  Experience, Wisdom by, 851.

  Falconry, Modern, 493.
  Fifth Century, Civilization in the, 775.

  Guérin, Eugénie and Maurice de, 214.
  Glacier, A Night in a, 345.
  Grand Chartreuse, A Visit to the, 830.

  Hedwige, Queen of Poland, 145.
  Heart and the Brain, 623.

  Irish Poetry, Recent, 466.

  Jem McGowan's Wish, 56.

  Legends and Fables, The Truth of, 433.
  London, Catholic Progress in, 703.
  London, 836.
  Laborers Gone to their Reward, 855.

  Mont Cenis Tunnel, The, 60.
  Mongols, Monks among the, 158.
  Mourne, The Building of, 225.
  Memoirs, Consalvi's, 377.
  Maintenon, Madame de, 799.
  Miscellany, 134, 280, 420, 567, 712, 858.

  Nick of Time, The, 124.

  Perilous Journey, A, 198.
  Poucette, 260.
  Prayer, What came of a, 697.

  Russian Religious, A, 306.

  Saints of God, The Ancient, 19.
  Science, 134, 280, 712.
  Streams, The Modern Genius of, 233.
  Stolen Sketch, The, 314.
  Swetchine, Madame, and her Salon, 456.
  Shakespeare, William, 548.
  St. Sophia, The Church and Mosque of, 641.
  Species, The Origin and Mutability of, 845.

  Three Wishes, The, 31.
  Terrene Phosphorescence, 770.

  Upfield, Many Years Ago at, 393.

  Vanishing Race, A, 708.

  Wiseman, Cardinal in Rome, 117.
  Winds, The, 207.
  Women, A City of, 514.
  Wisdom by Experience, 851.

  Young's Narcissa, 797.


  A Lie, 245.
  Avignon, The Bells of, 783.

  Domine Quo Vadis? 76.
  Dream of Gerontius, The, 517, 630.
  Dorothea, Saint, 666.

  Ex Humo, 33.

  Gerontius, The Dream of, 517, 630.

  Hans Euler, 237.

  Limerick Bells, Legend of, 195.

  Mary, Queen of Scots, Hymn by, 337.
  Martin's Puzzle, 739.

  Saint Dorothea, 666.
  Speech, 829.

  Twilight in the North, 344.

  Unspiritual Civilization, 747.




  Archbishop Spalding's Pastoral, 144.
  At Anchor, 287.
  American Annual Cyclopaedia, US.
  A Man without a Country, 720.

  Banim's Boyne Water, 286.
  Beatrice, Miss Kavanagh's, 574.

  Cardinal Wiseman's Sermons, 139.
  Cummings' Spiritual Progress, 140.
  Christian Examiner, Reply to the, 144.
  Correlation and Conservation of Forces, The, 288, 425.
  Confessors of Connaught, 574.
  Curé of Ars, Life of the, 575.
  Ceremonial of the Church, 720.

  Darras' History of the Church, 141, 575, 860.

  England, Froude's History of, 715.

  Faith, the Victory, Bishop McGill's, 428.

  Grace Morton, 574.

  Heylen's Progress of the Age, etc., 142.
  Household Poems, Longfellow's, 719.

  Irvington Stories, 143.
  Irish Street Ballads, 720.

  John Mary Decalogne, Life of, 576.

  Lamotte Fouqué's Undine, etc 142.
  La Mère de Dieu, 432.
  Life of Cicero, 573.

  Moral Subjects, Card. Wiseman's Sermons on 287.
  Mystical Rose, The, 288.
  Mater Admirabilis. 429.
  Month of Mary, 720.
  Martyr's Monument, The, 860.

  New Path, The, 288, 576.

  Our Farm of Four Acres, 143.

  Protestant Reformation, Abp. Spalding's History of the, 719.

  Real and Ideal, 427.
  Religious Perfection, Bayma's, 431.
  Russo-Greek Church, The, 576.
  Retreat, Meditations and Considerations for a, 720.

  Songs for all Seasons, Tennyson's, 719.
  Sybil, A Tragedy, 860.

  Translation of the Iliad, Lord Derby's, 570.
  Trübner's American and Oriental Literature, 576.

  William Shakespeare, 860.
  Whittier's Poems; 860.

  Young Catholic's Library, 432.
  Year of Mary, 719.



VOL. I., NO. 1.--APRIL, 1865.

From Le Correspondant.



[The following article will no doubt be interesting to our readers,
not only for its intrinsic merit and its store of valuable
information, but also as a record of the impressions made upon an
intelligent foreign Catholic, during a visit to this country. As might
have been expected, the author has not escaped some errors in his
historical and statistical statements--most of which we have noted in
their appropriate places. It will also be observed that while
exaggerating the importance of the early French settlements in the
development of Catholicism in the United States, he has not given the
Irish immigrants as much credit as they deserve. But despite these
faults, which are such as a Frenchman might readily commit, the
article will amply repay reading.--ED. CATHOLIC WORLD.]

After the Spaniards had discovered the New World, and while they were
fighting against the Pagan civilization of the southern portions of
the continent, the French made the first [permanent] European
settlement on the shores of America. They founded Port Royal, in
Acaclia, in 1604, and from that time their missionaries began to go
forth among the savages of the North. It was not until 1620 that the
first colony of English Puritans landed in Massachusetts, and it then
seemed not improbable that Catholicism was destined to be the dominant
religion of the New World; but subsequent Anglo-Saxon immigration and
political vicissitudes so changed matters, that by the end of the last
century one might well have believed that Protestantism was finally
and completely established throughout North America. God, however,
prepares his ways according to his own good pleasure; and he knows how
to bring about secret and unforeseen changes, which set at naught all
the calculations of man. The weakness and internal disorders of the
Catholic nations, in the eighteenth century, retarded only for a
moment the progress of the Catholic Church; and Providence, combining
the despised efforts of those who seemed weak with the faults of those
who seemed strong, confounded the superficial judgments of
philosophers, and prepared the way for a speedy religious
transformation of America.

This transformation is going on in our own times with a vigor which
seems to increase every year. The {2} causes which have led to it
were, at the outset, so trivial that no writer of the last century
would have dreamed of making account of them. Yet, already at that
time, Canada, where Catholicism is now more firmly established than in
any other part of America, possessed that faithful and energetic
population which has increased so wonderfully during the last half
century; and even in the United States might have been found many an
obscure, but a patient and stout-hearted little congregation--a relic
of the old English Church, which after three centuries of oppression
was to arise and spread itself with a new life. But no one set store
by the poor French colonists; England and Protestantism, together, it
was thought, would soon absorb them; and as for the _Papists_ of the
United States, the wise heads did not even suspect their existence.
The writer who should have spoken of their future would only have been
laughed at.

The English Catholics, like the Puritans, early learned to look toward
America as a refuge from persecution, and in 1634, under the direction
of Lord Baltimore, they founded the colony of Maryland. Despite
persecution from Protestants whom they had freely admitted into their
community, they prospered, increased, and became the germ of the
Church of the United States, now so large and flourishing.

In the colonial archives of the Ministry of the Navy we have found a
curious manuscript memoir upon Acadia, by Lamothe Cadillac, in which
it is stated that in 1686 there were Catholic inhabitants in New York,
and especially in Maryland, where they had seven or eight priests.
Another paper preserved in the same archives mentions a Catholic
priest residing in New York; and William Penn, who had established
absolute toleration in the colony adjoining that of Maryland, speaks
of an old Catholic priest who exercised the ministry in Pennsylvania.

The Catholics at this time are said to have composed a thirtieth part
of the whole population of Maryland. This estimate seems to us too
low. At all events, the increase of our unfortunate brethren in the
faith was retarded by persecution and difficulties of all kinds which
surrounded them. In the Puritan colonies of the North, they were
absolutely proscribed. In the Southern colonies, of Virginia, Georgia,
and Carolina, their condition was but little better; in New York they
enjoyed a precarious toleration in the teeth of penal laws. In
Maryland and Pennsylvania alone they were granted freedom of worship,
and a legal status; though even in those colonies they were exposed to
a thousand wrongs and vexations. Maryland persecuted them from time to
time and banished their priests; and William Penn, in his tolerant
conduct toward them, was bitterly opposed by his own people.

Nevertheless, despite difficulties and violence, the Anglo-American
Catholics increased by little and little, wherever they got a
foothold; the descendants of the old settlers multiplied; new ones
came from England and Ireland; and a German immigration set in,
especially in Pennsylvania, where several congregations of German
Catholics were formed at a very early period. In the archives of this
province we have found several valuable indications of the state of
the Church in 1760. There were then two priests, one a Frenchman or an
Englishman, named Robert Harding, the other a German of the name of
Schneider. It seems probable that they were both Jesuits.  [Footnote
1] In a letter to Governor Loudon, in 1757, Father Harding estimates
the number of Catholics in Philadelphia and its immediate neighborhood
at two thousand--English, Irish, and German; but in the absence of
Father Schneider he could not be positive as to these figures. A
letter from Gouverneur Morris in 1756 {3} speaks of the Catholics of
Maryland and Pennsylvania as being very numerous and enjoying freedom
of worship, and adds, that in Philadelphia there is a Jesuit who is a
very able and talented man. The Abbé Robin, a chaplain in Rochambeau's
army in 1781, informs us in his narrative that there were several
Catholic churches at Fredericksburg, Va., and even a Catholic
congregation at Charleston, S.C.

  [Footnote 1: In De Courcy and Shea's "Catholic Church in the United
  States" pp. 211,  212, an account will be found of both these
  missionaries. The first mentioned was an Englishman. Both were--
  Jesuits. ED. C. W.]

The toleration accorded to the Jesuits in the United States was
precarious, but it amounted in time to a pretty complete freedom; and
as they were not disturbed when the order was suppressed in Europe,
some of their brethren from abroad took refuge with them; so that in
1784, we find, according to Mr. C. Moreau, in his excellent work on
the French emigrant priests in America,  [Footnote 2] nineteen priests
in Maryland, and five in Pennsylvania. To these we must add the
priests of Detroit, Mich., Vincennes, Ind., and Kaskaskia and Cahokia,
Ill., all four originally French-Canadian settlements which were ceded
to England along with Canada, and after the American Revolution became
parts of the United States. Counting, moreover, the missionaries
scattered among the Indian tribes, we may safely say that the American
Republic contained at the period of which we are speaking not fewer
than thirty or forty ecclesiastics. The number of the faithful may be
set down as 16,000 in Maryland, 7,000 or 8,000 in Pennsylvania, 3,000
at Detroit and Vincennes, and about 2,500 in southern Illinois; in all
the other states together they hardly amounted to 1,500. In a total
population therefore of 3,000,000 they numbered about 30,000, and of
these 5,500 were of French origin. Such was the condition of the
Church in the United States when it was regularly established in 1789
by the erection of an episcopal see at Baltimore, and the appointment,
as bishop, of Mr. Carroll, an American priest, born of one of the
oldest Catholic families of Maryland. The dispersion of the clergy of
France, in 1790, soon afterward supplied America with numerous
evangelical laborers, who gave a new impulse to the development which
was just becoming apparent in the infant Church.

  [Footnote 2: One vol. 12mo. Paris: Douniol.]

A few years before the French Revolution, Mr. Emery, superior of Saint
Sulpice, guided by what we must term an extraordinary inspiration,
came to the assistance of the American Church, and with the help of
his brother Sulpitians and at the cost of the society, founded a
theological seminary at Baltimore. His plans were already well matured
when Bishop Carroll, soon after his appointment, entering heartily
into the project, promised him a house and all the assistance he could
give. Four Sulpitians accordingly set out from Paris in 1790, taking
with them five Seminarians. They were supplied with 30,000 francs to
defray the cost of their establishment, and to this modest sum the
crisis which soon overtook the parent establishment allowed them to
add but little; but this mite, bestowed by the Church of France in the
last days of her wealth, was destined to become, like the widow's
mite, the price of innumerable blessings.

Between 1791 and 1799 the storm of revolution drove twenty-three
French priests to the United States. As the first apostles, when they
set out from Rome, portioned out Germany and Gaul among themselves, so
they divided this country, and most of them organized new communities
of Christians, or by their zeal awakened communities that slept. Six
of them, Flaget, Cheverus, Dubourg, Maréchal, Dubois, and David,
became bishops.

The base of operations from which these peaceful but victorious
invaders went forth was Baltimore, the episcopal see around which were
gathered the old American clergy and the greater part of the Catholic
population. It was here that the Sulpitians {4} had their seminary,
and this establishment became a centre of attraction for a great many
of these exiled priests who belonged to the Society of Saint Sulpice.
Some (as MM. Ciquard, Matignon, and Cheverus) bent their steps from
Baltimore toward the laborious missions among the intolerant and often
fanatical Puritans of the North, where the Catholics--a mere
handful--were found scattered far and wide; isolated in the midst of a
Protestant population; deprived of priests and religious services, and
in danger of totally forgetting the faith in which they had been
baptized. Nothing discouraged these apostolic men. Aided by divine
grace, they awakened the indifferent, converted heretics, gathered
about them the few Catholics who immigrated from Europe, attracted all
men by their affable and conciliating manners, their intelligence and
education, and the disinterestedness of their lives. Soon on this
apparently sterile soil Catholic parishes grew up and flourished in
the midst of people who had never before seen a priest. Thus were
founded the churches of Massachusetts, Maine, and Connecticut--so
quickly that, in 1810 (that is to say, only eighteen years after the
beginning of the missions), it was deemed advisable to erect for them
another bishopric. Congregations had sprung up on every side as if by
enchantment, and the venerable Abbé Cheverus was appointed their first

Others went westward. The Abbés Flaget, Badin, Barriere, Fournier, and
Salmon carried the faith into Kentucky. There they found a few
Catholic families who had emigrated from Maryland. With them they
organized churches, which increased with prodigious rapidity, and were
the origin of the present dioceses of Louisville, Covington,
Nashville, and Alton.

The Abbés Richard, Levadour, Dilhiet, and several others, passed
through the forest and the wilderness, and joined the old French
colonies which still survived around the ruins of the French military
posts in the Northwest and in the valley of the Mississippi. They
found there a few missionaries, whom the Canadian Church still
maintained in those distant countries; but their ranks were thin, and
they were old and feeble. This precious reinforcement enabled them to
give a fresh impetus to the French Catholic congregations over whom
they kept watch in the forest. Detroit, Vincennes, Cahokia, Kaskaskia,
and afterward St. Geneviève and St. Louis in Missouri, ceded to the
United States in 1803, received the visits of these new apostles, and
experienced the benefits of their intelligence and zeal. Nearly all
the places where they fixed themselves have since given their names to
large and flourishing bishoprics.

Several of the emigrant priests remained in Maryland and Virginia, and
enabled the Sulpitians to complete the organization of their seminary,
while at the same time they assisted Bishop Carroll in providing more
perfectly and regularly for the wants of those central provinces which
might be called the first home of American Catholicism. The number of
the faithful everywhere increased remarkably. We can hardly estimate
the extraordinary influence which these French missionaries exercised
by their exemplary lives, their learning, their great qualities as
men, and their virtues as saints; and the Anglo-Saxon inhabitants (who
are thoroughly Protestant if you will, but for all that religious at
bottom) were struck by their character all the more forcibly because
it was so totally different from what their prejudices had led them to
expect of the Catholic clergy.

There is something patriarchal and Homeric in the lives of these men,
which read like the poetic legends in which nations have commemorated
the history of their first establishment. We have seen the journal of
one of these missionaries--the Abbé Bourg, {5} who labored further
North, in New Brunswick and Nova Scotia. His life was one long,
perpetual Odyssey. In the spring he used to start from the Bay of
Chaleur, traverse the northern coasts of New Brunswick, pass down the
Bay of Fundy, make the entire circuit of the peninsula of Nova Scotia,
and after a journey of five hundred leagues, performed in nine or ten
months, visit the islands in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, and so come
back to his point of departure. From place to place, the news of his
approach was sent forward by the settlers, so that whenever he stopped
he found the faithful waiting for him, and whole families came fifteen
or twenty leagues to meet him. Hardly had he arrived before he began
the round of priestly labor, of confession and baptism, of burial and
marriage. He was the arbiter of private quarrels, and often of public
disputes. He found time withal to look after the education of the
children--at least to make sure that they were well taught at home.
Thus he would stay fifteen days perhaps in one place, a month in
another, according to the number of the inhabitants. The first
communion of the children crowned his visit. Then the man of God, with
a last blessing on his weeping flock, disappeared for a whole year;
and when the apparition so long desired, but so transitory, had
passed, it left behind a halo of superhuman glory, which seemed to
these pious people the glory rather of a prophet than of an ordinary

In such ways the marks of a messenger from God seemed more and more
clearly and unmistakably stamped upon the Catholic missionary, and
Protestants themselves began to yield to the subtle influence of so
much real virtue and self-devotion. Conversions were frequent even
among the descendants of the stern Puritans. Many of the most fervent
Catholic families in the United States date from this period. A rich
Presbyterian minister of Boston (Mr. John Thayer) was converted, and
became a priest and an apostle. So God scattered the seed of grace
behind the footsteps of his poor, persecuted children, who, despite
their apparent misery, bore continually with them the wealth of the
soul, the power of the Word, and the marvellous attraction of their
sacrifices and virtues.

Providence, however, had not deployed so strong a force for no purpose
beyond the capture of these converts. A very few missionaries might
have sufficed for that; but it was now time to prepare the land for
the great European immigration which was to cause the astonishing
growth of the United States. Spreading themselves over the vast area
of the Union, the emigrants found everywhere these veteran soldiers
whom the French Revolution had sent forth into the New World as
pioneers, tried both by the pains of persecution and the labors of
apostleship. Before this great human tide the old emigrant priests
were like the primitive rocks which arrest and fix geological
deposits, The Catholic part of the tossing flood invariably settled
around them and their disciples. All over the West the churches
founded by the old French settlers increased, and new ones sprang up
wherever a Catholic priest established himself. From that moment the
grand progressive movement has never ceased. The blood of the martyrs
of France, the spirit of her banished apostles, became fruitful of
blessings, of which the American churches are daily sensible.

The first bishop in the United States had been appointed in 1789. Four
years afterward another see was erected at New Orleans, La., which,
ten years later, became a part of the United States; and in 1808, so
rapid had been the Catholic development, that three new bishops were
consecrated--one for Louisville, Ky., another for New York, and the
third for Boston, Mass. Two of these sees were occupied by the French
missionaries who had founded them--Bishop {6} Flaget at Louisville,
and Bishop Cheverus at Boston. That of New York was entrusted to a
venerable priest of English [Irish] origin--the Rev. Luke Concanen. In
the whole United States there were then sixty-eight priests and about
100,000 Catholics. Lei us now glance at the rapid increase of the
American Church up to our own day.


From the States of Maryland and Pennsylvania the Church was not long
in spreading into Virginia, New York, Kentucky, and Ohio. The
establishment of sees at Louisville and New York was followed by the
erection of others at Philadelphia in 1809, and Richmond and
Cincinnati in 1821. The two Carolinas, in which the Catholics had
hitherto been an obscure and rigorously proscribed class, received a
bishop at Charleston in 1820. New Orleans, a diocese of French
creation, was divided in 1824 by the erection of the bishopric of
Mobile. The old French colonies in the far West were the nucleus
around which were formed other churches. The dioceses of St. Louis,
Mo. (organized in 1826), Detroit, Mich. (1832), and Vincennes, Ind.
(1834), all took their names from ancient French settlements, and were
peopled almost exclusively by descendants of the French Canadians who
were their first inhabitants.

Thus, in the course of twenty-six years, we see eight new sees
erected, making the number of bishops in the United States thirteen.
The number of the clergy amounted in 1830 to 232, and in 1834 probably
exceeded 300. At the date of the next official returns (1840) there
were 482 priests and three more bishoprics--those of Natchez, Miss.,
and Nashville, Tenn., both established in 1837, and that of Monterey
in California, a country of Spanish settlement which had recently been
annexed to the United States.   [Footnote 3]

  [Footnote 3: Monterey was not a part of the United States until
  1848, nor a bishop's see until 1850. In place of it we should
  substitute Dubuque, made a see in 1837.--ED. C. W.]

But this increase was not comparable to that which followed between
1840 and 1850. In ten years the number of bishops was doubled by the
erection of fifteen [seventeen] new sees. In 1840 there were sixteen;
in 1850 thirty-one [thirty-three]. The growth during this period was
most perceptible in the North and West. Among the new sees were
Hartford, Conn., Albany and Buffalo, N. Y., Pittsburg, Penn.,
Cleveland, O., Chicago, Ill., Milwaukee, Wis., St. Paul, Minn., Oregon
City and Nesqualy, Oregon, and Wheeling in Northern Virginia. The
others were Little Rock, Ark., Savannah, Ga., Galveston, Texas, and
Santa Fé, New Mexico.   [Footnote 4] The clergy in 1850 numbered
1,800, having considerably more than doubled [nearly quadrupled] their
number in ten years.

  [Footnote 4: And San Francisco and Monterey--ED C. W.]

Thus we see that the Church was pressing hard and fast upon the old
New England Puritans. They soon began to feel uneasy, and to oppose
sometimes a violent resistance to her progress. In some of the States,
especially Connecticut and New Hampshire, there were laws against the
Catholics yet unrepealed; so that the dominant party had more ways of
showing their hatred of the Church than by mere petty vexations. In
Boston things went so far that a nunnery was pillaged and burned by a
mob. It is from this time that we must date the origin of the
Know-Nothing movement, directed ostensibly against foreigners, but
undoubtedly animated in the main by hatred of Catholicism and alarm at
its progress. The fretting and fuming of this political party was the
last effort of Puritan antipathy. The Church prospered in spite of it;
so the Puritans resigned themselves to witness her gradual aggressions
with the best grace they could assume.


Ten new sees were established between 1850 and 1860, and eight of
these were in the North or West--viz., Erie, Newark, Burlington,
Portland, Fort Wayne, Sault St. Marie, Alton, and Brooklyn. Two were
in the South--Covington and Natchitoches. There were thus in the
United States, in 1860, forty-three bishoprics, with 2,235 priests.
Let us now see how many Catholics were embraced in these dioceses, and
what proportion they bore to the total population.

The number of the faithful it is not easy to determine accurately; for
a false delicacy prevents the Americans from including the statistics
of religious belief in their census-tables. Estimates are very
variable. A work printed at Philadelphia in 1858 by a Protestant
author sets down the number of Catholics as 3,177,140. Dr. Baird, a
Protestant minister, published at Paris in 1857 an essay on religion
in the United States--an essay, be it remarked, which showed the
Catholics no favor--in which he estimated their number at 3,500,000.
But neither of these estimates rests upon trustworthy data. They were
certainly below the truth when they were made, and are therefore far
from large enough now, for the yearly increase is very great.

Our own calculations are drawn partly from our personal observation,
and partly from official documents published by various ecclesiastical
authorities. The best criterion is undoubtedly the rate of increase of
the clergy.

It must be evident that in America, more than in any other country,
there is a logical relation between the number of the faithful and the
number of the priests. As the clergy depend entirely upon the
voluntary contributions of their people, there must be a fixed ratio
between the growth of the flocks and the multiplication of pastors. If
the clergy increase too fast, they endanger their means of support.
Now, if priests cannot live in America without a certain number of
parishioners to support them, we may take this number as a basis for
calculating the minimum of the Catholic population; and we may safely
say that the population will be in reality much greater than this
minimum; because, as we can testify from experience, the churches
never lack congregations, and in most places the number of the clergy
is insufficient to supply even the most pressing religious wants of
the people. One never sees a priest in the United States seeking for
employment. On the contrary, the cry of spiritual destitution daily
goes up from parishes and communities which have no pastors.

Calculations founded upon the statistics of "church accommodations"
given in the United States census--that is, of the number of persons
the churches are capable of holding--are not applicable to our case;
because the Catholic churches, especially in the large cities, are
thronged two or three times every Sunday by as many distinct
congregations, while the Protestant churches have only one service for
all. The capacity of the churches therefore gives us neither the
actual number of worshippers nor the proportion between our own people
and those of other denominations. We have taken, then, as the basis of
our estimate, the ratio between the number of priests and the number
of the faithful, correcting the result according to the circumstances
of particular places. The first point is to establish this ratio, and
we are led by the concurrent results of careful estimates made in some
of the States, and special or general calculations which we have had
opportunity of making in person, to fix it at the average of one
priest for every 2,000 Catholics. But we have a very trustworthy
method of verifying this estimate, and that is by comparison between
the United States and the contiguous British Provinces, in which the
statistics of religious belief are included in the general census.
Setting aside Lower Canada, where the Catholic population is as
compact as it is in France, we find that in Upper {8} Canada, a
country which resembles the Western United States, the ratio in 1860
was one priest for every 1,850 Catholics, and in New Brunswick, a
territory very like New England, one for every 2,400. Our average
ratio of one for every 2,000 cannot, therefore, be far from the truth.
We have made due account of all data by which this ratio could be
either raised or lowered in particular times and places. We have
ourselves made investigations in certain districts, and persons well
qualified to speak on the subject have given us information about
others. The result of our corrected calculation gives us 4,400,000 as
the Catholic population of the United States in 1860, the date of the
last general census. We shall give presently the distribution of this
total among the several states; but we wish first to call attention to
another fact of great importance which appears from our figures. In
1808 the Catholics were 100,000 in a total population of 6,500,000, or
1/65th of the whole; in 1830 they were 450,000 in 13,000,000, or
1/29th of the whole; in 1840, 960,000 in 17,070,000, or 1/18th; in
1850, 2,150,000 in 23,191,000, or 1/11th; and finally, in 1860 they
were over 4,400,000 in 31,000,000, or 1/7th of the total population.
It thus appears that for fifty years the Catholics have increased much
faster than the rest of the inhabitants, and especially during the
last two decades. Between 1840 and 1850 their ratio of increase was
125 per cent., while that of the whole population was only 36; and
from 1850 to 1860 their ratio of increase was 109 per cent., while
that of the whole people was 35.59. These figures, to be sure, are not
mathematically certain, for they are deduced partly from estimates;
but we are confident that, considering the imperfect materials at our
disposal, we have come as near the exact truth as possible, both in
the ratio of increase and in the total population. Official returns in
the British Provinces confirm our calculations in a most remarkable
manner; and we believe that, estimating the future growth on the most
moderate scale, the Catholics will number in 1870 one-fifth of the
whole population, and in 1900 not far from one-third.


Having traced the progress of the Church step by step in the United
States, it will now be equally interesting and instructive to see how
this progress has been made in different places. The Catholics are by
no means uniformly dispersed over the country, and their increase has
not been equally rapid in all the states. It will be worth our while
to see in which quarters they are settled with the most compactness
and in which they are widely dispersed; and thus we may predict
without great risk which regions are destined to be the Catholic
strongholds in the New World. We have already said that the proportion
of the Catholics to the whole people in 1860 was as one to seven; but
if we divide the country into two parts we shall find that in the
Southern states there are only 1,200,000 Catholics in a population of
12,000,000--that is, they are 1/10th of the whole; while in the North
they number 3,200,000 in 19,000,000, or more than 1/6th. Even these
figures give but a very general idea of the distribution of the
faithful. If we take the whole country, state by state, we shall find
the proportions still more variable. In some places the Catholic
element is already so strong that its ultimate preponderance can
hardly be doubted, while its slow development in other quarters
promises little for the future. The following tables will enable our
readers to comprehend at once the distribution of the Catholics among
the various states:






These tables show at a glance the disproportion between the Catholics
of the North and those of the South. In only one Northern state (that
of Maine) is the proportion of Catholics as small as 5.45 per cent, of
the whole population; while there are no fewer than five Southern
states in which it is less than three per cent. If we leave out New
Mexico, Texas, Louisiana, Missouri, and Maryland, where the
preponderance of the faithful is due to special causes, we find that
in the other Southern states the average proportion is not above four
per cent. In other words, in these regions the Church has little
better than a nominal existence. This is partly because the stream of
European immigration has always flowed in other directions, and partly
because the negroes generally adhere to the Baptist or Methodist sects
in preference to the Church.

But when we examine the tables more in detail, we see that in both
sections the ratio of Catholics varies greatly in different states. It
is easy to account for this difference in the South. Six states only
have any considerable number of Catholic inhabitants. Louisiana and
Missouri owe them to the old French colonies around which the Catholic
settlers clustered. In New Mexico, more than three-fourths of the
people are of Spanish-Mexican origin. Texas derives a great number of
her inhabitants from Mexico, and has received a large Catholic
emigration both from Europe and from the United States. Maryland, the
germ of the American Church, owes her religious prosperity to the
first English Catholic settlers; and the Church in Kentucky is an
offshoot of that in Maryland. Such are the special causes of the great
differences between the churches of the various Southern states. In
the North there is less disparity. European immigration has produced a
much more decided effect in this section than in the preceding. From
this source come most of the faithful of New York, Oregon, California,
Ohio, and New Jersey. In Ohio the Germans have done the principal
part, and they have done much also in Pennsylvania and Wisconsin. The
effect of conversions is more perceptible in Connecticut, Rhode
Island, Massachusetts, and New York than elsewhere. In many of the
states, however, and especially in Pennsylvania, we find numerous
descendants of English Catholic settlers, while the old French
colonies of the West have had their influence upon the population of
Michigan, Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Illinois, and also of the northern
part of New York, where the French Canadians are daily spreading their
ramifications across the frontier. If we look now at the localities in
which the proportion of Catholics is greatest, we shall notice several
interesting points touching the laws which have determined the
direction of the principal development of the Church, and which will
probably promote it in the future. In the South there are what we may
call three groups of states in which the Catholic element is notably
stronger than in the others. One belongs exclusively to the Southern
section, and consists of Louisiana, Texas, and New Mexico, having an
aggregate Catholic population of 380,000 in 1,363,800, or 28 per
cent. The other groups (Missouri, that is to say, and Maryland and
Kentucky) form parts of much larger groups belonging to the Northern
states. The first of these latter, and that to which Maryland and
Kentucky are attached, consists of Pennsylvania, New York, New Jersey,
and Ohio. Its aggregate population is 11,647,477, of whom the
Catholics are 2,240,000, or nineteen per cent. This group contains the
ancient establishments of Maryland and Pennsylvania--good old Catholic
communities, in which the zeal and piety of the faithful possess that
firm and decided character which comes of long practice and
time-honored traditions. It contains, too, the magnificent seminary of
Baltimore, founded and still directed by the Sulpitians. This is the
largest and most complete {11} establishment of the kind in the United
States, and derives from its connection with the Sulpitian house in
Paris special advantages for superintending the education of young
ecclesiastics, and training accomplished ministers for the sanctuary.
Kentucky, likewise, has some important and noteworthy institutions,
such as the seminary of St. Thomas and the college of St. Mary, both
of which are in high repute at the West, and the magnificent Abbey of
Our Lady of La Trappe at New Haven, with sixty-four religious,
eighteen of whom are choir-monks. The Kentucky Catholics deserve a few
words of special mention. The descendants, for the most part, of the
first settlers of Maryland, who scattered, about a century ago, in
order to people new countries, they partake in an eminent degree of
the peculiar characteristics which have given to Kentuckians a
reputation as the flower of the American people. They are more
decidedly American than the Catholics of any other district, and they
are remarkable for their homogeneousness, their education, and their
attachment to the faith and traditions of the Church.

The most important and numerous Catholic population is found in the
state of New York, where the faithful amount to no fewer than 800,000.
They have here religious establishments of every kind. This condition
of things is the result, in great measure, of the well-known ability
of Archbishop Hughes, whose death has left a void which the American
clergy will find it hard to fill. His reputation was not confined to
the Empire City. He was as well known all over the Union as at his own
see, and was everywhere regarded as one of the great men of the
country. Although the progress of the faith in New York has been owing
in a very great degree to immigration, it is in this city and in
Boston that conversions have been most numerous; and in effecting
these, Archbishop Hughes had a most important share. It is not
surprising, then, that his death should have caused a profound
sensation in the city, and that all religious denominations should
have united in testifying respect for his memory.

It is difficult to apply a statistical table to the study of the
question of conversions. These are mental operations of infinite
variety, both in their origin and in their ways; for the methods of
Providence are as many and as diverse as the shades of human thought
upon which they act. It may be remarked, however, that the different
Protestant sects furnish very unequal contingents to the little army
of souls daily returning to the true faith; and it is a curious fact
that the two sects which furnish the most are the Episcopalians, who,
in their forms and traditions, approach nearest to the Catholic
Church, and the Unitarians, who go to the very opposite extreme, and
appear to push their philosophical and rationalistic principles almost
beyond the pale of Christianity. These two sects generally comprise
the most enlightened and intellectual people of North America. On the
other hand, the denominations which embrace the more ignorant portions
of the population (such as the Baptists, the Wesleyan Methodists,
etc., etc.) furnish, in proportion to their numbers, but few converts.
The principal Catholic review in the United States (_Brownson's
Review_, published in New York) is edited by a well-known convert,
whose name it bears, and who was formerly a Unitarian minister.

Further North--in New England--there is another Catholic group, of
recent origin, formed of the Puritan states of Connecticut,
Massachusetts, and Rhode Island. The first see here was established by
Bishop Cheverus only sixty years ago. These bishoprics, however, have
already acquired importance; for in the diocese of Hartford the
Catholics are now sixteen per cent, of the whole population, and the
rapidity of their increase and the completeness of their church
organization give us ground for bright hopes of their future progress.
Immigration {12} here does much to promote conversions, and it will
not be extravagant to anticipate that in the course of a few years the
number of the faithful will be doubled. _The Pilot_, the most
important Catholic journal in the country, is published in Boston.

The far West, only a few years ago, was a great wilderness, with only
a few French posts scattered here and there in the Indian forest, like
little islands in the midst of a great ocean. Now it is divided into
several states, and counts millions of inhabitants. In this rapid
transformation, Catholicism has not remained behind. Many dioceses
have been established, and the quickness of their growth has already
placed this group in the second rank so far as regards numerical
importance, while all goes to show that Catholicism is destined here
to preponderate greatly over all other denominations. The states of
Missouri, Illinois, Michigan, Wisconsin, and Minnesota contained, in
1860, 4,575,000 souls, of whom 890,000, or 19 per cent., were
Catholics. This is as large a proportion as we find in the central
group. It is, moreover, rapidly rising, and only one thing is
necessary to make these states before long the principal seats of
Catholicism in the Union--that is, an adequate supply of priests. It
is of the utmost importance that the demand for missionaries in these
diocese be supplied at whatever cost.

The principal causes of this remarkable increase are, first, the
crowds of immigrants attracted by the great extent of fertile land
thrown open to settlers; and, secondly, the fact that the Catholic
immigrants on their arrival clustered, so to speak, around the old
French settlements, where the missionaries still maintained the
discipline and worship of the Church. At first, therefore, it was easy
to direct this great influx of people, since they naturally tended
toward the pre-existing centres of faith. The consequence was that the
Church lost by apostacies fewer members than one might have supposed,
and fewer than were lost in other places. But now the daily augmenting
crowds of immigrants are dispersing themselves through less solitary
regions. They are coming under more direct and various influences; and
hence the necessity for increasing the number of churches and parish
priests becomes daily more and more urgent. At the same time, the
means at the disposal of the bishops become daily less and less
adequate for supplying this want, especially since the people of the
country, new and unsettled as they are, and absorbed in material
cares, furnish but few candidates for the priesthood. Here we see a
glorious field for the far-reaching benevolence of the Society for the
Propagation of the Faith. Nowhere, we believe, will the sending forth
of pious and devoted priests produce fruits comparable to those of
which the past gives promise to the future in this part of the United
States. We spoke just now of the old French colonies, and our readers
will perhaps be surprised that we should have made so much account of
those poor little villages, which numbered hardly more than from 500
to 1,500 souls each when the Yankees began to come into the country.
Nevertheless, we have not exaggerated their importance. It is not only
that they served as centres and rallying-points; but so rapid is the
multiplication of families in America that this French population
which, if brought together in one mass in 1800, would have counted at
most 14,000 souls, now numbers, including both the original
settlements and the swarms of emigrants who have gone from them to the
West, not fewer than 80,000. Their descendants are always easily
recognized. Detroit, and its neighborhood in Michigan, Vincennes
(Ind.), Cahokia and Kaskaskia (Ill.), St. Louis, St. Geneviève,
Carondelet, etc. (Mo.), Green Bay and Prairie du Chien (Wis.), St.
Paul (Minn.)--all these old settlements have preserved the deep imprint
of our race. Even in the new colonies which were afterward drawn from
them, the French population have uniformly kept up the practice of
their religion, {13} the use of their mother tongue, and a lively
recollection of their origin. Of this fact we have obtained proof in
several instances from careful personal observation. Small and poor,
therefore, as these settlements were, they had a powerful moral
influence upon the great immigration of the nineteenth century. The
Catholic immigrants felt drawn toward them by the attraction of a
community of thought and customs; and God, whose Providence rules our
lives, directed the movement by his own inscrutable methods.


While the Catholic element was increasing at the rate of 80, 125, and
109 per cent, every ten years, other religious denominations showed an
increase of only twenty or twenty-five per cent. Some remained
stationary, and a few even lost ground. Whence comes this continued
and increasing disparity in the development of different portions of
the same people? The principal reason assigned for it is the immense
emigration from Ireland to America. As the number of Catholics in the
United States when the emigration began was very small, every swarm of
fresh settlers added much more to their ratio of increase than to that
of other denominations. Ten added to ten gives an increase of 100 per
cent.; but the same number added to 100 gives only ten per cent. At
first sight, this seems a sufficient explanation; but we shall find,
when we come to examine it, that it does not really account for our
increase. If the growth of the American Catholic Church were the
result wholly of immigration, we should find that as the number of
Catholic inhabitants increased, the apparent effect of this
immigration would be diminished. In other words, the _ratio_ of increase
would gradually fall to an equality with that of other denominations.
But, so far from this being the case, the difference between our ratio
of increase and that of the Protestant sects is as great as ever--is
even growing greater. The ratio which was ten per cent. a year between
1830 and 1840, rose to 12.50 per cent, a year between 1840 and 1850,
and was 10.09 per cent, between 1850 and 1860. There are other causes,
therefore, beside European emigration to which we must look for an
explanation of Catholic progress in America. If we study with a little
attention the extent to which immigration has influenced the
development of the whole population of the country, and the exact
proportion of the Catholic part of this immigration, we shall find
confirmation of the conclusions to which we have been led by the
simple testimony of figures. Immigration has never furnished more than
six or seven per cent. of the decennial increase of the population of
the United States, the growth of which has been at the rate of
thirty-five per cent, during the same period. Immigration, therefore,
contributed to it only one-fifth. Again, of these immigrants,
including both Irish and Germans, not more than one-third have been
Catholics. Moreover, we must take account of the considerable number
of members that the Church has lost in the course of their dispersion
all over the country.

Clearly, then, the influence of immigration is not enough to account
for the rapid progress of the faith. A careful analysis of the
Catholic population at different tunes, and in different places,
enables us to specify two other causes.

1. The Catholics are principally distributed at the North among the
free states, where the population increases much faster than it does
at the South; and the Catholic families, it has been observed,
multiply much faster than the others, in consequence, no doubt, of
their more active and regular habits of life, sustained morality,
respect for the marriage tie, and regard for domestic obligations.
This difference in fecundity is quite perceptible wherever the
Catholic element {14} is strong--as in Canada, and the states of New
York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Michigan, Illinois, Wisconsin, etc., and,
among the Southern states, in Louisiana, Maryland, and Missouri.

2. Another cause of increase is the conversion of Protestants--a cause
which operates slowly, quietly, and, at first, imperceptibly, but with
that constant and uniform power--reminding us of the great operations
of nature--which is almost always the sign of a Providential agency.
Eloquent theorists and brilliant writers on statistics, preferring
salient facts and striking phenomena--what they call the great
principles of science--too often overlook or despise those obscure
movements which act quietly upon the human conscience. Yet how much
more powerful is this mysterious action--like the continual dropping of
water--than the showy effects which captivate so many thinkers, whose
organs of perception seem dazzled by the glow of their imagination!
Such was the nature of the invisible operation which was inaugurated
by the preaching of the martyrs of the faith whom the French
Revolution cast forth like seed all over the world. The rules of
political economy had nothing to do with it. It acted in the secret
chambers of men's hearts and the retirement of their meditative
moments, and it has gone on without interruption to the present
moment, increasing year by year. The Church seizes upon the
convictions of grown men; reaches the young by her admirable systems
of education; impresses all by her living, persuasive propagandism,
made beautiful by the zeal and devotion and holiness of her
missionaries. Simple and dignified, without the affectation of dignity--
austere, without fanaticism--their presence alone roots up old
prejudices, while their preaching and example fill the soul with new
lights and with anxieties which nothing but their instructions can set
at rest. Thus, wherever they go, the thoughts and comparisons which
they suggest multiply conversions all around them. You have only to
question a few Catholic families in the older states about their early
religious history, and you will see how important an element in the
prosperity of the Church is this force of attraction--so important,
that the following statement may almost be taken as a general law:
Wherever a Catholic priest establishes himself, though there be not a
Catholic family in the place, it is almost certain that by the end of
a time which varies from five to ten years, he will be surrounded by a
Catholic community large enough to form a parish and support a
clergyman. This rule seems to us to have no exception except in some
of the southern states. We have no hesitation in stating it broadly of
even those parts of New England in which the anti-Catholic feeling is
now strongest.

We shall presently have occasion to show that the only thing which
prevents the American Church from increasing, perhaps doubling, the
rapidity of its progress, is the scarcity of ecclesiastics and
missionaries, from which all the dioceses are suffering.

We have explained the important part which converts have played in
this progress. The inquiry naturally arises: Whence come so many
conversions? What are the causes which generally lead to them? These
are delicate and difficult questions. We have no wish to speak ill of
the Protestant clergy. Most of them are certainly honorable men,
estimable husbands and good fathers; but we cannot help observing that
they lack the sacerdotal character so conspicuous in the Catholic
priest. Their ministry and their teaching cannot fully satisfy the
soul; and whenever a calm and unprejudiced comparison is drawn between
them and the Catholic clergy, it is strange if the former do not
suffer by the contrast, and behold their flocks, little by little,
passing over to the side of the Church. This comparison is one motive
which often leads Protestants, not precisely into {15} the bosom of
the faith, but to the study of Catholic doctrine; and this is a step
by no means easy to persuade them to take; for, of every ten
Protestants who honestly study the faith, seven or eight end by
becoming Catholics. The Americans are a people of a strong religious
bent. Nothing which concerns the great question of religion is
indifferent to them. They study and reflect upon such matters much
more than we skeptical and critical Frenchmen. The conversions
resulting from such frequent consideration of religious matters ought,
therefore, to be far more numerous in America, and even in England,
than in other countries.

There are doubtless many other causes which contribute to the same
result. Among them are mixed marriages, which generally turn out to
the advantage of the Church, especially in the case of educated people
in the upper ranks in society. Not only are the children of these
marriages brought up Catholics, but almost always, as experience has
shown us, the Protestant parent becomes a Catholic too.

The excellent houses of education directed by religious orders are
another active cause of conversions. If elementary education is almost
universal in the United States, it is nevertheless true that the
higher institutions of learning are exceedingly defective. The
colleges and boarding-schools founded under the direction of the
Catholic clergy, though inferior to those of France in the
thoroughness of the education they impart and the amount of study
required of their pupils, are yet vastly superior to all other
American establishments in their method, their discipline, and the
attainments of their professors. The consequence is that they are
resorted to by numbers of Protestant youth of both sexes. No
compulsion is used to make them Catholics; no undue influence is
exerted; the press, free as it is, rarely finds excuse for complaint
on this score; but facts and doctrines speak for themselves. The good
examples and affectionate solicitude which surround these young
people, and the friendships they contract, leave a deep impression on
their minds, and plant the seed of serious thought, which sooner or
later bears fruit. Various circumstances may lead to the final
development of this seed. Now perhaps a first great sorrow wakens it
into life; now it is quickened by new ideas born of study and
experience; in one case the determining influence may be a marriage;
in another, intercourse with Catholic society; and not a few may be
moved by the falsity of the notions of Catholicism which they find
current among Protestants, and which their own experience enables them
to detect. This motive operates oftener than people suppose, and
generally with those who at school or college seemed most bitterly
hostile to the faith. In tine, those who have been educated at
Catholic institutions are less prejudiced and better prepared for the
action of divine grace, which Providence may send through any one of a
thousand channels.

And lastly, Catholicism acts upon the Americans through the medium of
the habits and customs to which it gradually attaches them, the result
of which is that in the growth of the population the Church makes a
constant, an insensible, and what we might call a spontaneous
increase. It is a well-known fact that the Catholic families of North
America, as a general rule, are distinguished by a character of
stability, good order, and moderation which is often wanting in the
Yankee race. Now this turns to the advantage of the Church; for it is
evident that a people which fixes itself permanently where it has once
settled, which concentrates itself, so to speak, has a better chance
of acquiring a predominance in the long run than one of migratory
habits, always in pursuit of some better state which always eludes it.
This truth is nowhere more apparent than in a county of Upper Canada
where we spent nearly three years. The county of Glengarry was settled
{16} in 1815 by Scotchmen, some of whom were Catholics. The colony
increased partly by the natural multiplication of the settlers, partly
by immigration, until about 1840, when immigration almost totally
ceased, all the lands being occupied. The population was then left to
grow by natural increase alone. The Protestants at that time were
considerably in the majority; but by 1850 the proportions began to
change, and out of 17,576 inhabitants 8,870 were Catholics. In 1860
the majority was completely reversed, and in a population of 21,187
there were 10,919 Catholics; in other words, the latter, by the
regular operation of natural causes, had gained every year from one to
two per cent, upon the whole. It would not be easy to give a detailed
explanation of this fact; we are only conscious that some mysterious
and irresistible agency is gradually augmenting the proportion of the
Catholic element in American society and weakening the Protestant.

American society might be compared to a troubled expanse of water
holding various substances in solution. The solid bottom upon which
the waters rest is formed by the deposit of these substances, and day
after day, during the moments of rest which follow every agitation of
the waves, more and more of the Catholic element is precipitated which
the waters bring with them at each successive influx, but fail to
carry off again. It is by this human alluvium that our religion grows
and extends itself; and if this growth is wonderful, it may be that
the effect of the infusion of so much sound doctrine into American
society will prove equally astonishing and precious.

Great stress has often been laid upon the good qualities of the
American people, but comparatively few have spoken of their faults;
not because they had none, but because their faults were lost sight of
in the brilliancy of their material prosperity. But recent events have
led to more reflection upon this point; so it will not astonish our
readers if we point oat one or two, such as the decay of thoughtful,
systematic, methodical intelligence among them, in comparison with
Europeans; their narrowness of mind; their inaptitude for general
ideas; and their sensibly diminishing delicacy of mind. These defects
show an unsuspected but serious and rapid degeneracy of the
Anglo-American race, and the decline has already perhaps gone further
than one would readily believe. If Catholicism, which tends eminently
to develop a spirit of method and order, broadness of view and
delicacy of sentiment, should combat successfully these failings, it
would render a signal service to the United States in return for the
liberty which they have granted it.

But Catholics, we should add, are indebted to the United States for
something more than simple liberty. They have there learned to
appreciate their real power. They have learned by experience how
little they have to fear from pure universal liberty, how much
strength and influence they can acquire in such a state of society.
There is this good and this evil in liberty--that it always proves to
the advantage of the strong; so that when there is question of the
relations between man and man, it must be a well-regulated liberty, or
it will result in the oppression of the weak. But the case is
different when it comes to a question of discordant doctrines: man has
everything to gain by the triumph of sound, strong principles and the
destruction of false and specious theories. In such a contest, let but
each side appear in its true colors, and we have nothing to fear for
the cause of truth. The United States will at least have had the merit
of affording an opportunity for a powerful demonstration of the truth;
and great as are the advantages which the Catholic Church can confer
upon the country, she herself will reap still greater advantages by
conferring them; for it will turn to her benefit in her action upon
the world at large.

In fact, the experience of the Church {17} in America has doubtless
gone for something in the familiarity which religious minds are
gradually acquiring with the principles of political liberty; and thus
the growth of American Catholicism is allied to the world-wide
reaction which is now taking place after the religious eclipse of the
last century. This transformation of the United States, in truth, is
only one marked incident in the intellectual revolution which is
drawing the whole world toward the Catholic Church--England as well
as America, Germany as well as England, even Bulgaria in the far East.
The foreign press brings us daily the signs of this progress; and
nothing can be easier than to point them out in France under our own
eyes. But unfortunately we have been too much in the habit, for the
last century, of leading a life of continual mortification, too
conscious that we were laughed at by the leaders of public opinion. We
crawled along in fear and trembling, creeping close to the walls,
dreading at every step to give offence, or to cause scandal, or to
lose some of our brethren. Accustomed to see our ranks thinned and
whole files carried off in the flower of their youth, we stood in too
great fear of the deceitful power of doctrines which seemed to promise
everything to man and ask nothing from him in return. And therefore
many of us still find it hard to understand the new state of things in
which we are making progress without external help. This progress,
however, inaugurated by the energy of a few, the perseverance of all,
and the overruling hand of divine Providence, is unquestionably going
on, and may easily be proved. We have only to visit our churches,
attend some of the special retreats for men, or look at the Easter
communions, to see what long steps faith and religious practice have
taken within the last forty years. The change is most perceptible
among the educated classes and in the learned professions. We have
heard old professors express their astonishment in comparing the
schools of the present time with those of their youth. It was then
almost impossible to find a young man at the _École Polytechnique_, at
St. Cyr, or at the _École Centrale_, with enough faith and enough
courage openly to profess his religion; now it may be said that a
fifth or perhaps a fourth part of the students openly and
unhesitatingly perform their Easter duty. We ourselves remember that
no longer ago than 1830 it required a degree of courage of which few
were found capable to manifest any religious sentiment in the public
lyceums. Voltairianism--or to speak better, an intolerant
fanaticism--delighted to cover these faithful few with public
ridicule; while now, if we may believe the best authorized accounts,
it is only a small minority who openly profess infidelity. We can
affirm that in the School of Law the change is quite as great, and it
has begun to operate even in that time-honored stronghold of
materialism, the School of Medicine.

But what must strike us most forcibly in the examination of these
questions is the fact, already pointed out by the Abbé Meignan, that
the progress of religion has kept even pace with the extension of free
institutions. Wherever the liberal _régime_ has been established, the
reaction in favor of religion has become stronger, no doubt because
liberty places man face to face with the consequences of his own acts
and the necessities of his feeble nature. Man is never so powerfully
impelled to draw near to God as when he becomes conscious of his own
weakness; never so deeply impressed with the emptiness of false
doctrines as when he has experienced their nothingness in the
practical affairs of life. The violence of external disorder soon
leads him to, reflect upon the necessity of solid, methodical, moral
education, such as regulates one's life, and such as the Church alone
can impart. And therefore the great change of sentiment of which we
have spoken is perceptible chiefly among the educated and liberal
classes, while with the ignorant and {18} vulgar infidelity holds its
own and is even gaining. The educated classes, more thoughtful,
knowing the world and having experience of men, see further and
calculate more calmly the tendency of events; with the common people
reason and plain sense are often overpowered by the violence of their
temperament and the impetuosity of their passions. Ignorance and
inordinate desires do the rest, and they imagine that man will know
how to conduct without knowing how to govern himself.

Whatever demagogues may say, history proves that the head always rules
the body. The period of discouragement and apprehension is past. We
shall yet, no doubt, have to go through trials, and violent crises,
and perhaps cruel persecutions; but we may hope everything from the
future. And why not? If we study the history of the Jewish people, we
shall see how God chastises his people in order to rouse them from
their moral torpor, and raise them up from apparent ruin by unforeseen
means. Weakness, in his hand, at once becomes strength; he asks of us
nothing but faith and courage. We have traced his Providence in the
methods by which he has stimulated the growth of the American
Church--methods all the more effectual because, unlike our own vain
enterprises, they worked for a long time in silence and obscurity.
These Western bishoprics remained almost unknown up to the day when,
the light bursting forth all at once, the world beheld a Church
already organized, already strong, where it had not suspected even her

There is a magnificent and instructive scene in _Athalie_, where the
veil of the temple is rent, and discloses to the eyes of the terrified
queen, Joas, whom she had believed dead, standing in his glory
surrounded by an army. Even so, it seems to us, was the American
Church suddenly revealed in all her vigor to the astonished world,
when her bishops came two years ago to take their place in the council
at Rome. And the same progress is making all over the globe. Noiseless
and unobtrusive, it attracts no attention from the world; it is
overlooked by Utopian theorists; it goes on quietly in the domain of
conscience; but the day will come when its light will break forth and
astonish mankind by its brightness. Such are the ways of God!

NOTE.--The greater part of the materials for the preceding article
were written or collected during the course of a journey which we made
in the United States in 1860. Since then the progress of Catholicism
has necessarily been somewhat checked by the events of the lamentable
civil war which is desolating the country; but the check has been far
less serious than might have reasonably been apprehended. Religion has
been kept apart from political dissensions and public disorders; it
has only had to suffer the common evils which war, mortality, and
general impoverishment have inflicted upon the whole people. If all
these things are to have any bad effect upon the progress of the
Church, it will be in future years, not now. In fact, all the
documents which we have been able to collect show that the numbers of
both the faithful and the clergy, instead of falling off, have gone on
increasing. In thirty-eight dioceses there are now 275 more priests
than there were in 1860; from the five other sees, namely, those of
New Orleans, Galveston, Mobile, Natchitoches, and Charleston, we have
no returns. This increase is confined almost entirely to the regions
in which the Church was already strongest; elsewhere matters have
remained about stationary.

Of this number of 275 priests added to the Church in the course of
three years, 251 belong to the following fourteen dioceses, namely:
Baltimore, Pittsburg, Cincinnati, Cleveland, Brooklyn, Albany, Alton,
Chicago, Milwaukee, St. Paul, Detroit, Fort Wayne, Vincennes, and
Hartford. The last-named belongs to the {19} Northeastern or New
England group, all the others to the Central and Western. Thus
fourteen dioceses alone show nine-tenths of the total increase, and
the others divide the remaining tenth among them in very minute
fractions. From some states, it is true, the returns are very meagre,
and from others they are altogether wanting; but the disproportion is
so strong as to leave no doubt that the future conquests of the Church
in the United States will be gained, as we have already said,
principally in the Middle and Western States.

E. R.


_From The Month._






We often practically divide the saints into three classes. The ancient
saints, those of the primitive age of Christianity, we consider as the
patrons of the universal Church, watching over its well-being and
progress, but, excepting Rome, having only a general connection with
the interests of particular countries, still less of individuals.

The great saints of the middle age, belonging to different races and
countries, have naturally become their patrons, being more especially
reverenced and invoked in the places of their births, their lives, and
still more their deaths; whence, St. Willibrord, St. Boniface, and St.
Walburga are more honored in Germany, where they died, than in
England, where they were born.

The third class includes the more modern saints, who spoke our yet
living languages, printed their books, followed the same sort of life,
wore the same dress as we do, lived in houses yet standing, founded
institutions still flourishing, rode in carriages, and in another
generation would have traveled by railway. Such are St. Charles, St.
Ignatius, St. Philip, St. Teresa, St. Vincent, B. Benedict Joseph, and
many others. Toward these we feel a personal devotion independent of
country; nearness of time compensating for distance of place. There is
indeed one class of saints who belong to every age and every country;
devotion toward whom, far from diminishing, increases the further we
recede from their time and even their land. For we are convinced that
a Chinese convert has a more sensitive and glowing devotion toward our
Blessed Lady, than a Jewish neophyte had in the first century. When I
hear this growth of piety denounced or reproached by Protestants, I
own I exult in it.

For the only question, and there is none in a Catholic mind, is
whether such a feeling is good in itself; if so, growth in it, age by
age, is an immense blessing and proof of the divine presence. It is as
if one told me that there is more humility now in the Church than
there was in the first century, more zeal than in the third, more
faith than in the eighth, more charity than in the twelfth. And so, if
there is more devotion now than there was 1,800 years ago toward the
Immaculate Mother of God, toward {20} her saintly spouse, toward St.
John, St. Peter, and the other Apostles, I rejoice; knowing that
devotion toward our divine Lord, his infancy, his passion, his sacred
heart, his adorable eucharist, has not suffered loss or diminution,
but has much increased. It need not be, and it is not, as John the
Baptist said, "He must increase, and I diminish." Both here increase
together; the Lord, and those who best loved him.

But this is more than a subject of joy: it is one of admiration and
consolation. For it is the natural course of things that sympathies
and affections should grow less by time. We care and feel much less
about the conquests of William I., or the prowess of the Black Prince,
than we do about the victories of Nelson or Wellington; even Alfred is
a mythical person, and Boadicea fabulous; and so it is with all
nations. A steadily increasing affection and intensifying devotion (as
in this case we call it) for those remote from us, in proportion as we
recede from them, is as marvellous--nay, as miraculous--as would be the
flowing of a stream from its source up a steep hill, deepening and
widening as it rose. And such I consider this growth, through
succeeding ages, of devout feeling toward those who were the root, and
seem to become the crown, or flower, of the Church. It is as if a beam
from the sun, or a ray from a lamp, grew brighter and warmer in
proportion as it darted further from its source.

I cannot but see in this supernatural disposition evidence of a power
ruling from a higher sphere than that of ordinary _providence_, the laws
of which, uniform elsewhere, are modified or even reversed when the
dispensations of the gospel require it; or rather, these have their
own proper and ordinary providence, the laws of which are uniform
within its system. And this is one illustration, that what by every
ordinary and natural course should go on diminishing, goes on
increasing. But I read in this fact an evidence also of the stability
and perpetuity of our faith; for a line that is ever growing thinner
and thinner tends, through its extenuation, to inanition and total
evanescence; whereas one that widens and extends as it advances and
becomes more solid, thereby gives earnest and proof of increasing

When we are attacked about practices, devotions, or corollaries of
faith--"developments," in other words--do we not sometimes labor
needlessly to prove that we go no further than the Fathers did, and
that what we do may be justified from ancient authorities? Should we
not confine ourselves to showing, even with the help of antiquity,
that what is attacked is good, is sound, and is holy; and then thank
God that we have so much more of it than others formerly possessed? If
it was right to say "Ora pro nobis" once in the day, is it not better
to say it seven times a day; and if so, why not seventy times seven?
The rule of forgiveness may well be the rule of seeking intercession
for it. But whither am I leading you, gentle reader? I promised you a
story, and I am giving you a lecture, and I fear a dry one. I must
retrace my steps. I wished, therefore, merely to say that, while the
saints of the Church are very naturally divided by us into three
classes--holy patrons of the Church, of particular portions of it, and
of its individual members--there is one raised above all others, which
passes through all, composed of protectors, patrons, and nomenclators,
of saints themselves. For how many Marys, how many Josephs, Peters,
Johns, and Pauls, are there not in the calendar of the saints, called
by those names without law of country or age!

But beyond this general recognition of the claims of our greatest
saints, one cannot but sometimes feel that the classification which I
have described is carried by us too far; that a certain human dross
enters into the composition of our devotion; we perhaps nationalize,
or even individualize, {21} the sympathies of those whose love is
universal, like God's own, in which alone they love. We seem to fancy
that St. Edward and St. Frideswida are still English; and some persons
appear to have as strong an objection to one of their children bearing
any but a Saxon saint's name as they have to Italian architecture. We
may be quite sure that the power and interest in the whole Church have
not been curtailed by the admission of others like themselves, first
Christians on earth, then saints in heaven, into their blessed
society; but that the friends of God belong to us all, and can and
will help us, if we invoke them, with loving impartiality. The little
history which I am going to relate serves to illustrate this view of
saintly intercession; it was told me by the learned and distinguished
prelate whom I shall call Monsig. B. He has, I have heard, since
published the narrative; but I will give it as I heard it from his



On the 30th of last month--I am writing early in August--we all
commemorated the holy martyrs, Sts. Abdon and Sennen. This in itself
is worthy of notice. Why should we in England, why should they in
America, be singing the praises of two Persians who lived more than
fifteen hundred years ago? Plainly because we are Catholics, and as
such in communion with the saints of Persia and the martyrs of Decius.
Yet it may be assumed that the particular devotion to these two
Eastern martyrs is owing to their having suffered in Rome, and so
found a place in the calendar of the catacombs, the basis of later
martyrologies. Probably after having been concealed in the house of
Quirinus the deacon, their bodies were buried in the cemetery or
catacomb of Pontianus, outside the present Porta Portese, on the
northern bank of the Tiber. In that catacomb, remarkable for
containing the primitive baptistery of the Church, there yet remains a
monument of these saints, marking their place of sepulture.  [Footnote
5] Painted on the wall is a "floriated" and jewelled cross; not a
conventional one such as mediaeval art introduced, but a plain cross,
on the surface of which the painter imitated natural jewels, and from
the foot of which grow flowers of natural forms and hues; on each side
stands a figure in Persian dress and Phrygian cap, with the names
respectively running down in letters one below the other:


The bodies are no longer there. They were no doubt removed, as most
were, in the eighth century, to save them from Saracenic profanation,
and translated to the basilica of St. Mark in Rome. There they repose,
with many other martyrs no longer distinguishable; since the ancient
usage was literally to bury the bodies of martyrs in a spacious crypt
or chamber under the altar, so as to verify the apocalyptic
description, "From under the altar of God all the saints cry aloud."
This practice has been admirably illustrated by the prelate to whom I
have referred, in a work on this very crypt, or, in ecclesiastical
language, _Confession_ of St. Mark's.

  [Footnote 5:  See _Fabiola_, pp. 362, 363.]

One 30th of July, soon after the siege of Rome in 1848, the chapter of
St. Mark's were singing the office and mass of these Persian martyrs,
as saints of their church. Most people on week-days content themselves
with hearing early a low mass, so that the longer offices of the
basilica, especially the secondary ones, are not much frequented. On
this occasion, however, a young French officer was noticed by {22} the
canons as assisting alone with great recollection.

At the close of the function, my informant went up to the young man,
and entered into conversation with him.

"What feast are you celebrating today?" asked the officer.

"That of Sts. Abdon and Sennen," answered Monsignor B.

"Indeed! how singular!"

"Why? Have you any particular devotion to those saints?"

"Oh, yes; they are my patron saints. The cathedral of my native town
is dedicated to them, and possesses their bodies."

"You must be mistaken there: their holy relics repose beneath our
altar; and we have to-day kept their feast solemnly on that account."

On this explanation of the prelate the young officer seemed a little
disconcerted, and remarked that at P-- everybody believed that the
saints' relics were in the cathedral.

The canon, as he then was, of St. Mark's, though now promoted to the
"patriarchal" basilica of St. John, explained to him how this might
be, inasmuch as any church possessing considerable portions of larger
relics belonging to a saint was entitled to the privilege of one
holding the entire body, and was familiarly spoken of as actually
having it; and this no doubt was the case at P--.

"But, beside general grounds for devotion to these patrons of my
native city, I have a more particular and personal one; for to their
interposition I believe I owe my life."

The group of listeners who had gathered round the officer was deeply
interested in this statement, and requested him to relate the incident
to which he alluded. He readily complied with their request, and with
the utmost simplicity made the following brief recital.



"During the late siege of Rome I happened to be placed in an advanced
post, with a small body of soldiers, among the hillocks between our
headquarters in the villa Pamphily-Doria and the gate of St.
Pancratius. The post was one of some danger, as it was exposed to the
sudden and unsparing sallies made by the revolutionary garrison on
that side. The broken ground helped to conceal us from the marksmen
and the artillery on the walls. However, that day proved to be one of
particular danger. Without warning, a _sortie_ was made in force, either
merely in defiance or to gain possession of some advantageous post;
for you know how the church and convent of St. Pancratius was assailed
by the enemy, and taken and retaken by us several times in one day.
The same happened to the villas near the walls. There was no time
given us for speculation or reflection. We found ourselves at once in
presence of a very superior force, or rather in the middle of it; for
we were completely surrounded. We fought our best; but escape seemed
impossible. My poor little picket was soon cut to pieces, and I found
myself standing alone in the midst of our assailants, defending myself
as well as I could against such fearful odds. At length I felt I was
come to the last extremity, and that in a few moments I should be
lying with my brave companions. Earnestly desiring to have the
suffrages of my holy patrons in that my last hour, I instinctively
exclaimed, 'Sts. Abdon and Sennen, pray for me!' What then happened I
cannot tell. Whether a sudden panic struck my enemies, or something
more important called off their attention, or what else to me
inexplicable--occurred, I cannot say; all that I know is, that somehow
or other I found myself alone, unwounded {23} and unhurt, with my poor
fellows lying about, and no enemy near.

"Do you not think that I have a right to attribute this most wonderful
and otherwise unaccountable escape to the intercession and protection
of Sts. Abdon and Sennen?"

I need scarcely say that this simple narrative touched and moved
deeply all its hearers. No one was disposed to dissent from the young
Christian officer's conclusion.



It was natural that those good ecclesiastics who composed the chapter
of St. Mark's should feel an interest in their youthful acquaintance.
His having accidentally, as it seemed, but really providentially,
strolled into their church at such a time, with so singular a bond of
sympathy with its sacred offices that day, necessarily drew them in
kindness toward him. His ingenuous piety and vivid faith gained their

In the conversation which followed, it was discovered that all his
tastes and feelings led him to love and visit the religious monuments
of Rome; but that he had no guide or companion to make his wanderings
among them as useful and agreeable as they might be made. It was
good-naturedly and kindly suggested to him to come from time to time
to the church, when some one of the canons would take him with him on
his _ventidue ore_ walk after vespers, and act the _cicerone_ to him,
if they should visit some interesting religious object. This offer he
readily accepted, and the intelligent youth and his reverend guides
enjoyed pleasant afternoons together. At last one pleasanter than all
occurred, when in company with Monsignor B.

Their ramble that evening led them out of the Porta Portuensis, among
the hills of Monte Verde, between it and the gate of St. Pancratius--
perhaps for the purpose of visiting that interesting basilica. Be it
as it may, suddenly, while traversing a vineyard, the young man

"Here," he exclaimed, "on this very spot, I was standing when my
miraculous deliverance took place."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite. If I lived a hundred years, I could never forget it. It is the
very spot."

"Then stand still a moment," rejoined the prelate; "we are very near
the entrance to the cemetery of Pontianus. I wish to measure the

He did so by pacing it.

"Now," he said, "come down into the catacomb, and observe the
direction from where you stand to the door." The key was soon

They accordingly went down, proceeded as near as they could judge
toward the point marked over-head, measured the distance paced above,
and found themselves standing before the memorial of Sts. Abdon and

"There," said the canon to his young friend; "you did not know that,
when you were invoking your holy patrons, you were standing
immediately over their tomb."

The young officer's emotion may be better conceived than described on
discovering this new and unexpected coincidence in the history of his
successful application to the intercession of ancient saints.




From The Lamp.


I went to Lyons for the express purpose of visiting the tomb of the
Curé of Ars; for I knew the village of Ars was not very far from that
city, though I had but a vague idea as to where it was situated or how
it was to be reached. I trusted, however, to obtaining all needful
information from the people at the hotel where I was to pass the
night; and I was not mistaken in my expectations; but I must confess,
to my sorrow, that I felt for a moment a very English sort of
shamefacedness about making the inquiry. Put to the waiter of an
English hotel, such a question would simply have produced a stare of
astonishment or a smile of pity. A visit to the tomb of the Duke of
Wellington at St. Paul's, or a descent into kingly vaults for the wise
purpose of beholding Prince Albert's coffin, with its wreaths of
flowers laid there by royal and loving hands these things he would
have sympathized with and understood. But a pilgrimage to the last
resting-place of a man who, even admitting he were at that moment a
saint in heaven, had been but a simple parish-priest upon earth, would
have been a proceeding utterly beyond his capacity to comprehend, and
he would undoubtedly have pronounced it either an act of insanity or
one of superstition, or something partaking of the nature of the two.
I forgot, for a moment, that I was in a Catholic country, and inquired
my way to Ars with an uncomfortable expectation of a sneering answer
in return. Once, however, that the question was fairly put, there was
nothing left for me but to be ashamed of my own misgivings.

"Madame wished to visit the tomb of the sainted Curé?--_mais oui_. It
was the easiest thing in the world. Only an hour's railway from Lyons
to Villefranche; and an omnibus at the latter station, which had been
established for the express purpose of accommodating the pilgrims, who
still flocked to Ars from every quarter of the Catholic world."

I listened, and my way seemed suddenly to become smooth before me.
Later on in the evening, I found that the housemaid of the hotel had
been there often; and two or three times at least during the lifetime
of the Curé. I asked her for what purpose she had gone there; whether
to be cured of bodily ailments or to consult him on spiritual matters?
"For neither one nor the other," she answered, with great simplicity;
"but she had had a great grief, and her mother had taken her to him to
be comforted." There was something to me singularly lovely in this
answer, and in the insight which it gave me into the nature of that
mission, so human, and yet so divine, which the Curé had accomplished
in his lifetime. God had placed him there, like another John the
Baptist, to announce penance to the world. He preached to thousands--he
converted thousands--he penetrated into the hidden consciences of
thousands, and laid his finger, as if by intuition, upon the hidden
sore that kept the soul from God. Men, great by wealth and station,
came to him and laid their burden of sin and misery at his feet. Men,
greater still by intellect, and prouder and more difficult of
conversion (as sins of the intellect ever make men), left his presence
simple, loving, and believing as little children. For these he had
lightning glances and words of fire; these by turns he reprimanded,
exhorted, and encouraged; but when the weak and sorrowful of God's
flock came to him, he paused in his apostolic task to weep over them
and console them. And so it was with {25} Jesus. The great and wealthy
of the earth came to him for relief, and he never refused their
prayers; but how many instances do we find in the gospel of the gift
of health bestowed, unasked and unexpected, upon some poor wanderer by
the wayside, or the yet greater boon of comfort given to some poor
suffering heart, for no other reason that we know of than that it
suffered and had need of comfort! The cripple by the pool of Bethsaida
received his cure at the very moment when he was heartsick with hope
deferred at finding no man to carry him down to the waters; and the
widow of Nain found her son suddenly restored to life because, as the
gospel expressly tells us, he was "the only son of his mother, and she
was a widow."

The heart of the Curé of Ars seems to have been only less tender than
that of his divine Master; and in the midst of the sublime occupation
of converting souls to God, he never disdained the humble task of
healing the stricken spirit, and leading it to peace and joy.

"My husband died suddenly," the young woman went on to say, in answer
to my further questions; "and from affluence I found myself at once
reduced to poverty. I was stunned by the blow; but my mother took me
to the cure; and almost before he had said a word, I felt not only
consoled, but satisfied with the lot which God had assigned me." And
so indeed she must have been. When I saw her, she was still poor, and
earning her bread by the worst of all servitude, the daily and nightly
servitude of a crowded inn; but gentle, placid, and smiling, as became
one who had seen and been comforted by a saint. She evidently felt
that she had been permitted to approach very near to God in the person
of God's servant, and every word she uttered was so full of love and
confidence in the sainted curé that it increased (if that were
possible) my desire to kneel at his tomb, since the happiness of
approaching his living person had been denied me.

The next morning I set off for Villefranche. It is on the direct line
to Paris, and at about an hour's railroad journey from Lyons. When I
reached it, I found three omnibuses waiting at the station, and I
believe they were all there for the sole purpose of conveying pilgrims
to Ars. One of the conductors tried every mode of persuasion--and there
are not a few in the vocabulary of a Frenchman--to inveigle me into his
omnibus. "I should be at Ars in half an hour, and could return at two,
three, four o'clock--in short, at any hour of the night or day that
might please me best." It was with some difficulty I resisted the
torrent of eloquence he poured out upon me; but, in the first place, I
felt that he was promising what he himself would have called "the
impossible," since a public conveyance must necessarily regulate its
movements by the wishes of the majority of its passengers; and in the
next, I had a very strong desire to be alone in body as well as in
mind during the few hours that I was to spend at Ars.

At last I found an omnibus destined solely for visitors to
Villefranche itself, and the conductor promised that he would provide
me a private carriage to Ars if I would consent to drive first to his
hotel. Cabaret he might have called it with perfect truth, for cabaret
it was, and nothing more--a regular French specimen of the article,
with a great public kitchen, where half the workmen of the town
assembled for their meals, and a small cupboard sort of closet opening
into it for the accommodation of more aristocratic guests. Into this,
_bon gré, mal gré_, they wished to thrust me, but I violently repelled
the threatened honor, and with some difficulty carrying my point,
succeeded in being permitted to remain in the larger and cooler space
of the open kitchen until my promised vehicle should appear. It came
at last, a sort of half-cab, half-gig, without a hood, but with a
curiously contrived harness of loose ropes, and looking altogether
{26} dangerously likely to come to pieces on the road. Luckily, I am
not naturally nervous in such matters, and, consoling myself with the
thought that if we did get into grief the "_bon curé_" was bound to
come to my assistance, seeing I had incurred it solely for the sake of
visiting his tomb, I was soon settled as comfortably as circumstances
would permit, and we set off at a brisk pace.

The country around Villefranche is truly neither pretty nor
picturesque; and though we were not really an hour on the road, the
drive seemed tedious. Our Jehu also, as it turned out, had never been
at Ars before; so that he had not only to stop more than once to
inquire the way, but actually contrived at the very last to miss it.
He soon discovered the mistake, however, and retracing his steps, a
very few minutes brought us to the spot where the saint had lived
forty years, and where he now sleeps in death. His house stands beside
the church, but a little in the rear, so it does not immediately catch
the eye; and the church, where his real life was spent, is separated
from the road by a small enclosure, railed off, and approached by a
few steps. We looked around for some person to conduct us, but there
was no one to be seen; so, after a moment's hesitation, we ascended
the steps and entered the church. If you wish to know what kind of
church it is, I cannot tell you. I do not know, in fact, whether it is
Greek or Gothic, or of no particular architecture at all; I do not
know even if it is in good taste or in bad taste. The soul was so
filled with a sense of the presence of the dead saint that it left no
room for the outer sense to take note of the accidents amid which he
had lived. There are two or three small chapels--a Lady chapel, one
dedicated to the Sacred Heart, and another to St. John the Baptist.
There is also the chapel of St. Philomena, with a large lifelike image
of the "_bonne petite sainte_" to whom he loved to attribute every
miracle charity compelled him to perform; and there is the
confessional, where for forty years he worked far greater wonders on
the soul than any of the more obvious ones he accomplished on the
body. All, or most of all, this I saw in a vague sort of way, as one
who saw not; but the whole church was filled with such an aroma of
holiness, there was such a sense of the actual presence of the man who
had converted it into a very tabernacle in the wilderness--a true Holy
of Holies, where, in the midst of infidel France, God had descended
and conversed almost visibly with his people--that I had neither the
will nor the power to condescend to particulars, and examine it in

My one thought as I entered the church was, to go and pray upon his
tomb; but in the first moment of doubt and confusion I could not
remember, if indeed I had been told, the exact spot where he was
buried. The chapel of St. Philomena was the first to attract my
notice, and feeling that I could not be far wrong while keeping close
to his dear little patroness, I knelt down there to collect my ideas.

The stillness of the church made itself felt. There were indeed many
persons praying in it, but they prayed in that profound silence which
spoke to the heart, and penetrated it in a way no words could have
ever done.

I was thirsting, however, to approach the tomb of the saint, and at
last ventured to whisper the question to a person near me. She pointed
to a large black slab nearly in the centre of the church, and told me
that he lay beneath it. Yes, he was there, in the very midst of his
people, not far from the chapel of St. Philomena, and opposite to the
altar whence he had so many thousands of times distributed the bread
of life to the famishing souls who, like the multitude of old, had
come into the desert, and needed to be fed ere they departed to their
homes. Yes, he was there; and with a strange mingling of joy and
sorrow in the thought I went and knelt down beside him.


Had I gone to Ars but a few years before, I might have found him in
his living person; might have thrown myself at his feet, and poured
out my whole soul before him. Now I knelt indeed beside him, but
beside his body only, and the soul that would have addressed itself to
mine was far away in the bosom of its God. Humanly speaking, the
difference seemed against me, and yet, in a more spiritual point of
view, it might perhaps be said to be in my favor.

The graces which he obtained for mortals here he obtained by more than
mortal suffering and endurance--by tears, by fastings, and nightly
and daily impetrations;--now, with his head resting, like another St.
John, on the bosom of his divine Lord, surely he has but to wish in
order to draw down whole fountains of love and tenderness on his
weeping flock below. And certainly it would seem so; for however
numerous the miracles accomplished in his lifetime, they have been
multiplied beyond all power of calculation since his death.

Later on in the day, when the present curé showed me a room nearly
half full of crutches and other mementos of cures wrought--"These are
only the ones left there during his lifetime," he observed, in a tone
which told at once how much more numerous were those which cure had
made useless to their owners since his death.

I had not been many minutes kneeling before his tomb, when the lady
who had pointed it out to me asked if I would like to see the house
which he had inhabited in his lifetime. On my answering gladly in the
affirmative, she made me follow her through a side-door and across a
sort of court to the house inhabited by the present curé. This house
had never been the abode of M. Vianney, but had been allotted to the
priests who assisted him in his missions. The one which he actually
inhabited is now a sort of sanctuary, where every relic and
recollection of him is carefully preserved for the veneration of the
faithful. We were shown into a sort of _salle à manger_, sufficiently
poor to make us feel we were in the habitation of men brought up in
the school of a saint, and almost immediately afterward the present
curé entered. He had been for many years the zealous assistant of the
late curé; and, in trying to give me an idea of the influx of
strangers into Ars, he told me that, while M. Vianney spent habitually
from fifteen to seventeen hours in the confessional, he and his
brother priest were usually occupied at least twelve hours out of the
twenty-four in a similar manner. Even this was probably barely
sufficient for the wants of the mission, for the number of strangers
who came annually to Ars during the latter years of the curé's life
was reckoned at about 80,000, and few, if any, of these went away
without having made a general confession, either to M. Vianney
himself, or, if that were not possible, to one or other of the
assisting clergy.

It was pleasant to talk with one who had been living in constant
communication with a saint; and I felt as if something of the spirit
of M. Vianney himself had taken possession of the good and gentle man
with whom I was conversing. Among other things, he told me that the
devout wish of the saint had of late years been the erection of a new
church to St. Philomena; and he gave me a fac-simile of his
handwriting in which he had promised to pray especially for any one
aiding him in the work. The surest way, therefore, I should imagine,
to interest him in our necessities--now that he is in heaven--would be
to aid in the undertaking which he had in mind and heart while yet
dwelling on earth. Even in his lifetime there had been a lottery got
up for raising funds; and as money is still coming in from all
quarters, his wish will doubtless soon be accomplished. I saw a very
handsome altar which has been already presented, and which has been
put aside in one of the rooms of the curé until the church, for which
it is {28} intended, shall have been completed. M. le curé showed me
one or two small photographs, which had been taken without his
knowledge during the lifetime of the saint; and also a little carved
image, which he said was a wonderful likeness, and far better than any
of the portraits. Afterward he pointed out another photograph, as
large as life, and suspended against the wall, which had been procured
after death. It was calm and holy, as the face of a saint in death
should be, and I liked it still better in its placid peace than the
smile of the living photograph. Even the smile seemed to tell of
tears. You know that he who smiles is still doing battle--cheerfully
and successfully indeed, but still doing battle with the enemies of
his soul; while the grave calmness of the dead face tells you at once
that all is over--the fight is fought, the crown is won; eternity has
set its seal on the good works of time, and all is safe for ever.

I could have looked at that photograph a long time, and said my
prayers before it--it seemed to repose in such an atmosphere of
sanctity and peace--but the hours were passing quickly, and there was
still much to see and hear concerning the dead saint. I took leave,
therefore, of the good priest who had been my cicerone so far, and
sought the old housekeeper, who was in readiness to show me the house
where M. Vianney had lived. We crossed a sort of court, which led us
to a door opposite the church. When this was opened, I found myself in
a sort of half-garden, half-yard, in the centre of which the old house
was standing.

It is hard to put upon paper the feelings with which a spot the
habitation of a saint just dead is visited. The spirit of love and
charity and peace which animated the living man still seems brooding
over the spot where his life was passed, and you feel intensely that
the true beauty of the Lord's house was here, and that this has been
the place where his glory hath delighted to dwell. The first room I
entered was one in which the crutches left there by invalids had been
deposited. It was a sight to see. The crutches were piled as close as
they could be against the wall, and yet the room was almost half full.
The persons who used those crutches must have been carried hither,
lame and suffering, and helpless as young children; and they walked
away strong men and cured. Truly "the lame walk and the blind see;"
and the Lord hath visited his people in the person of his servant.

My next visit was made to the _salle à manger_, where M. Vianney had
always taken the one scanty meal which was his sole support during his
twenty-four hours of almost unbroken labor. It was poverty in very
deed--poverty plain, unvarnished, and unadorned--such poverty as an
Irish cabin might have rivalled, but could scarcely have surpassed.
The walls were bare and whitewashed; the roof was merely raftered; and
the floor, which had once been paved with large round stones, such as
are used for the pavement of a street, was broken here and there into
deep holes by the removal of the stones. During his forty years'
residence at Ars, M. Vianney had probably never spent a single sou
upon any article which could contribute to his own comfort or
convenience; and this room bore witness to the fact. How, indeed,
should he buy anything for himself, who gave even that which was given
to him away, until his best friends grew well-nigh weary of bestowing
presents, which they felt would pass almost at the same instant out of
his own possession into the hands of any one whom he fancied to be in
greater want of them than he was? I stood in that bare and desolate
apartment, and felt as if earth and heaven in their widest extremes,
their most startling contrasts, were there in type and reality before
me. All that earth has of poor and miserable and unsightly was present
to the eyes of the body; all that heaven has of bright {29} and
beautiful and glorious was just as present, just as visible, to the
vision of the soul. It was the very reverse of the fable of the fairy
treasures, which vanish into dust when tested by reality. All that you
saw was dust and ashes, but dust and ashes which, tried by the
touchstone of eternity, would, you knew, prove brighter than the
brightest gold, fairer than the fairest silver that earth ever yielded
to set in the diadem of her kings! My reflections were cut short by
the entrance of one of the priests, who invited us to come up stairs
and inspect the vestments which had belonged to the late curé, and
which were kept, I think, apart from those in ordinary use in the
church. There was a great quantity of them, and they were all in
curious contrast with everything else we had seen belonging to M.
Vianney. Nothing too good for God; nothing too mean and miserable for
himself--that had been the motto of his life; and the worm-eaten
furniture of the dining-room, the gold and velvet of the embroidered
vestments, alike bore witness to the fidelity with which he had acted
on it. The vestments were more than handsome--some of them were
magnificent. One set I remember in particular which was very
beautiful. It had been given, with canopy for the blessed sacrament
and banners for processions, by the present Marquis D'Ars, the chief
of that beloved family, who, after the death of Mdlle. D'Ars, became
M. Vianney's most efficient aid in all his works of charity. The
priest who showed them to us, and who had also been one of the late
curé's missionaries, told us that M. Vianney was absolutely enchanted
with joy when the vestments arrived, and that he instantly organized
an expedition to Lyons in order to express his gratitude at the altar
of Notre Dame de Fourrière. The whole parish attended on this
occasion. They went down the river in boats provided for the purpose,
and with banners flying and music playing, marched in solemn
procession through the streets of Lyons, and up the steep sides of
Fourrière, until they reached the church of Notre Dame. There the
whole multitude fell on their knees, and M. Vianney himself prayed, no
doubt long and earnestly, before the miraculous image of Our Lady,
seeking through her intercession to obtain some especial favor for the
man who, out of his own abundance, had brought gifts of gold and
silver to the altar of his God.

I asked the priest for some information about the granary which was
said to have been miraculously filled with corn. He told me he had
been at Ars at the time, and that there could be no doubt that the
granary had been quite empty the night before. It was, I think, a time
of scarcity, and the grain had been set aside for the use of the poor.
M. Vianney went to bed miserable at the failure of his supplies; but
when he visited the granary again early the next morning, he found it
full. It was at the top of his own house, I believe, and was kept, of
course, carefully locked. Nobody knew how it had been filled, or by
whom. In fact, it seemed absolutely impossible that any one could have
carted the quantity of grain needed for the purpose and carried it up
stairs without being detected in the act. The priest made no comment
on the matter; indeed, he seemed anything but inclined to enlarge upon
it, though he made no secret of his own opinion as to the miraculous
nature of the occurrence. As soon as he had answered my inquiries, he
led us to the room which had been the holy curé's own personal
apartment. It was, as well as I can remember, the one over the
dining-room. No apostle ever lived and died in an abode more entirely
destitute of all human riches. It was kept exactly in the same state
in which it had been during his lifetime--a few poor-looking books
still on the small book-shelf, a wooden table and a chair, and the
little bed in the corner, smoothed and laid down, as if only waiting
his return from the confessional for the {30} few short hours he gave
to slumber--if, indeed, he did give them; for no one ever penetrated
into the mystery of those hours, or knew how much of the time set
apart apparently for his own repose was dedicated to God, or employed
in supplicating God's mercies on his creatures.

The history of that room was the history of the saint. A book-shelf
filled with works of piety and devotion; a stove, left doubtless
because it had been originally built into the room, but left without
use or purpose (for who ever heard of his indulging in a fire?); a
table and a chair--that was all; but it was enough, and more than
enough, to fill the mind with thought, and to crowd all the memories
of that holy life into the few short moments that I knelt there. How
often had he come back to that poor apartment, his body exhausted by
fasting, and cramped by long confinement in the confessional, and his
heart steeped (nay, drowned, as he himself most eloquently expressed
it) in bitterness and sorrow by the long histories of sins to which he
had been compelled to listen--sins committed against that God whom he
loved far more tenderly than he loved himself! How often, in the
silence and darkness of the night, has he poured forth his soul, now
in tender commiseration over Jesus crucified by shiners, now over the
sinners by whom Jesus had been crucified! How often has he (perhaps)
called on God to remove him from a world where God was so offended;
and yet, moved by the charity of his tender human heart, has besought,
almost in the same breath, for the conversion of those sinners whose
deeds he was deploring--the cure of their diseases and the removal or
consolation of their sorrows! Like a mother who, finding her children
at discord, now prays to one to pardon, now to another to submit and
be reconciled, so was that loving, pitying heart ever as it were in
contradiction with itself--weeping still with Jesus, and yet still
pleading for his foes.

The mere action of such thoughts upon the human frame would make
continued life a marvel; but when to this long history of mental woe
we add the hardships of his material life--the fifteen or seventeen
hours passed in the confessional, in heat and cold, in winter as in
summer; the one scanty meal taken at mid-day; the four hours of sleep,
robbed often and often of half their number for the sake of quiet
prayer--when we think of these things, there is surely more of miracle
in this life of forty years' duration than in the mere fact that it
won miracles at last from heaven, and that God, seeing how faithfully
this his servant did his will here on earth, complied in turn with
his, and granted his desires.

No one, I think, can visit that spot, or hear the history of that
life, as it is told by those who knew him as it were but yesterday,
without an increase of love, an accession of faith, a more vivid sense
of the presence of God in the midst of his creatures, and a more real
comprehension of the extent and meaning of those words, "the communion
of saints," which every one repeats in the creed, and yet which few
take sufficiently to their heart of hearts to make it really a portion
of their spiritual being--a means of working out their own salvation
by constant and loving communication with those who have attained to
it already. Thousands will seek the living saint for the eloquence of
his words, the sublimity, of his counsels, the unction of his
consolations; but, once departed out of this life, who visits him in
his tomb? who turns to him for aid? who lift their eyes to heaven, to
ask for his assistance thence, with the same undoubting confidence
with which they would have sought it had he been still in the flesh
beside them? In one sense of the word, many; and yet few indeed
compared to the number of those to whom "the communion of saints" is
an article of faith, or ought at least to be so, in something more
than the mere service of the lip. It was amid some such {31} thoughts
as these that I left the town of Ars, grieved indeed that I had not
seen the holy curé in his lifetime, and yet feeling that, if I had but
faith enough, I was in reality rather a gainer than a loser by his
death. He who would have prayed for me on earth would now pray for me
in heaven. He who would have dived into my conscience and brought its
hidden sins to light, would obtain wisdom and grace for another to put
his finger on the sore spot and give it healing. He who would perhaps
have cured me of my bodily infirmities, could do so (if it were for
the good of my soul) not less efficiently now that he was resting on
the heart of his divine Lord. God had granted his prayers while he was
yet upon earth--a saint indeed, and yet liable at any moment to fall
into sin--would he refuse to hear him now that he had received him
into his kingdom, and so rendered him for ever incapable of offending?
I hoped not, I felt not; and in this certainty I went on my way
rejoicing, feeling that it was well for this sinful world that it had
yet one more advocate at the throne of its future Judge, and well
especially for France that, in this our nineteenth century, she had
given a saint to God who would have been the glory of the first. For
truly the arm of the Lord is not shortened. What he has done before,
he can do again; and, therefore, we need not wonder if the miracles of
the Apostles are still renewed at the tomb of this simple and
unlettered, priest, who taught their doctrines for forty years in the
unknown and far-off village of which Providence had made him pastor.


From Once A Week.


The Eastern origin of this tale seems evident; had it been originally
composed in a Northern land, it is probable that the king would have
been represented as dethroned by means of bribes obtained from his own
treasury. In an Eastern country the story-teller who invented such a
just termination of his narrative would, most likely, have experienced
the fate intended for his hero, as a warning to others how they
suggested such treasonable ideas. Herr Simrock, however, says it is a
German tale; but it may have had its origin in the East for all that.
Nothing is more difficult, indeed, than to trace a popular tale to its
source. Cinderella, for example, belongs to nearly all nations; even
among the Chinese, a people so different to all European nations,
there is a popular story which reads almost exactly like it. Here is
the tale of the Three Wishes.

There was once a wise emperor who made a law that to every stranger
who came to his court a fried fish should be served. The servants were
directed to take notice if, when the stranger had eaten the fish to
the bone on one side, he turned it over and began on the other side.
If he did, he was to be immediately seized, and on the third day
thereafter he was to be put to death. But, by a great stretch of
imperial clemency, the culprit was permitted to utter one wish each
day, which the emperor pledged himself to grant, provided it was not
to spare his life. Many had already perished in consequence of this
edict, when, one day, a count and his young son presented themselves
at court. The fish was served as usual, and when the {32} count had
removed all the fish from one side, he turned it over, and was about
to commence on the other, when he was suddenly seized and thrown into
prison, and was told of his approaching doom. Sorrow-stricken, the
count's young son besought the emperor to allow him to die in the room
of his father; a favor which the monarch was pleased to accord him.
The count was accordingly released from prison, and his son was thrown
into his cell in his stead. As soon as this had been done, the young
man said to his gaolers--"You know I have the right to make three
demands before I die; go and tell the emperor to send me his daughter,
and a priest to marry us." This first demand was not much to the
emperor's taste, nevertheless he felt bound to keep his word, and he
therefore complied with the request, to which the princess had no kind
of objection. This occurred in the times when kings kept their
treasures in a cave, or in a tower set apart for the purpose, like the
Emperor of Morocco in these days; and on the second day of his
imprisonment the young man demanded the king's treasures. If his first
demand was a bold one, the second was not less so; still, an emperor's
word is sacred, and having made the promise, he was forced to keep it;
and the treasures of gold and silver and jewels were placed at the
prisoner's disposal. On getting possession of them, he distributed
them profusely among the courtiers, and soon he had made a host of
friends by his liberality.

The emperor began now to feel exceedingly uncomfortable. Unable to
sleep, he rose early on the third morning and went, with fear in his
heart, to the prison to hear what the third wish was to be.

"Now," said he to his prisoner, "tell me what your third demand is,
that it may be granted at once, and you may be hung out of hand, for I
am tired of your demands."

"Sire," answered his prisoner, "I have but one more favor to request
of your majesty, which, when you have granted, I shall die content. It
is merely that you will cause the eyes of those who saw my father turn
the fish over to be put out."

"Very good," replied the emperor, "your demand is but natural, and
springs from a good heart. Let the chamberlain be seized," he
continued, turning to his guards.

"I, sire!" cried the chamberlain; "I did not see anything--it was the

"Let the steward be seized, then," said the king.

But the steward protested with tears in his eyes that he had not
witnessed anything of what had been reported, and said it was the
butler. The butler declared that he had seen nothing of the matter,
and that it must have been one of the valets. But they protested that
they were utterly ignorant of what had been charged against the count;
in short, it turned out that nobody could be found who had seen the
count commit the offence, upon which the princess said:

"I appeal to you, my father, as to another Solomon. If nobody saw the
offence committed, the count cannot be guilty, and my husband is

The emperor frowned, and forthwith the courtiers began to murmur; then
he smiled, and immediately their visages became radiant.

"Let it be so," said his majesty; "let him live, though I have put
many a man to death for a lighter offence than his. But if he is not
hung, he is married. Justice has been done."



From The Month.



  Should you dream ever of the days departed--
  Of youth and morning, no more to return--
  Forget not me, so fond and passionate-hearted;
      Quiet at last, reposing
      Under the moss and fern.

  There, where the fretful lake in stormy weather
  Comes circling round the reddening churchyard pines,
  Rest, and call back the hours we lost together,
      Talking of hope, and soaring
      Beyond poor earth's confines.

  If, for those heavenly dreams too dimly sighted,
  You became false--why, 'tis a story old:
  _I_, overcome by pain, and unrequited,
      Faded at last, and slumber
      Under the autumn mould.

  Farewell, farewell! No longer plighted lovers,
  Doomed for a day to sigh for sweet return:
  One lives, indeed; one heart the green earth covers--
      Quiet at last, reposing
      Under the moss and fern.


From The Dublin Review.


_S. Clementis Alexandrini Opera Omnia_. Lutetiae. 1629.

_Geschichte der Christlicher Philosophie, von_ Dr. Heinrich Ritter.
Hamburg: Perthes. 1841.

If any country under the sun bears the spell of fascination in its
very name, that country is Egypt. The land of the Nile and the
pyramids, of the Pharaohs and the Ptolemies--the land where art and
science had mysterious beginnings before the dawn of history, where
powerful dynasties held sway for long generations over the fertile
river-valley, and built for themselves mighty cities--Thebes, the
hundred-gated, Memphis, with its palaces, Heliopolis, with its temples--
and left memorials of themselves that are attracting men at this very
day to Luxor and Carnak, to the avenue of sphynxes and the pyramids--
Egypt, where learning

    Uttered its oracles sublime
    Before the Olympiads, in the dew
    And dusk of early time--

the land where,


  Northward from its Nubian springs,
    The Nile, for ever new and old,
  Among the living and the dead
    Its mighty, mystic stream has rolled--

Egypt seems destined to be associated with all the signal events of
every age of the world. Israel's going into and going out of Egypt is
one of the epic pages of Holy Scripture; Sesostris, King of Egypt,
left his name written over half of Asia; Alexander, the greatest of
the Greeks, laid in Egypt the foundation of a new empire; Cleopatra,
the captive and the captor of Julius Caesar and Mark Antony, killed
herself as the old land passed away for ever from the race of Ptolemy;
Clement and Origen, Porphyry and Plotinus, have left Egypt the classic
land of the Church's battle against the purest form of heathen
philosophy; St. Louis of France has made Egypt the scene of a glorious
drama of heroism and devotion; the pyramids have lent their name to
swell the list of Napoleon's triumphs; and the Nile is linked for ever
with the deathless fame of Nelson.

In the last decade of the second century, about the time when the
pagan virtues of Marcus Aurelius had left the Roman empire to the
worse than pagan vices of his son Commodus, Egypt, to the learned and
wealthy, meant Alexandria. What Tyre had been in the time of Solomon,
what Sidon was in the days of which Homer wrote, that was Alexandria
from the reign of Ptolemy Soter to the days of Mahomet. In external
aspect it was in every way worthy to bear the name of him who drew its
plans with his own hands. Its magnificent double harbor, of which the
Great Port had a quay-side six miles in length, was the common
rendezvous for merchant ships from every part of Syria, Greece, Italy,
and Spain; and its communications with the Red Sea and the Nile
brought to the warehouses that overlooked its quay the riches of
Arabia and India, and the corn and flax of the country of which it was
the capital. The modern traveller, who finds Alexandria a prosperous
commercial town, with an appearance half European, half Turkish,
learns with wonder that its 60,000 inhabitants find room on what was
little more than the mole that divided the Great Port from the
Eunostos. But it should be borne in mind that old Alexandria numbered
300,000 free citizens. The mosques, the warehouses, and the private
dwellings of the present town are built of the fragments of the grand
city of Alexander. The great conqueror designed to make Alexandria the
capital of the world. He chose a situation the advantages of which a
glance at the map will show; and if any other proof were needed, it
may be found in the fact that, since 1801, the population of the
modern town has increased at the rate of one thousand a year. He
planned his city on such vast proportions as might be looked for from
the conqueror of Darius. Parallel streets crossed other streets, and
divided the city into square blocks. Right through its whole length,
from East to West--that is, parallel with the sea-front--one magnificent
street, two hundred feet wide and four miles in length, ran from the
Canopic gate to the Necropolis. A similar street, shorter, but of
equal breadth, crossed this at right angles, and came out upon the
great quay directly opposite the mole that joined the city with the
island of Pharos. This was the famous Heptastadion, or Street of the
Seven Stadia, and at its South end was the Sun-gate; at its North,
where it opened on the harbor, the gate of the Moon. To the right, as
you passed through the Moon-gate on to the broad quay, was the
exchange, where merchants from all lands met each other, in sight of
the white Pharos and the crowded shipping of the Great Port. A little
back from the gate, in the Heptastadion, was the Caesareum, or temple
of the deified Caesars, afterward a Christian church. Near it was the
Museum, the university of Alexandria. Long marble colonnades connected
the {35} university with the palace and gardens of the Ptolemies. On
the opposite side of the great street was the Serapeion, the
magnificent temple of Serapis, with its four hundred columns, of which
Pompey's Pillar is, perhaps, all that is left. And then there was the
mausoleum of Alexander, there were the courts of justice, the
theatres, the baths, the temples, the lines of shops and houses--all on
a scale of grandeur and completeness which has never been surpassed by
any city of the world. Such a city necessarily attracted men.
Alexandria was fitly called the "many-peopled," whether the epithet
referred to the actual number of citizens or to the varieties of
tongue, complexion, and costume that thronged its streets. The Greeks,
the Egyptians, and the Jews, each had their separate quarter; but
there were constant streams of foreigners from the remote India, from
the lands beyond the black rocks that bound the Nile-valley, and from
the Ethiopic races to which St. Matthew preached, where the Red Sea
becomes the Indian Ocean. At the time we speak of, these discordant
elements were held in subjection by the Roman conquerors, whose
legionaries trod the streets of the voluptuous city with stern and
resolute step, and were not without occasion, oftentimes, for a
display of all the sternness and resolution which their bearing

Alexandria, however, in addition to the busy life of commerce and
pleasure that went on among Greeks, Egyptians, Jews, and Africans, was
the home of another kind of life, still more interesting to us.
Ptolemy Soter, who carried out Alexander's plans, was a man of no
common foresight and strength of character. He was not content with
building a city. He performed, in addition, two exploits, either of
which, from modern experience, we should be inclined to consider a
title to immortality. He invented a new god, and established a
university. The god was Serapis, whom he imported from Pergamus, and
who soon became popular. The university was the Museum, in which lived
and taught Demetrius of Phalerus, Euclid, Stilpo of Megara, Philetas
of Cos, Apelles the painter, Callimachus, Theocritus, Eratosthenes,
Apollonius Rhodius, and a host of others in philosophy, poetry,
geometry, astronomy, and the arts. Here, under successive Ptolemies,
professors lectured in splendid halls, amid honored affluence. All
that we have of the Greek classics we owe to the learned men of the
Museum. Poetry bloomed sweetly and luxuriantly in the gardens of the
Ptolemies; though, it must be confessed, not vigorously, not as on
Ionic coast-lands, nor as in the earnest life of Athenian freedom--save
when some Theocritus appeared, with his broad Doric, fresh from the
sheep-covered downs of Sicily. The name of Euclid suggests that
geometry was cared for at the Museum; Eratosthenes, with his
voluminous writings, all of which have perished, and his one or two
discoveries, which will never die, may stand for the type of
geography, the science for which he lived; and Hipparchus, astronomer
and inventor of trigonometry, may remind us how they taught at the
Museum that the earth was the centre of the universe, and yet,
notwithstanding, could foretell an eclipse almost as well as the
astronomer royal. In philosophy, the university of Alexandria has
played a peculiar part. As long as the Ptolemies reigned in Egypt, the
Museum could boast of no philosophy save commentaries on Aristotle and
Plato, consisting, in great measure, of subtle obscurities to which
the darkest quiddities of the deepest scholastic would appear to have
been light reading. But when the Roman came in, there sprang up a
school of thought that has done more than any other thing to hand down
the fame of Ptolemy's university to succeeding ages. Alexandria was
the birthplace of Neo-Platonism, and, whatever we may think of the
philosophy itself, we must allow it has bestowed fame on its alma {36}
mater. At the dawn of the Christian era, Philon the Jew was already
ransacking the great library to collect matter that should enable him
to prove a common origin for the books of Plato and of Moses. Two
hundred years afterward--that is, just at the time of which we speak--
Plotinus was listening to Ammonius Saccas in the lecture-hall of the
Museum, and thinking out the system of emanations, abysms, and depths
of which he is the first and most famous expounder. Porphyry, the
biographer and enthusiastic follower of Plotinus, was probably never
at Alexandria in person; but his voluminous writings did much to make
the Neo-Platonist system known to Athens and to the cities of Italy.
In his youth he had listened to the lectures of Origen, and thus was
in possession of the traditions both of the Christian and the heathen
philosophy of Alexandria. But his Christian studies did not prevent
him from being the author of that famous book, "Against the
Christians," which drew upon him the denunciations of thirty-five
Christian apologists, including such champions as St. Jerome and St.
Augustine. The Neo-Platonist school culminated and expired in Proclus,
the young prodigy of Alexandria, the ascetic teacher of Athens, the
"inspired dogmatizer," the "heir of Plato." Proclus died in 485, and
his chair at Athens was filled by his foolish biographer Marinus,
after which Neo-Platonism never lifted up its head.

Between the time when Philon astonished the orthodox money-getting
Hebrews of the Jews' quarter by his daring adoption of Plato's Logos,
and the day when poor old Proclus--his once handsome and strong frame
wasted by fasting and Pythagorean austerities--died, a drivelling old
man, in sight of the groves of the Academe and the tomb of Plato, not
far from whom he himself was to lie, many a busy generation had
trodden the halls of the Museum of Alexandria. All that time the
strife of words had never ceased, in the lecture-hall, in the gardens
of the departed Ptolemies, round the banquet-table where the
professors were feasted at the state's expense. All that time the fame
of Alexandria had gathered to her Museum the young generations that
succeeded each other in the patrician homes and wealthy burghs of
Syria, Greece, and Italy. They came in crowds, with their fathers'
money in their purses, to be made learned by those of whose exploits
report had told so much. Some came with an earnest purpose. To the
young medical student, the Alexandrian school of anatomy and the
Alexandrian diploma (in whatever shape it was given)--not to mention
the opportunity of perusing the works of the immortal Hippocrates in
forty substantial rolls of papyrus--were worth all the expense of a
journey from Rome or Edessa. To the lawyer, the splendid collections
of laws, from those of the Pentateuch to those of Zamolxis the
Scythian, were treasures only to be found in the library where the
zeal of Demetrius Phalerius and the munificence of Ptolemy
Philadelphus had placed them. But the vast majority of the youth who
flocked to the Museum came with no other purpose than the very general
one of finishing their education and fitting themselves for the world.
With these, the agreeable arts of poetry and polite literature were in
far greater request than law, medicine, astronomy, or geography. If
they could get a sight of the popular poet of the hour in his morning
meditation under the plane-trees of the gardens, or could crush into a
place in the theatre when he recited his new "Ode to the Empress's
Hair;" or if they attended the lecture of the most fashionable
exponent of the myths of the Iliad, and clapped him whenever he
introduced an allusion to the divine Plato, it was considered a very
fair morning's work, and might be fitly rewarded by a boating party to
Canopus in the afternoon, or a revel far into the night in any of
those thousand palaces of vice {37} with which luxurious Alexandria
was so well provided. And yet there is no doubt that the young men
carried away from their university a certain education and a certain
refinement--an education which, though it taught them to relish the
pleasures of intellect, in no wise disposed them to forego the
enjoyments of sense; and a refinement which, while imparting a
graceful polish to the mind, was quite compatible with the deepest
moral depravity. Pagans as they were, they were the fairest portion of
the whole world, for intellect, for manliness, for generosity, for
wit, for beauty and strength of mind and body--natural gifts that, like
the sun and the rain, are bestowed upon just and unjust. Their own
intercourse with each other taught them far more than the speculations
of any of the myth-hunting professors of the Museum. They crowded in
to hear them, they cheered them, they would dispute and even fight for
a favorite theory that no one understood, with the doubtful exception
of its inventor. But it was not to be supposed that they really cared
for abysms or mystical mathematics, or that they were not a great deal
more zealous for suppers, and drinking bouts, and boating parties.
These latter employments, indeed, may be said to have formed their
real education. Greek intellect, Greek taste, wit, and beauty, in the
sunniest hour of its bloom, mingled with its like in the grandest city
that, perhaps, the earth has ever seen. The very harbors, and temples,
and palaces were an education. The first rounding of the Pharos--when
the six-mile semicircle of granite quay and marble emporia burst on
the view, with the Egyptian sun flashing from white wall and blue sea,
and glancing and sparkling amidst the dense picturesque multitude that
roared and surged on the esplanade--disclosed a sight to make the soul
grow larger. The wonderful city itself was a teaching: the assemblage
of all that was best and rarest in old Egyptian art, and all that was
freshest and most lovely in the art of Greece, left no corner of a
street without its lesson to the eye. Indoors, there was the Museum,
with its miles of corridors and galleries, filled with paintings and
sculptures; outside, the Serapeion, the Caesareum, the exchange, the
palace, the university itself, each a more effective instructor than a
year's course in the schools. And after all this came the library,
with its 700,000 volumes!

In the year of our Lord 181, ships filled the Great Port, merchants
congregated in the exchange, sailors and porters thronged the quays;
crowds of rich and poor, high and low, flocked through the streets;
youths poured in to listen to Ammonius Saccas, and poured out again to
riot and sin; philosophers talked, Jews made money, fashionable men
took their pleasure, slaves toiled, citizens bought and sold and made
marriages; all the forms of busy life that had their existence within
the circuit of the many-peopled city were noisily working themselves
out. In the same year, Pantaenus became the head of the catechetical
school of the patriarchal Church of Alexandria.

It was the time when those who had lived and walked with the Apostles
had passed away, and when the third generation of the Church's rulers
was already growing old. St. Irenaeus was near his glorious end; St.
Eleutherius, of memory dear to Britain, had just closed his
pontificate by martyrdom, and St. Victor sat in his place. The echoes
of the voice of Peter had hardly died out in Rome and Antioch; the
traditions of Paul's bodily presence were yet living in Asia, in
Greece, and the Islands; and the sweet odor of John's life still hung
about the places where his sojourning had been: many a church of
Greece and Egypt and of the far East had the sepulchre of its founder,
an Apostle or an apostolic man, round which to pray. It was the age of
the persecutions, and the age of the apologies. In every {38} city
that was coming about which from the first had been inevitable. The
Church was laying hold of human learning, and setting it to do her own
work. In fixing upon Alexandria as the spot where, at this period, the
contest between Christian science and Gentile learning, Gentile
ignorance and Gentile brute force, was most interesting and most
developed, we must pass by many other Churches, not in forgetfulness,
though in silence. We must pass by Rome, the capital of the world, not
because there were not learned men there whom Jesus Christ had raised
up to battle with heathen philosophy; for it was but a few years since
Justin Martyr had shed his blood for the faith, and Apollonius from
his place in the senate had spoken his "apology" for his fellow
Christians. But the enemies which the Gospel had to meet at Rome were
not so much the learning and science of the heathen as his evil
passions and vicious life; and the sword of persecution, at Rome
hardly ever sheathed, kept down all attempts at regularity or
organization in public teaching. We must pass by Athens, still the
intellectual capital of the world, not because there were not at
Athens also worthy doctors of the wisdom of the cross--witness, to the
contrary, Athenagoras, the Christian philosopher, who presented his
apology to Marcus Aurelius. But Athens, though at the end of the
second century and long afterward she was the mother of orators,
poets, and philosophers, seems to have been too thoroughly steeped in
the sensuous idolatry of Greece to have harbored a school of
Christianity by the side of the Porch and the Lyceum. If the same was
true of Athens then as a century afterward, her smooth-tongued,
"babbling" sophists, and her pagan charms, must have had to answer for
the soul of many a poor Christian youth that went to seek learning and
found perdition. We pass by Carthage, in spite of Tertullian's great
name; Antioch, notwithstanding Theophilus, whose labors against the
heathen still bore fruit; Sardis, in spite of Melito, then just dead,
but living still in men's mouths by the fame of his learning,
eloquence, and miracles; and Hierapolis, in spite of Apollinaris, who,
like so many others, approached the emperor himself with an apology.
All over the Church there were men raised up by God, and fitted with
learning to confront learning, patience to instruct ignorance, and
unflinching fortitude to endure persecution--men in every way worthy
to be the instruments of that great change which was being wrought out
through the wide world of the Roman empire.

But at Alexandria, the school of Christianity existed under
interesting and peculiar conditions. St. Mark had landed on the
granite quay of the Great Port with Peter's commission; he had been
martyred, and his successors had been martyred after him; and for a
long time Christianity here, as everywhere else, had been
contemptuously ignored. It spread, however, as we know. In time, more
than one student, before he attended his lecture in the splendid halls
of the Museum, had given ear to a far different lesson in a different
school. The Christian catechetical school of Alexandria is said to
have been founded by St. Mark himself. If so, it is only what we might
naturally expect; for wherever heathens were being converted, there a
school of teachers had to be provided for their instruction; and we
read of similar institutions at Jerusalem, at Antioch, and at Rome.
But the catechetical school of Alexandria soon assumed an importance
that no other school of those times ever attained. Whether it was that
the influence of the university gave an impetus to regular and
methodical teaching, or that the converts in Alexandria were in great
measure from a cultivated and intellectual class, it appears to have
been found necessary from the earliest times to have an efficient
school, with a man of vigor and intellect at its head, capable of
maintaining his position even when compared {39} with the professors
of the university. The first of the heads or doctors of the school of
whom history has left any account, is Pantaenus. Pantaenus is not so
well known as his place in Church history and his influence on his age
would seem to warrant. He was appointed to his important post at a
time when Christians all over the world must have been rejoicing. The
fourth persecution was just dying out. For twenty years, with the
exception of the short interval immediately after the miracle of the
Thundering Legion, had Marcus Aurelius, imperial philosopher of the
Stoic sort, continued to command or connive at the butchery of his
Christian subjects. What were the motives that led this paragon of
virtuous pagans to lower himself to the commonplace practices of
racking, scourging, and burning, is a question that depends for its
answer upon who the answerer is. Philosophers of a certain class, from
Gibbon to Mr. Mill, are disposed to take a lenient, if not a
laudatory, estimate of his conduct in this matter, and think that the
emperor could not have acted otherwise consistently with his
principles and convictions, as handed down to us in his "Meditations."
Doubtless he had strong convictions on the subject of Christianity,
though it might be questioned whether he came honestly by them. But
his convictions, whatever they were, would probably have ended in the
harmless shape of philosophic contempt, had it not been for the men by
whom he was surrounded. They were Stoics, of course, like their
master, but their stoicism was far from confining itself to
convictions and meditations. They were practical Stoics, of the
severest type which that old-world Puritanism admitted. As good
Stoics, they were of all philosophers the most conceited, and took it
especially ill that any sect should presume to rival them in their
private virtues of obstinacy and endurance. It is extremely probable
that the fourth persecution, both in its commencement and its revival,
was owing to the good offices of Marcus Aurelius's solemn-faced
favorites. But, whatever be the blame that attaches to him, he has
answered for it at the same dread tribunal at which he has answered
for the deification of Faustina and the education of Commodus.

However, about the year 180, persecution ceased at Alexandria, and the
Christians held up their heads and revived again, after the bitter
winter through which they had just passed. Their first thoughts and
efforts appear to have been directed to their school. The name of
Pantaenus was already celebrated. He was a convert from paganism, born
probably in Sicily, but certainly brought up in Alexandria. Curiously
enough, he had been a zealous Stoic, and remained so, in the Christian
sense, after his conversion. There is no doubt that he was well known
among the Gentile philosophers of Alexandria. Perhaps he had lectured
in the Museum and dined in the Hall. Probably he had spent many a day
buried in the recesses of the great libraries, and could give a good
account of not a few of their thousands of volumes. He must have known
Justin Martyr--perhaps had something to say to the conversion of that
brilliant genius, not as a teacher, but as a friend and
fellow-student. He may have come across Galen, when that lively
medical man was pursuing his researches on the immortal Hippocrates,
or entertaining a select circle, in the calm of the evening, under one
of the porticos of the Heptastadion. No sooner was he placed at the
head of the Christian school than he inaugurated a great change, or
rather a great development. Formerly the instruction had been intended
solely for converts, that is, catechumens, and the matter of the
teaching had corresponded with this object. Pantaenus changed all
this. The cessation of the persecution had, perhaps, encouraged bolder
measures; men would think there was no prospect of another, as men
generally think when a long and difficult trial is over; so the
Christian schools were to be opened {40} to all the world. If
Aristotle and Plato, Epicurus and Zeno, had their lecturers, should
not Jesus Christ have schools and teachers too? And what matter if the
Christian doctrine were somewhat novel and hard--was not Ammonius the
Porter, at that very time, turning the heads of half the students in
the city, and filling his lecture-room to suffocation, by expounding
transcendental theories about Plato's Logos, and actually teaching the
doctrine of a Trinity? Shame upon the Christian name, then, if they
who bear it do not open their doors, now that danger is past, and
break the true bread to the hungry souls that eagerly snatch at the
stones and dry sticks that others give! So thought Pantaenus. Of his
teachings and writings hardly a trace or a record has reached us. We
know that he wrote valued commentaries on Holy Scripture, but no
fragment of them remains. His teaching, however, as might have been
expected, was chiefly oral. He met the philosophers of Alexandria on
their own ground. He showed that the fame of learning, the earnestness
of character, the vivid personal influence that were so powerful in
the cause of heathen philosophy, could be as serviceable to the
philosophy of Christ. The plan was novel in the Christian world--at
least, in its systematic thoroughness. That Pantaenus had great
influence and many worthy disciples is evident from the fact that St.
Clement of Alexandria, his successor, was formed in his school, and
that St. Alexander of Jerusalem, the celebrated founder of the library
which Eusebius consulted at Jerusalem, writing half a century
afterward to Alexandria, speaks with nothing less than enthusiasm of
the "happy memory" of his old master. If we could pierce the secrets
of those long-past times, what a stirring scene of reverend wisdom and
youthful enthusiasm would the forgotten school of the Sicilian convert
unfold to our sight! Doubtless, from amidst the confused jargon of all
manner of philosophies, the voice of the Christian teacher arose with
a clear and distinct utterance; and the fame of Pantaenus was carried
to far countries by many a noble Roman and many an accomplished Greek,
zealous, like all true academic sons, for the glory of their favorite

After ten years of such work as this, Pantaenus vacated his chair, and
went forth as a missionary bishop to convert the Indians. Before
passing on to his successor, a few words on this Indian mission,
apparently so inopportune for such a man at such a time, will be
interesting, and not unconnected with the history of the Christian

In the "many-peopled" city there were men from all lands and of all
shades of complexion. It was nothing strange, then, that an embassy of
swarthy Indians should have one day waited on the patriarch and begged
for an apostle to take home with them to their countrymen. No wonder,
either, that they specified the celebrated master of the catechisms as
their _dignissimus_. The only wonder is that he was allowed to go. Yet
he went; he set out with them, sailed to Canopus, the Alexandrian
Richmond, where the canal joined the Nile; sailed up the ancient
stream to Koptos, where the overland route began; joined the caravan
that travelled thence, from well to well, to Berenice, Philadelphus's
harbor on the Red Sea; embarked, and, after sailing before the monsoon
for seventy days, arrived at the first Indian port, probably that
which is now Mangalore, in the presidency of Bombay. This, in all
likelihood, was the route and the destination of Pantaenus. Now those
among whom his missionary labors appear to have lain were Brahmins,
and Brahmins of great learning and extraordinary strictness of life.
Moreover, there appears to be no reason to doubt that the Church
founded by St. Thomas still existed, and even flourished, in these
very parts, though its apostolic founder had been martyred a hundred
years before. It was not so unreasonable, then, that {41} a bishop
like Pantaenus should have been selected for such a Church and such a
people. Let the reader turn to the story of Robert de' Nobili, and of
John de Britto, whose field of labor extended to within a hundred
miles of master in human learning when the the very spot where
Pantaenus probably landed. St. Francis Xavier had already found
Christians in that region who bore distinct traces of a former
connection with Alexandria, in the very points in which they deviated
from orthodoxy. De' Nobili's transformation of himself into a Brahmin
of the strictest and most learned caste is well known. He dressed and
lived as a Brahmin, roused the curiosity of his adopted brethren,
opened school, and taught philosophy, inculcating such practical
conclusions as it is unnecessary to specify. De Britto did the very
same things. If any one will compare the Brahmins of De Britto and De'
Nobili with those earlier Brahmins of Pantaenus, as described, for
instance, by Cave from Palladius, he will not fail to be struck with
the similarity of accounts; and if we might be permitted to fill up
the picture upon these conjectural hints, we should say that it seems
to us very likely that Pantaenus, during the years that he was lost to
Alexandria, was expounding and enforcing, in the flowing cotton robes
of a venerable Saniastes, the same deep philosophy to Indian audiences
as he had taught to admiring Greeks in the modest pallium of a Stoic.
Recent missionary experience has uniformly gone to prove that deep
learning and asceticism are, humanly speaking, absolutely necessary in
order to attempt the conversion of Brahmins with any prospect of
success: and the mission of Pantaenus seems at once to furnish an
illustration of this fact, and to afford an interesting glimpse of
"Christian Missions" in the second century. But we must return to

The name that succeeds Pantaenus on the rolls of the School of the
Catechisms is Titus Flavius Clemens, immortalized in history as
Clement of Alexandria. He had sat under Pantaemus, but he was no
ordinary scholar. Like his instructor, he was a convert from paganism.
He was already master in human learning when the grace came. He had
sought far and wide for the truth, and had found it in the Catholic
Church, and into the lap of his new mother he had poured all the
treasures of Egyptian wisdom which he had gathered in his quest.
Athens, Southern Italy, Assyria, and Palestine had each been visited
by the eager searcher; and, last of all, Egypt, and Alexandria, and
Pantaenus had been the term of his travels, and had given to his lofty
soul the "admirable light" of Jesus Christ. When Pantaenus went out as
a missioner to India, Clement, who had already assisted his beloved
master in the work of the schools, succeeded him as their director and
head. It was to be Clement's task to carry on and to develop the work
that Pantaenus had inaugurated--to make Christianity not only
understood by the catechumens and loved by the faithful, but
recognized and respected by the pagan philosophers. Unless we can
clearly see the necessity, or, at least, the reality of the
philosophical side of his character, and the influences that were at
work to make him hold fast to Aristotle and Plato, even after he had
got far beyond them, we shall infallibly set him down, like his modern
biographers, as a half-converted heathen, with the shell of Platonism
still adhering to him.

It cannot be doubted that in a society like that of Alexandria in its
palmy days there were many earnest seekers of the truth, even as
Clement himself had sought it. One might even lay it down as a normal
fact, that it was the character of an Alexandrian, as distinguished
from an Athenian, to speculate for the sake of practising, and not to
spend his time in "either telling or hearing some new thing." If an
Alexandrian was a Stoic, never was Stoic more demure or more intent on
warring against his body, after Stoic {42} fashion; if a geometrican,
no disciple of Bacon was ever more assiduous in experimentalizing,
measuring, comparing, and deducing laws; if a Platonist, then
geometry, ethics, poetry, and everything else, were enthusiastically
pressed into the one great occupation of life--the realizing the ideal
and the getting face to face with the unseen. That all this
earnestness did not uniformly result in success was only too true.
Much speculation, great earnestness, and no grand objective truth at
the end of it--this was often the lot of the philosophic inquirer of
Alexandria. The consequence was that not unfrequently, disgusted by
failure, he ended by rushing headlong into the most vicious excesses,
or, becoming a victim to despair, perished by his own hand. So
familiar, indeed, had this resource of disappointment become to the
philosophic mind, that Hegesias, a professor in the Museum, a little
before the Christian era, wrote a book counselling self-murder; and so
many people actually followed his advice as to oblige the reigning
Ptolemy to turn Grand Inquisitor even in free-thinking Egypt, and
forbid the circulation of the book. Yet all this, while it revealed a
depth of moral wretchedness which it is frightful to contemplate,
showed also a certain desperate earnestness; and doubtless there were,
even among those who took refuge in one or other of these dreadful
alternatives, men who, in their beginnings, had genuine aspirations
after truth, mingled with the pride of knowledge and a mere
intellectual curiosity. Doubtless, too, there was many a sincere and
guileless soul among the philosophic herd, to whom, humanly speaking,
nothing more was wanting than the preaching of the faith. Their eyes
were open, as far as they could be without the light of revelation:
let the light shine, and, by the help of divine grace, they would
admit its beams into their souls.

There are many such, in every form of error. In Clement's days,
especially, there were many whom Neo-Platonism, the Puseyism of
paganism, cast up from the ocean of unclean error upon the shores of
the Church. Take the case of Justin Martyr: he was a young Oriental of
noble birth and considerable wealth. In the early part of the second
century, we find him trying first one school of philosophers and then
another, and abandoning each in disgust. The Stoics would talk to him
of nothing but virtues and vices, of regulating the diet and curbing
the passions, and keeping the intellect as quiet as possible--a
convenient way, as experience taught them, of avoiding trouble;
whereas Justin wanted to hear something of the Absolute Being, and of
that Being's dealings with his own soul--a kind of inquiry which the
Stoics considered altogether useless and ridiculous, if not
reprehensible. Leaving the Stoics, he devoted himself heart and soul
to a sharp Peripatetic, but quarrelled with him shortly and left him
in disgust; the cause of disagreement being, apparently, a practical
theory entertained by his preceptor on the subject of fees. He next
took to the disciples of Pythagoras. But with these he succeeded no
better than with the others; for the Pythagoreans reminded him that no
one ignorant of mathematics could be admitted into their select
society. Mathematics, in a Pythagorean point of view, included
geometry, astronomy, and music--all those sciences, in fact, in which
there was any scope for those extraordinary freaks of numbers which
delighted the followers of the old vegetarian. Justin, having no
inclination to undergo a novitiate in mathematics, abandoned the
Pythagoreans and went elsewhere. The Platonists were the next who
attracted him. He found no lack of employment for the highest
qualities of his really noble soul in the lofty visions of Plato and
the sublimated theories of his disciples and commentators; though it
appears a little singular that, with his propensities toward the ideal
and abstract, he should have tried so many masters before he {43} sat
down under Plato. However, be that as it may, Plato seems to have
satisfied him for a while, and he began to think he was growing a very
wise man, when these illusions were rudely dispelled. One day he had
walked down to a lonely spot by the sea-shore, meditating, probably,
some deep idea, and perhaps declaiming occasionally some passage of
Plato's Olympian Greek. In his solitary walk he met an old man, and
entered into conversation with him. The event of this conversation was
that Justin went home with a wonderfully reduced estimate of his own
wisdom, and a determination to get to know a few things about which
Plato, on the old man's showing, had been woefully in the dark. Justin
became a convert to Christianity. Now, Justin had been at Alexandria,
and, whether the conversation he relates ever really took place, or is
merely an oratorical fiction, the story is one that represents
substantially what must have happened over and over again to those who
thronged the university of Alexandria, wearing the black cloak of the

Justin lived and was martyred some half a century before Clement sat
in the chair of the catechisms. But it is quite plain that, in such a
state of society, there would not be wanting many of his class and
temperament who, in Clement's time, as well as fifty years before,
were in search of the true philosophy. And we must not forget that in
Alexandria there were actually thousands of well-born, intellectual
young men from every part of the Roman empire. To the earnest among
these Clement was, indeed, no ordinary master. In the first place, he
was their equal by birth and education, with all the intellectual
keenness of his native Athens, and all the ripeness and versatility of
one who had "seen many cities of men and their manners." Next, he had
himself been a Gentile, and had gone through all those phases of the
soul that precede and accompany the process of conversion. If any one
knew their difficulties and their sore places, it was he, the
converted philosopher. If any one was capable of satisfying a generous
mind as to which was the true philosophy, it was he who had travelled
the world over in search of it. He could tell the swarthy Syrian that
it was of no use to seek the classic regions of Ionia, for he had
tried them, and the truth was not there; he could assure him it was
waste of time to go to Athens, for the Porch and the Garden were
babbling of vain questions--he had listened in them all. He could calm
the ardor of the young Athenian, his countryman, eager to try the
banks of the Orontes, and to interrogate the sages of Syria; for he
could tell him beforehand what they would say. He could shake his head
when the young Egyptian, fresh from the provincial luxury of Antinoë,
mentioned Magna Graecia as a mysterious land where the secret of
knowledge was perhaps in the hands of the descendants of the Pelasgi.
_He_ had tried Tarentum, he had tried Neapolis; they were worse than
the Serapeion in unnameable licentiousness--less in earnest than the
votaries that crowded the pleasure-barges of the Nile at a festival of
the Moon. He had asked, he had tried, he had tasted. The truth, he
could tell them, was at their doors. It was elsewhere, too. It was in
Neapolis, in Antioch, in Athens, in Rome; but they would not find it
taught in the chairs of the schools, nor discussed by noble
frequenters of the baths and the theatres. He knew it, and he could
tell it to them. And as he added many a tale of his wanderings and
searchings--many an instance of genius falling short, of good-will
laboring in the dark, of earnestness painfully at fault--many of those
who heard him would yield themselves up to the vigorous thinker whose
brow showed both the capacity and the unwearied activity of the soul
within. He was the very man to be made a hero of. Whatever there was
in the circle of Gentile philosophy he knew. St. Jerome calls {44} him
the "most learned of the writers of the Church," and St. Jerome must
have spoken with the sons of those who had heard him lecture--noble
Christian patricians, perchance, whose fathers had often told them
how, in fervent boyhood, they had been spell-bound by his words in the
Christian school of Alexandria, or learned bishops of Palestine, who
had heard of him from Origen at Caesarea or St. Alexander at
Jerusalem. From the same St. Alexander, who had listened to Pantaenus
by his side, we learn that he was as holy as he was learned; and
Theodoret, whose school did not dispose him to admire what came from
the catechetical doctors of Alexandria, is our authority for saying
that his "eloquence was unsurpassed." In the fourth edition of Cave's
"Apostolici," there is a portrait that we would fain vouch to be
genuine. The massive, earnest face, of the Aristotelian type, the
narrow, perpendicular Grecian brow, with its corrugations of thought
and care, the venerable flowing beard, dignifying, but not concealing,
the homely and fatherly mouth, seem to suggest a man who had made all
science his own, yet who now valued a little one of Jesus Christ above
all human wisdom and learning. But we have no record of those features
that were once the cynosure of many eyes in the "many-peopled" city;
we have no memorial of the figure that spoke the truths of the Gospel
in the words of Plato. We know not how he looked, nor how he sat, when
he began with his favorite master, and showed, with inexhaustible
learning, where he had caught sight of the truth, and, again, where
his mighty but finite intellect had failed for want of a more
"admirable light;" nor how he kindled when he had led his hearers
through the vestibule of the old philosophy, and stood ready to lift
the curtain of that which was at once its consummation and its

But the philosophers of Alexandria, so-called, were by no means,
without exception, earnest, high-minded, and well-meaning. Leaving out
of the question the mob of students who came ostensibly for wisdom,
but got only a very doubtful substitute, and were quite content with
it, we know that the Museum was the headquarters of an anti-Christian
philosophy which, in Clement's time, was in the very spring of its
vigorous development. Exactly contemporary with him was the celebrated
Ammonius the Porter, the teacher of Plotinus, and therefore the parent
of Neo-Platonism. Ammonius had a very great name and a very numerous
school. That he was a Christian by birth, there is no doubt; and he
was probably a Christian still when he landed at the Great Port and
found employment as a ship-porter. History is divided as to his
behavior after his wonderful elevation from the warehouses to the
halls of the Museum. St. Jerome and Eusebius deny that he apostatized,
while the very questionable authority of the unscrupulous Porphyry is
the only testimony that can be adduced on the other side; but, even if
he continued to be a Christian, his orthodoxy is rather damaged when
we find him praised by such men as Plotinus, Longinus, and Hierocles.
Some would cut the knot by asserting the existence of two Ammoniuses,
one a pagan apostate, the other a Christian bishop--a solution equally
contradicted by the witnesses on both sides. But, whatever Saccas was,
there is no doubt as to what was the effect of his teaching on, at
least, half of his hearers. If we might hazard a conjecture, we should
say that he appears to have been a man of great cleverness, and even
genius, but too much in love with his own brilliancy and his own
speculations not to come across the ecclesiastical authority in a more
or less direct way. He supplied many imposing premises which Origen,
representing the sound half of his audience, used for Christian
purposes, whilst Plotinus employed them for revivifying the dead body
of paganism. The brilliant sack-bearer seems to have been, at the very
least, a liberal {45} Christian, who was too gentlemanly to mention so
very vulgar a thing as the Christian "superstition" in the classic
gardens of the palace, or at the serene banquets of sages in the

The question, then, is, How did Christianity, as a philosophy, stand
in relation to the affluent professors of Ptolemy's university? That
they had been forced to see there was such a thing as Christianity,
before the time of which we speak (A.D. 200), it is impossible to
doubt. It must have dawned upon the comprehension of the most
imperturbable grammarian and the most materialist surgeon of the
Museum that a new teaching of some kind was slowly but surely striking
root in the many forms of life that surrounded them. Rumors must long
before have been heard in the common hall that executions had taken
place of several members of a new sect or society, said to be impious
in its tenets and disloyal in its practice. No doubt the assembled
sages had expended at the time much intricate quibble and pun, after
heavy Alexandrian fashion, on the subject of those wretched men; more
especially when it was put beyond doubt that no promises of reward or
threats of punishment had availed to make them compromise their
"opinions" in the slightest tittle. Then the matter would die out, to
be revived several times in the same way; until at last some one would
make inquiries, and would find that the new sect was not only
spreading, but, though composed apparently of the poor and the humble,
was clearly something very different from the fantastic religions or
brutal no-religions of the Alexandrian mob. It would be gradually
found out, moreover, that men of name and of parts were in its ranks;
nay, some day of days, that learned company in the Hall would miss one
of its own number, after the most reverend the curator had asked a
blessing--if ever he did--and it would come out that Professor
So-and-so, learned and austere as he was, had become a Christian! And
some would merely wonder, but, that past, would ask their neighbor, in
the equivalent Attic, if there were to be no more cakes and ale,
because _he_ had proved himself a fool; others would wonder, and feel
disturbed, and think about asking a question or two, though not to the
extent of abandoning their seats at that comfortable board.

The majority, doubtless, at Alexandria as elsewhere, set down
Christianity as some new superstition, freshly imported from the home
of all superstitions, the East. There were some who hated it, and
pursued it with a vehemence of malignant lying that can suggest only
one source of inspiration, that is to say, the father of all lies
himself. Of this class were Crescens the Cynic, the prime favorite of
Marcus Aurelius, and Celsus, called the Epicurean, but who, in his
celebrated book, written at this very time, appears as veritable a
Platonist as Plotinus himself. Then, again, there were others who
found no difficulty in recognizing Christianity as a sister
philosophy--who, in fact, rather welcomed it as affording fresh
material for dialectics--good, easy men of routine, blind enough to
the vital questions which the devil's advocates clearly saw to be at
stake. Galen is pre-eminently a writer who has reflected the current
gossip of the day. He was a hard student in his youth, and a learned
and even high-minded man in his maturity, but he frequently shows
himself in his writings as the "fashionable physician," with one or
two of the weaknesses of that well-known character. He spent a long
time at Alexandria, just before Clement became famous, studying under
Heraclian, consulting the immortal Hippocrates, and profiting by the
celebrated dissecting-rooms of the Museum, in which, unless they are
belied, the interests of science were so paramount that they used to
dissect--not live horses; but living slaves. He could not, therefore,
fail to have known how Christianity was regarded at the Museum.
Speaking of Christians, then, in his works, he of course retails a
good deal of {46} nonsense about them, such as we can imagine him to
have exchanged with the rich gluttons and swollen philosophers whom he
had to attend professionally in Roman society; but when he speaks
seriously, and of what he had himself observed, he says, frankly and
honestly, that the Christians deserved very great praise for sobriety
of life, and for their love of virtue, in which they equalled or
surpassed the greatest philosophers of the age. So thought, in all
probability, many of the learned men of Alexandria.

The Church, on her side, was not averse to appearing before the
Gentiles in the garb of philosophy, and it was very natural that the
Christian teachers should encourage this idea, with the aim and hope
of gaining admittance for themselves and their good tidings into the
very heart of pagan learning. And was not Christianity a philosophy?
In the truest sense of the word--and, what is more to the purpose, in
the sense of the philosophers of Alexandria--it was a philosophy. The
narrowed meaning that in our days is assigned to philosophy, as
distinguished from religion, had no existence in the days of Clement.
Wisdom was the wisdom by excellence, the highest, _the_ ultimate
wisdom. What the Hebrew preacher meant when he said, "Wisdom is better
than all the most precious things," the same was intended by the
Alexandrian lecturer when he offered to show his hearers where wisdom
was to be found. It meant the fruit of the highest speculation, and at
the same time the necessary ground of all-important practice. In our
days the child learns at the altar-rails that its end is to love God,
and serve him, and be happy with him; and after many years have
passed, the child, now a man, studies and speculates on the reasons
and the bearings of that short, momentous sentence. In the old Greek
world the intellectual search came first, and the practical sentence
was the wished-for result. A system of philosophy was, therefore, in
Clement's time, tantamount to a religion. It was the case especially
with the learned. Serapis and Isis were all very well for the "old
women and the sailors," but the laureate and the astronomer royal of
the Ptolemies, and the professors, many and diverse, of arts and
ethics, in the Museum, scarcely took pains to conceal their utter
contempt for the worship of the vulgar. Their idols were something
more spiritual, their incense was of a more ethereal kind. Could they
not dispute about the Absolute Being? and had they not glimpses of
something indefinitely above and yet indefinably related to their own
souls, in the Logos of the divine Plato? So the Stoic mortified his
flesh for the sake of some ulterior perfectibility of which he could
give no clear account to himself; the Epicurean contrived to take his
fill of pleasure, on the maxim that enjoyment was the end of our
being, "and tomorrow we die;" the Platonist speculated and pursued his
"air-travelling and cloud-questioning," like Socrates in the basket,
in a vain but tempting endeavor to see what God was to man and man to
God; the Peripatetic, the Eclectic, and all the rest, disputed,
scoffed, or dogmatized about many things, certainly, but, mainly and
finally, on those questions that will never lie still:--Who are we?
and, Who placed us here? Philosophy included religion, and therefore
Christianity was a philosophy.

When Clement, then, told the philosophers of Alexandria that he could
teach them the true philosophy, he was saying not only what was
perfectly true, but what was perfectly understood by them. The
catechetical school was, and appeared to them, as truly a
philosophical lecture-room as the halls of the Museum. Clement himself
had been an ardent philosopher, and he reverently loved his masters,
Socrates and Plato and Aristotle, whilst he had the feelings of a
brother toward the philosophers of his own day. He became a Christian,
and his dearest object was to win his brethren to a participation in
his own good fortune. {47} He did not burn his philosophical books and
anathematize his masters; like St. Paul, he availed himself of the
good that was in them and commended it, and then proclaimed that he
had the key of the treasure which they had labored to find and had not
found. This explains how it is that, in Clement of Alexandria, the
philosopher's mantle seems almost to hide the simple garb of the
Christian. This also explains why he is called, and indeed calls
himself, an Eclectic in his system; and this marks out the drift and
the aim of the many allusions to philosophy that we find in his extant
works, and in the traditions of his teaching that have come down to
us. If Christianity was truly called a philosophy, what should we
expect in its champion but that he should be a philosopher? Men in
these days read the _Stromata_, and find that it is, on the outside,
more like Plato than like Jesus Christ; and thus they make small
account of it, because they cannot understand its style, or the reason
for its adoption. The grounds of questions and the forms of thought
have shifted since the days of the catechetical school. But Clement's
fellow-citizens understood him. The thrifty young Byzantine, for
instance, understood him, who had been half-inclined to join the
Stoics, but had come, in his threadbare pallium, to hear the Christian
teacher, and who was told that asceticism was very good and
commendable, but that the end of it all was God and the love of God,
and that this end could only be attained by a Christian. The languid
but intellectual man of fashion understood him, who had grown sick of
the jargon of his Platonist professors about the perfect man and the
archetypal humanity, and who now felt his inmost nature stirred to its
depths by the announcement and description of the Word made flesh. The
learned stranger from Antioch or Athens, seeking for the truth,
understood him, when he said that the Christian dogma alone could
create and perfect the true Gnostic or Knower; he understood perfectly
the importance of the object, provided the assertion were true, as it
might turn out to be. Unless Clement had spoken of asceticism, of the
perfect man, and of the true Gnostic, his teaching would not have come
home to the self-denying student, to the thoughtful sage, to the
brilliant youth, to all that was great and generous and amiable in the
huge heathen society of the crowded city. As it was, he gained a
hearing, and, having done so, he said to the Alexandrians, "Your
masters in philosophy are great and noble: I honor them, I admire and
accept them; but they did not go far enough, as you all acknowledge.
Come to us, then, and we will show what is wanting in them. Listen to
these old Hebrew writers whom I will quote to you. You see that they
treated of all your problems, and had solved the deepest of them,
whilst your forefathers were groping in darkness. All their light, and
much more, is our inheritance. The truth, which you seek, we possess.
'What you worship, without knowing it, that I preach to you.' God's
Word has been made flesh--has lived on this earth, the model man, the
absolute man. Come to us, and we will show you how you may know God
through him, and how through him God communicates himself to you." But
here he stopped. The "discipline of the secret" allowed him to go no
further in public. The listening Christians knew well what he meant;
his pagan hearers only surmised that there was more behind. And was it
not much that Christianity should thus measure strength and challenge
a contest with the old Greek civilization on equal terms, and about
those very matters of intellect and high ethics in which it especially
prided itself?

But the contest, never a friendly one, save with the dullest and
easiest of the pagan philosophers, very soon grew to be war to the
knife. We have said that the quiet lovers of literature among the
heathen men of science were perfectly ready to admit the Christian
philosophy to a fair share {48} in the arena of disputation and
discussion, looking upon it as being, at worst, only a foolish system
of obtrusive novelties, which might safely be left to their own
insignificancy. But, quite unexpectedly and startlingly for easy-going
philosophers, Christianity was found, not merely to claim the
possession of truth, but to claim it wholly and solely. And, what was
still more intolerable, its doctors maintained that its adoption or
rejection was no open speculative question, but a tremendous practical
matter, involving nothing less than all morality here and all
happiness hereafter; and that the unfortunate philosopher, who, in his
lofty serenity, approved it as right, and yet followed the wrong,
would have to undergo certain horrors after death, the bare suggestion
of which seemed an outrage on the dignity of the philosophical
character. This was quite enough for hatred; and the philosophers, as
their eyes began to open, saw that Crescens and Celsus were right, and
accorded their hatred most freely and heartily.

But Christianity did not stop here. With the old original schools and
their offshoots it was a recognized principle that philosophy was only
for philosophers; and this was especially true of Clement's most
influential contemporaries, the Neo-Platonists. The vulgar had no part
in it, in fact could not come within the sphere of its influence; how
could they? How could the sailors, who, after a voyage, went to pay
their vows in the temple of Neptune on the quay, or the porters who
dragged the grain sacks and the hemp bundles from the tall warehouses
to the holds of Syrian and Greek merchantmen, or the negro slaves who
fanned the brows of the foreign prince, or the armorers of the Jews'
quarter, or the dark-skinned, bright-eyed Egyptian women of the
Rhacôtis suspected of all evil from thieving to sorcery, or, more than
all, the drunken revellers and poor harlots who made night hideous
when the Egyptian moon looked down on the palaces of the
Brucheion--how could any of these find access to the sublime secrets
of Plato or the profound commentaries of his disciples? Even if they
had come in crowds to the lecture-halls--which no one wanted them to
do, or supposed they would do--they could not have been admitted nor
entertained; for even the honest occupations of life, the daily labors
necessary in a city of 300,000 freemen, were incompatible with
imbibing the divine spirit of philosophy. So the philosophers had
nothing to say to all these. If they had been asked what would become
of such poor workers and sinners, they would probably have avoided an
answer as best they could. There were the temples and Serapis and Isis
and the priests--they might go to them. It was certain that
philosophy was not meant for the vulgar. In fact, philosophy would be
unworthy of a habitation like the Museum--would deserve to have its
pensions stopped, its common hall abolished, and its lecture-rooms
shut up--if ever it should condescend to step into the streets and
speak to the herd. It was, therefore, with a disgust unspeakable, and
a swiftly-ripening hatred, that the philosophers saw Christianity
openly proclaiming and practising the very opposite of all this. True,
it had learned men and respected men in its ranks, but it loudly
declared that its mission was to the lowly, and the mean, and the
degraded, quite as much as to the noble, and the rich, and the
virtuous. It maintained that the true divine philosophy, the source of
joy for the present and hope for the future, was as much in the power
of the despised bondsman, trembling under the lash, as of the
prince-governor, or the Caesar himself, haughtily wielding the
insignia of sovereignty. _We_ know what its pretensions and tenets
were, but it is difficult to realize how they must have clashed with
the notions of intellectual paganism in the city of Plotinus--how the
hands that would have been gladly held out in friendship, had it come
in respectable {49} and conventional guise, were shut and clenched,
when they saw in its train the rough mechanic, the poor maid-servant,
the negro, and the harlot. There could be no compromise between two
systems such as these. For a time it might have seemed as if they
could decide their quarrel in the schools, but the old Serpent and his
chief agents knew better: and so did Clement and the Christian
doctors, at the very time that they were taking advantage of fair
weather to occupy every really strong position which the enemy held.
The struggle soon grew into the deadly hand-to-hand grapple that ended
in leaving the corpse of paganism on the ground, dead but not buried,
to be gradually trodden out of sight by a new order of things.

It must not, however, be supposed that the Christian school of
Alexandria was wholly, or even chiefly, employed in controversy with
the schools of the heathen. The first care of the Church was, as at
all times, the household of the faith: a care, however, in the
fulfilment of which there is less that strikes as novel or interesting
at first sight than in that remarkable aggressive movement of which it
has been our object to give some idea. But even in the Church's
household working there is much that is both instructive and
interesting, as we get a glimpse of it in Clement of Alexandria. The
Church in Alexandria, as elsewhere, was made up of men from every lot
and condition of life. There were officials, civil and military,
merchants, shop-keepers, work-people--plain, hard-striving men,
husbands, and fathers of families. In the wake of the upper thousands
followed a long and wide train--the multitude who compose the middle
classes of a great city; and it was from their ranks that the Church
was mainly recruited. They might not feel much interest in the
university, beyond the fact that its numerous and wealthy students
were a welcome stimulus to trade; but still they had moral and
intellectual natures. They must have craved for some kind of food for
their minds and hearts, and cannot have been satisfied with the dry,
unnourishing scraps that were flung to them by the supercilious
philosophers. They must have felt no small content--those among them
who had the grace to hearken to the teachings of Clement--when he told
them that the philosophy _he_ taught was as much for them as for their
masters and their betters. They listened to him, weighed his words,
and accepted them; and then a great question arose. It was a question
that was being debated and settled at Antioch, at Rome, and at Athens,
no less than at Alexandria; but at Alexandria it was Clement who
answered it. "We believe your good tidings," they said; "but tell us,
must we change our lives wholly and entirely? Is everything that we
have been doing so far, and our fathers have been doing before us,
miserably and radically wrong?" They had bought and sold; they had
married and given in marriage; they had filled their warehouses and
freighted their ships; they had planted and builded, and brought up
their sons and daughters. They had loved money, and the praise of
their fellow-men; they had their fashions and their customs, old and
time-honored, and so interwoven with their very life as to be almost
identified with it. Some of their notions and practices the bare
announcement of the Gospel sufficiently condemned; and these must go
at once. But where was the line to be drawn? Did the Gospel aim at
regenerating the world by forbidding marriage and laying a ban on
human labor; by making life intolerable with asceticism; by emptying
the streets and the market-places, and driving men to Nitria and the
frightful rocks of the Upper Nile? And what made the question doubly
exciting was the two-fold fact, first, that in those very days men and
women were continually fleeing from home and family, and hiding, in
the desert; and secondly, that there were in that very city
congregations of {50} men calling themselves Christians, who
proclaimed that it was wrong to marry, and that flesh-meat and wine
were sinful indulgences.

The answer that Clement gave to these questionings is found mainly in
that work of his which is called _Paedagogus_, or "The Teacher." The
answer needed was a sharp, a short, and a decisive one. It needed to
be like a surgical operation--rapidly performed, completed, with
nothing further to be done but to fasten the bandages, and leave the
patient to the consequences, whatever they might be. Society had to be
_reset_. We need not repeat for the thousandth time the fact of the
unutterable corruptness and rottenness of the whole pagan world. It
was not that there were wanting certain true ideas of duty toward the
state, the family, the fellow-citizen: the evil lay far deeper. It was
not good sense that was wanting; it was the sense of the supernatural.
"Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die," was the formula that
expressed the code of popular morality; and because men could not "eat
and drink" comfortably and luxuriously without some sort of law,
order, and mutual compact, it followed as a necessary consequence that
there must be law, order, and compact. It was not, therefore, that
Clement had merely to hold up the Gospel and show them its meaning
here and its application there. He had to shift the very groundwork of
morality, to take up the very foundations of the moral acts that go to
make up life as viewed in the light of right and wrong. He had to
substitute heaven for earth, hereafter for here, God for self. And he
did so--in a fashion not unknown in the Catholic Church since, as
indeed it had been not unknown to St. Paul long before. He simply held
up to them the crucifix. Let any one turn to the commencement of the
_Paedagogus_, and he will find a description of what a teacher ought
to be. At the beginning of the second chapter he will read these
words: "My children, our teacher is like the Father, whose Son he is;
in whom there is no sin, great or small, nor any temptation to sin;
God in the figure of a man, stainless, obedient to his Father's will;
the Word, true God, who is in the Father, who is at the Father's right
hand, true God in the form of a man; to whom we must strive with all
our might _to make ourselves like_." It sounds like the commencement
of a children's retreat in one of our modern cities to hear Clement
proclaim so anxiously that the teacher and model of men is no other
than Jesus, and that we must all become children, and go and listen to
him and study him; yet it is a sentence that must have spoken to the
very inmost hearts of all who had a thought or care for their souls in
Alexandria; and one can perceive, in the terms used in the original
Greek, a conscious adaptation of epithets to meet more than one
Platonic difficulty. It was the reconciliation of the true with the
beautiful. The Alexandrians, Greek and Egyptian, with their Greek
longings for the beautiful, and their Egyptian tendings to the
sensible, were not put off by Clement with a cold abstraction. A
mathematical deity, formed out of lines, relations, and analogies,
such as Neo-Platonism offered, was well enough for the lecture-room,
but had small hold upon the heart. Christianity restored the thrilling
sense of a personal God, which Neo-Platonism destroyed, but for which
men still sighed, though they knew not what they were sighing for; and
Christianity, by Clement's mouth, taught that the living and lovely
life of Jesus was to be the end and the measure of the life of all.
They were to follow him: "My angel shall walk before you," is
Clement's own quotation. And having thus laid down the regenerating
principle--God through Jesus Christ--he descends safely and fearlessly
into details. Minutely and carefully he handles the problems of life,
and sets them straight by the light of the life of Jesus.

These details and these directions, {51} as left to us by Clement in
the _Paedagogus_, are only what we might anticipate from a Christian
teacher to his flock; and yet they are very interesting, and disclose
many facts that are full of suggestion to one who reads by the light
of the Catholic faith. Who would not like to hear what Clement said to
the Church of Alexandria about dress, beauty, feasting, drinking,
furniture, conversation, money, theatres, sleep, labor, and
housekeeping? We know well that there must have been ample scope for
discourse on all these topics. The rich Alexandrians, like the rich
Romans, and the rich Corinthians, and the rich everywhere, were
fearfully addicted to luxury, and their poorer neighbors followed
their example as well as they could. But there were circumstances
peculiar to Alexandria that enabled it to outdo the rest of the world
in this matter; putting Rome, of course, out of the question. It was
the market for India; and seeing that almost everything in the way of
apparel came from India, Alexandria had the pick of the best that the
world could afford, and seems not to have been behindhand in taking
advantage of its privilege. Nobody enjoyed more than the Alexandrian--
whether he were a descendant of the Macedonian who came in with the
Conqueror, or a _parvenu_ of yesterday grown great by his wheat-ships
or his silk-bales--to sweep the Heptastadion, or promenade the Great
Quay, or lounge in the gardens of the Museum, in what ancient tailors
and milliners would call a synthesis of garments, as ample, and stiff,
and brilliant as Indian looms could make them. Then, again, Alexandria
was a university town. Two hundred years of effeminate Ptolemies and
four hundred of wealthy students had been more than enough to create a
tradition of high, luxurious living. The conjunction of all that was
to be got for money, with any amount of money to get it with, had made
Alexandria a model city for carrying out the only maxim which the
greater number even of the philosophers themselves really understood
and practically followed: "Let us eat and drink!" Again, a navigable
river, a rainless sky, and a climate perhaps the finest in the world,
offered both inducements and facilities for parties of pleasure and
conviviality in general. It is true the river was only a canal: one
thing was wanting to the perfection of Alexandria as a site for an
empire city, viz., the Nile; but that the canal was a moderate success
in the eyes of the Alexandrians may be inferred from the fact that
Canopus, where it finished its short course of thirteen or fourteen
miles, and joined the Nile, was a perfect city of river-side hotels,
to which the boats brought every day crowds of pleasure-seekers. Very
gay were the silken and gilded boats, with their pleasant canopies and
soothing music; and very gay and brilliant, but not very reputable,
were the groups that filled them, with their crowns of flowers, their
Grecian attitudinizing, and their ingenious arrangements of
fan-working slaves. This was the population which it was Clement's
work to convert to purity and moderation.

It is very common with Clement's modern critics, when making what our
French allies would call "an appreciation" him, to set him down as a
solemn trifler. They complain that they cannot get any "system of
theology" out of his writings; indeed, they doubt whether he so much
as had one. They find him use the term "faith" first in one sense and
then in another, and they are especially offended by his minute
instructions on certain matters pertaining to meat, drink, and dress.
To any one who considers what Clement intended to do in his writings,
and especially in the _Paedagogus_, there is no difficulty in seeing an
answer to a difficulty like this. He did not _mean_ to construct a
"system of theology," and therefore it is no wonder if his critics
cannot find one. He did not even mean to state the broad, general
principles of the Gospel: his hearers knew these well enough. What he
did mean to do was, {52} to apply these general rules and principles
to a variety of cases occurring in everyday life. And yet, as a matter
of fact, it is to be observed that he always does lay down broad
principles before entering into details. In the matter of eating, for
instance, regarding which he is very severe in his denunciations, and
not without reason, he takes care to state distinctly the great
Catholic canon of mortification: "Though all things were made for man,
yet it is not good to use all, nor at all times." Again, in the midst
of his contemptuous enumeration of ancient wines, he does not forget
to say, "You are not robbed of your drink: it is given to you, and
awaits your hand;" that which is blamed is excess. He sums up what he
has been saying against the voluptuous entertainments then so
universal by the following sentence--a novelty, surely, to both
extremes of pagan society in Alexandria--"In one word, whatever is
natural to man must not be taken from him; but, instead thereof, must
be regulated according to fitting measure and time."

In deciding whether Clement was a "solemn trifler," or not, there is
another consideration which must not be omitted, and that is his sense
of the humorous. It may sound incongruous when speaking of a Father of
the Church, and much more of a reputed mystical Father like Clement,
but we think no one can deny that he often supplements a serious
argument by a little stroke of pleasantry. As many of his sentences
stand, a look or a smile would lighten them up and make them sparkle
into humor. Paper and ink cannot carry the tone of the voice or the
glance of the eye, and Clement's voice has been silent and his eye
dimmed for many a century; but may we not imagine that at times
something of archness in the teacher's manner would impart to his
weighty words a touch of quaintness, and the habitually thoughtful eye
twinkle with a gleam of pleasantry? He would be no true follower of
Plato if it were not so. Who shall say he was not smiling when he gave
out that formal list of wines, of eatables, and of scents most
affected by the fashionables of those days? He concludes an invective
against scandalous feats by condemning the universal crown of roses as
a "nuisance:" it was damp, it was cold; it hindered one from using
either his eyes or his ears properly. He advises his audience to avoid
much curious carving and ornamenting of bed-posts; for creeping
things, he says, have a habit of making themselves at home in the
mouldings. He asks if one's hands cannot be as well washed in a clay
basin as in a silver one. He wonders how one can dare to put a plain
little loaf on a grand "wing-footed" table. He cannot see why a lamp
of earthenware will not give as good a light as one of silver. He
alludes with disgust to "hissing frying-pans," to "spoon and pestle,"
and even to the "packed stomachs" of their proprietors; to Sicilian
lampreys, and Attican eels; shell-fish from Capo di Faro, and Ascrean
beet from the foot of Helicon; mullet from the Gulf of Thermae, and
pheasants from the Crimea. We hear him contemptuously repeat the
phrases of connoisseurs about their wines, the startling variety of
which we know from other sources besides his writings: he speaks of
the "scented Thasian," the aromatic "Lesbian," the "sweet wine of
Crete," the "pleasant Syracusan." The articles of plate which he
enumerates to condemn would be more than sufficient to furnish out a
modern wedding breakfast. To scents he gives no quarter. We have heard
a distinguished professor of chemistry assert, in a lecture, that
wherever there is scent on the surface there is sure to be dirt
beneath; and, from the well-known fact that in Capua there was one
whole street occupied by perfumers, he could draw no other inference
than that Capua must have been "a very dirty city." It would appear
that Clement of Alexandria was much of this opinion. He gives a
picture of a pompous {53} personage in a procession, "going along
marvellously scented, for the purpose of producing a sensation, and
yet underneath as foul as he could be." He enumerates the absurd
varieties of ointments in fashion, and orders them to be thrown away.
He is indignant at the saffron-colored scented robe that the gentlemen
wore. He will have no flowing or trailing vestments; no "Attic
buskins," no "Persian sandals." He complains that the ladies go and
spend the whole day at the perfumer's, the goldsmith's, and the
milliner's, just as if he were speaking of "shopping" in the
nineteenth century, instead of A.D. 200. He blames the men for
frequenting the barbers' shops, the taverns, and the dicing-houses. It
is amusing in these days to read of his denunciations of shaving. He
has no patience with "hair-haters:" a man without the hair that God
gave him is a "base sight." "God attached such importance to hair," he
says, "that he makes a man come to hair and sense at the same time."
But, in reality, this vehement attack on the "smooth men," as he calls
them, points to one of the most flagrant of heathen immoralities, and
reveals in the context a state of things to which we may not do more
than allude. He condemns luxury in furniture, from "beds with silver
feet, made of ivory and adorned with gold and tortoise-shell," down to
"little table-daggers," that ancient ladies and gentlemen used
indifferently to their food and to their slaves. All this is not very
deep, but it is just what Clement wanted to say, and a great deal more
useful in its place and connection than a "system of theology." We may
add that it is a great deal more interesting to us, who know pretty
well what Clement's "system of theology" was, but not so well what
were the faults and failings of his Christian men and women in those
far-off Alexandrian times.

There is another epithet bestowed upon Clement, more widely and with
better authority than that of "trifler." He is called a mystic. He
deals in allegorical interpretations of Holy Scripture, in fanciful
analogies, and whimsical reasonings; he was carried away by the spirit
of Neo-Platonism, and substituted a number of idle myths for the stern
realities of the Gospel. It is not our business at present to show, by
references, that this accusation is untrue; but we may admit at once
that it is not unfounded, and we maintain that it points to an
excellence, rather than a defect, in his teaching. From the remarks
made just now, the reader will be prepared to expect that a teacher in
Alexandria in Clement's days _must_ have been a mystic. It was simply
the fashion; and a fashion, in thought and speech, exacts a certain
amount of compliance from those who think or speak for the good of its
followers. Neo-Platonism was not extant in his time as a definite
system, but ever since the days of Philon its spirit had been the
spirit of the Museum. Nature, in its beauty and variety, was an
allegory of the soul so said the philosophers, and the crowd caught it
up with eagerness. The natural philosopher could not lecture on
Aristotle _De Animalibus_ without deducing morals in the style of
AEsop. The moralist, in his turn, could hardly keep up his class-list
without embodying his Beautiful and his Good in the aesthetical garb
of a myth--the more like Plato, the better. The mathematician
discoursed of numbers, of lines, and of angles, but the interesting
part of his lecture was when he drew the analogy from lines and
numbers to the soul and to God. Alexandria liked allegory, and
believed, or thought she believed, that the Seen was always a type of
the Unseen. Such a belief was not unnatural, and by no means
hopelessly erroneous; nay, was it not highly useful to a Christian
teacher, with the Bible in his hand, in which he would really have to
show them so many things, _per allegoriam dicta?_ Clement took up the
accustomed tone. Had he done otherwise, he would have been strange and
old-fashioned, whereas he {54} wanted to get the ear of his
countrymen, and therefore thought it no harm to fall in with their
humor for the mythical; just as good Father Faber preached and wrote
like a modern Englishman, and not like an antique Douai
controversialist, or a well-meaning translator of "Sermons from the
French." But, say the objectors, Clement's interpretation of Scripture
is so very forced and unnatural. The whole subject of allegorical
interpretation of Sacred Scripture is too wide to be entered upon
here; but that the Bible, especially the Old Testament, _has_ an
allegorical sense, no one denies, and the decision of what is the true
allegorical sense depends more upon the authority of the teacher than
upon the interpretation itself. In the time of Clement, when the
Gnostics were attributing the Old Testament to the Evil Principle,
there was a special necessity for a warm and loving acknowledgment
that it was the voice and the teaching of God to man; and it is no
wonder, therefore, that he allows himself, with the brilliant fancy of
an Athenian, even if sometimes with the fantasticalness of an
Alexandrian, to extract meanings out of the sacred text which our
sober eyes could never have discovered. As it is, we owe to his
mysticism no small portion of the eloquence and beauty of his
writings; we may instance that charming passage in the _Paedagogus_
where he alludes to the incident related in the twenty-sixth chapter
of Genesis--"Abimelech, King of the Palestines, looking out through a
window, saw Isaac playing with Rebecca his wife." Isaac represents,
the little one of Christ, and is interpreted to be joy; Rebecca is
patience; the royal Abimelech signifies heavenly wisdom. The child of
Jesus Christ, joyful with a joy that none but that blessed teacher can
give, lovingly sports with his "helpmate," patience, and the wisdom
that is from above looks on and wonderingly admires. The beauty of
conception and perfection of form that is inseparable from true Greek
art, whether in a statue or a medal, an epic or an epigram, is by no
means wanting to the first of the Greek Fathers. A reader who should
take up the _Paedagogus_ for no other than literary reasons would not
be disappointed; he would receive, from his reading, a very high idea
of the wisdom, the eloquence, and, above all, the saintly unction of
the great Catholic doctor and philosopher who first made human science
the handmaid of Christian theology.

The witnessing to the truth before heathen philosophers and the
teaching the children of the faith might have fully employed both the
zeal and the eloquence of Clement. But there was another and a sadder
use for words, in the task of resisting the heresies that seemed to
grow like foul excrescences from the very growth of the Church
herself. Alexandria, the city of Neo-Platonism, was also with nearly
as good a title the city of Gnosticism. To examine the history of
Gnosticism is not a tempting undertaking. On the one side, it is like
walking into a fog, as dense and unpleasant as ever marked a London
November; on the other, it is to disturb a moral cess-pool,
proverbially better left alone. Of the five groups of the Gnostic
family, which seem to agree in little beside worshipping the devil,
holding to "emanations," and owing their origin to Simon Magus, the
particular group that made Alexandria its headquarters acknowledged as
its leading names Basilides, Valentine, and Mark, each of whom outdid
the other in the absurdity of his ravings about eons, generations, and
the like, and in the abominableness of his practical licentiousness.
Valentine and Mark were contemporaries of Clement, if not personally
(Valentine is said to have died A.D. 150) at least in their immediate
influence. No one can tell satisfactorily what made these precious
followers of Simon Magus spend their days in patching up second-hand
systems out of the rags of cast-off Oriental mysticism. No doubt their
jargon appeared somewhat less {55} unnatural in their own days than it
does in ours. They lived nearer the times when the wrecks of primeval
revelation and history had been wrought into a thousand fantastic
shapes on the banks of the Indus, the Euphrates, and the Nile, and
when, in the absence of the true light, men occupied themselves with
the theatrical illuminations of Bel, Isis, and Vishnu. But these
Gnostics, in the clear dawn of the Gospel, still stuck to the fulsome
properties of the devil's play-house. Unsavory and dishonest, they
deserve neither respect for sincerity nor allowance for originality;
they were mere spinners of "endless genealogies," and, with such a
fig-leaf apron, they tried to conceal for a while the rankness of the
flesh that finally made the very pagans join in hounding them from the
earth. The infamous Mark was holding his conventicles in Alexandria
about the very time that Pantaenus and Clement were teaching. To read
of his high-flown theories about eons and emanations, his sham magic,
his familiarity with demons, his impositions on the weaker sex, and
the frightful licentiousness that was the sure end of it all, is like
reading the history of the doings of the Egyptian priests in the
Serapeion rather than of those who called themselves Christians. And
yet these very men, these deluded Marcosians, gave out to learned and
unlearned Alexandria that they alone were the true followers of
Christ. We may conceive the heart-breaking work it would be for
Clement to repel the taunts that their doings brought upon his name
and profession, and to refute and keep down false brethren, whose
arguments and strength consisted in an appeal to curiosity and brute
passion. And yet how nobly he does it, in that picture of the true
Gnostic, or Knower, to which he so often returns in all his extant

But philosophers, faithful, and heretics do not exhaust the story of
Clement's doings. It lends a solemn light to the memorable history we
are noting, to bear in mind that the Church's intellectual war with
Neo-Platonist and Gnostic was ever and again interrupted by the yells
of the blood-thirsty populace, the dragging of confessors to prison,
and all the hideous apparatus of persecution. Which of us would have
had heart to argue with men who might next day deliver us to the
hangman? Who would have found leisure to write books on abstract
philosophy with such stern concrete realities as the scourge and the
knife waiting for him in the street? Clement's master began to teach
just as one persecution was ceasing; Clement himself had to flee from
his schools before the "burden and heat" of another; these were not
times, one would suppose, for science and orderly teaching. Yet our
own English Catholic annals can, in a manner, furnish parallel cases
in more than one solid book of controversy and deep ascetical tract,
thought out and composed when the pursuivants were almost at the
doors. So true it is that when the Church's work demands scientific
and written teaching, science appears and books are written, though
the Gentiles are raging and the peoples imagining their vain things.

Here, for the present, we draw to a close these desultory notes on the
Christian Schools of Alexandria. They will have served their purpose
if they have but supplied an outline of that busy intellectual life
which is associated with the names of Pantaenus and Clement. There is
another name that ought to follow these two--the name of Origen,
suggesting another chapter on Church history that should yield to none
in interest and usefulness. The mere fact that in old Alexandria, in
the face of hostile science, clogged and put to shame by pestilent
heresies, ruthlessly chased out of sight ever and again by brute force--
in spite of all this, Catholic science won respect from its enemies
without for a moment neglecting the interests of its own children, is
a teaching that will never be out of date, and least of all at a time
like ours, and in a country where learning {56} sneers at revelation,
where a thousand jarring sects invoke the sacred name of Christ, and
where public opinion--the brute force of the modern world, as the
rack and the fagot were of the ancient--never howls so loudly as when
it catches sight of the one true Church of the living and eternal God.


From The Lamp.


"I wish I were a lord," said Pat M'Gowan, a lazy young fellow, as he
stretched over his grandmother's turf-fire a pair of brawny fists that
were as red as the blaze that warmed them.

"_You_ wish to be a lord!" answered Granny M'Gowan; "oh, then, a
mighty quare lord you would make; but, as long as you live, Pat, never
wish again; for who knows but you might wish in the unlucky minute,
and that it would be granted to you?"

"Faix, then, granny, I just wish I could have my wish this minute."

"You're a fool, Pat, and have no more sense in your head than a
cracked egg has a chance of a chicken inside of it. Maybe you'd never
cease repenting of your wish if you got it."

"Maybe so, granny, but for all that I'd like to be a lord. Tell me,
granny, when does the unlucky minute come that a body may get their

"Why, you see, Pat, there is one particular little bit of a minute of
time in every twenty-four hours that, if a mortal creature has the
unlucky chance to wish on that instant, his wish, whether for good or
for bad, for life or death, fortune or misfortune, sickness or health,
for himself or for others, the wish is granted to him; but seldom does
it turn out for good to the wisher, because it shows he is not
satisfied with his lot, and it is contrary to what God in his goodness
has laid down for us all to do and suffer for his sake. But, Pat, you
blackguard, I see you are laughing at your old granny because you
think I am going to preach a sermon to you; but you're mistaken. I'll
tell you what happened to an uncle of my own, Jem M'Gowan, who got his
wish when he asked for it."

"Got his wish--oh, the lucky old fellow!" cried Pat. "Do, granny, tell
me all about him. Got his wish! oh, how I wish I was a lord!"

"Listen to me, Pat, and don't be getting on with any of your foolish
nonsense. My uncle, Jem M'Gowan, was then something like yourself, Pat--
a strapping, able chap, but one that, like you too, would sooner be
scorching his shins over the fire than cutting the turf to make it,
and rather watching the potatoes boiling than digging them out of the
ridge. Instead of working for a new coat, he would be wishing some one
gave it to him. When he got up in the morning, he wished for his
breakfast; and when he had swallowed it, he wished for his dinner; and
when he had bolted down his dinner, he began to wish for his supper;
and when he ate his supper, he wished to be in bed; and when he was in
bed, he wished to be asleep--in fact, he did nothing from morning to
night but wish, and even in his dreams I am quite sure he wished to be
awake. Unlucky for Jem, his cabin was convenient to the great big
house of Squire Kavanagh; and when Jem went out in the morning,
shivering with cold, and wishing for a glass of whisky to put _spirits_
in him, and he saw the bedroom windows of Squire Kavanagh closed, and
knew that the squire was lying warm and snug inside, he always wished
to be Squire Kavanagh. Then, when he saw the {57} squire driving the
horse and the hounds before him, and he all the while working in the
field, he wished it still more; and when he saw him dancing with the
beautiful young ladies and illigant young gentlemen in the moonlight
of a summer's evening, in front of his fine hall-door and under the
shade of the old oak-trees, he wished it more than ever. The squire
was always coming before him; and so happy a man did he seem that Jem
was always saying to himself, 'I wish I was Squire Kavanagh,' from,
cockcrow to sunset, until he at last hit upon the unfortunate minute
in the twenty-four hours when his wish was to be granted. He was just
after eating his dinner of fine, mealy potatoes, fresh-churned
buttermilk, and plenty of salt and salt-butter to relish them, when he
stretched out his two legs, threw up his arms, and yawned out, 'Oh,
dear, I wish I was Squire Kavanagh!'

"The words were scarce uttered when he found himself, still yawning,
in the grand parlor of Kavanagh House, sitting opposite to a table
laid out with china, and a table-cloth, silver forks, and no end of
silver spoons, and a roaring hot beefsteak before him. Jem rubbed his
eyes and then his hands with joy, and thought to himself, 'By dad, my
wish is granted, and I'll lay in plenty of beefsteak first of all.' He
began cutting away; but, before he had finished, he was interrupted by
some people coming in. It was Sir Harry M'Manus, Squire Brien, and two
or three other grand gentlemen; and says they to him, 'Kavanagh, don't
you know this is the day you're to decide your bet for five hundred
pounds, that you will leap your horse over the widest part of the pond

"'Is it me? says Jem. 'Why, I never leaped a horse in my life!'

"'Bother!' says one; 'you're joking. You told us yourself that you did
it twenty times, and there's the English colonel that made the bet
with you, and he'll be saying, if you don't do it, that the Irish are
all braggers; so, my dear fellow, it just comes to this--you must
either leap the pond or fight me; for, relying upon your word, I told
the colonel I saw you do it myself.'

"'I must fight you or leap the pond, is it?' answered Jem, trembling
from head to foot.

"'Certainly, my dear fellow,' replied Sir Harry. 'Either I must shoot
you or see you make the leap; so take your choice.'

"'Oh! then, bring out the horse,' whimpered Jem, who was beginning to
wish he wasn't Squire Kavanagh.

"In a minute afterward, Jem found himself out in the lawn, opposite a
pond that appeared to him sixty feet wide at the least. 'Why,' said
he, 'you might as well ask me to jump over the ocean, or give a
hop-step-and-a-leap from Howth to Holyhead, as get any horse to cross
that lake of a pond.'

"'Come, Kavanagh,' said Sir Henry, 'no nonsense with us. We know you
can do it if you like; and now that you're in for it, you must finish

"'Faix, you'll finish me, I'm afeerd,' said Jem, seeing they were in
earnest with him; 'but what will you do if I'm drowned?'

"'Do?' says Sir Henry.' Oh, make yourself aisy on that account. You
shall have the grandest wake that ever was seen in the country. We'll
bury you dacently, and we'll all say that the bouldest horseman now in
Ireland is the late Squire Kavanagh. If that doesn't satisfy you,
there's no pleasing you; so bring out the horse immediately.'

"'Oh! murder, murder!" says Jem to himself; 'isn't this a purty thing,
that I must be drowned to make a great character for a little spalpeen
like Squire Kavanagh? Oh, then, it's I that wish I was Jem M'Gowan
again! Going to be drowned like a rat, or smothered like a blind
kitten! and all for a vagabond I don't care a straw about. I, that
never was on a horse's back before, to think of leaping over an ocean!
Bad cess to you, Squire Kavanagh, for your boastin' and your


"Well, a fine, dashing, jumping, rearing, great big gray horse was led
up by two grooms to Jem's side. 'Oh, the darling!' said Sir Harry;
'there he goes! there's the boy that will win our bets for us! Clap
him at once upon the horse's back,' says he to the grooms. The sight
left Jem's eyes the very instant he saw the terrible gray horse, well
known as one of the most vicious bastes in the entire country. If he
could, he'd have run away, but fright kept him standing stock-still;
and, before he knew where he was, he was hoisted into the saddle.
'Now, boys,' roared Sir Harry, 'give the horse plenty whip, and my
life for it he is over the pond.'

"Jem heard two desperate slashes made on the flanks of the horse. The
creature rose on his four legs off the ground, and came down with a
soss that sent Jem up straight from the saddle like a ball, and down
again with a crack fit to knock him into a hundred thousand pieces,
not one of them bigger than the buttons of his waistcoat. 'Murder!' he
shrieked; 'I wish I was Jem M'Gowan back again!' But there was no use
in saying this, for he had already got his wish. The horse galloped
away like lightning. He felt rising one instant up as high as the
clouds, and the next he came with a plop into the water, like a stone
that you would make take a 'dead man's dive.' He remembered no more
till he saw his two kind friends, Sir Harry M'Manus and Squire Brien,
holding him by the two legs in the air, and the water pouring from his
mouth, nose, and every stitch of his clothes, as heavy and as constant
as if it was flowing through a sieve, or as if he was turned into a

"'I'm a dead man,' says he, looking up in the face of his grand
friends as well as he could, and kicking at the same time to get loose
from them. 'I'm a dead man; and, what's worse, I'm a murdered man by
the two of you.'

"'Bedad, you're anything but that,' said Sir Harry. 'You're now the
greatest man in the county, for, though you fell into the pond, the
horse leapt it; and I have won my bet, for which I am extremely
obliged to you.'

"After shaking the water out of him, they laid him down on the grass,
got a bottle of whisky, and gave him as much as he chose of it. Jem's
spirits began to rise a little, and he laughed heartily when they told
him he had won 500 from the English colonel. Jem got on his legs, and
was beginning to walk about, when who should he see coming into the
demesne but two gentlemen--one dressed like an officer, with under
his arm a square mahogany box, the other with a great big horsewhip.
Jem rubbed his hands with delight, for he made sure that the gentleman
who carried the box was going to make Squire Kavanagh--that is,
himself--some mighty fine present.

"'Kavanagh,' said Sir Harry, 'you will want some one to stand by you
as a friend in this business; would you wish me to be your friend?'

"'In troth, I would,' says Jem. 'I would like you to act as a friend
to me upon all occasions.'

"'Oh, that's elegant!' said Sir Harry. 'We'll now have rare sport.'

"'I'm mighty glad to hear it,' Jem replied, 'for I want a little sport
after all the troubles I had.'

"'Oh, you're a brave fellow,' said Sir Harry.

"'To be sure I am,' answered Jem. 'Didn't I leap the gray horse over
the big pond?'

"The gentleman with the box and whip here came up to Jem and his
friends; and the whip-gentleman took off his hat, and says he, 'Might
I be after asking you, is there any one of the present company Squire

"Jem did not like the looks of the gentleman, and Sir Harry M'Manus
stepped before him, and said--'Yes; he is here to the fore. What is
your business with him? I am acting as his _friend_, and I have a right
to ask the question.'

"'Then, I'll tell ye what it is,' said {59} the gentleman. 'He
insulted my sister at the Naas races yesterday.'

"'Faix,' says Jem, 'that's a lie! Sure, I wasn't near Naas races.'

"The word was hardly out of his mouth when he got a crack of a
horsewhip across the face, that cut, he thought, his head in two. He
caught hold of the gentleman, and tried to take the whip out of his
hand; but, instead of the strength of Jem M'Gowan, he had only the
weakness of Squire Kavanagh, and he was in an instant collared; and,
in spite of all his kicking and roaring, lathered with the big whip
from the top of his head to the sole of his foot. The gentleman got at
last a little tired of beating him, and, flinging him away from him,
said 'You and I are now quits about the lie, but you must give me
satisfaction for insulting my sister.'

"'Satisfaction!' roared out Jem, as lie twisted and turned about with
the pain of the beating. 'Bedad, I'll never be satisfied till every
bone in your ugly body is broken.'

"'Very well,' said the gentleman. 'My friend, Captain M'Ginnis, is
come prepared for this.'

"Upon that, Jem saw the square box opened that he thought was filled
with a beautiful present for him; and he saw four ugly-looking pistols
lying beside each other, and in one corner about two dozen of shining
bran-new bullets. Jem's knees knocked together with fright when he saw
Captain M'Ginnis and Sir Harry priming and loading the pistols.

"'Oh! murder, murder! this is worse than the gray horse,' he said.
'Now I am quite sure of being killed entirely.' So he caught hold of
Sir Harry by the coat, and stuttered out, *Oh, then, what in the world
are ye going to do with me?'

"'Do?' replied his friend; 'why, you're going to stand a shot, to be

"'The devil a shot I'll stand,' said Jem. 'I'll run away this minute.'

"'Then, by my honor and veracity, if you do,' replied Sir Harry, 'I'll
stop you with a bullet. My honor is concerned in this business. You
asked me to be your friend, and I'll see you go through it
respectably. You must either stand your ground like a gentleman, or be
shot like a dog.'

"Jem heartily wished he was no longer Squire Kavanagh; and as they
dragged him up in front of the gentleman, and placed them about eight
yards asunder, he thought of the quiet, easy life he led before he
became a grand gentleman. He never while a laboring boy was ducked in
a pond, or shot like a wild duck. But now he heard something said
about 'making ready;' he saw the gentleman raise his pistol on a level
with his head; he tried to lift his arm, but it stuck as fast by his
side as if it was glued there. He saw the wide mouth of the wicked
gentleman's pistol opened at his very eye, and looking as if it were
pasted up to his face. He could even see the leaden bullet that was
soon to go skelpin' through his brains! He saw the gentleman's finger
on the trigger! His head turned round and round, and in an agony he
cried out--'Oh, I wish I was Jem M'Gowan back again!'

"'Jem, you'll lose half your day's work,' said Ned Maguire, who was
laboring in the same field with him. 'There you've been sleeping ever
since your dinner, while Squire Kavanagh, that you are always talking
about, was shot a few minutes ago in a duel that he fought with some
strange gentleman in his own demesne.'

"'Oh," said Jem, as soon as he found that he really wasn't shot, 'I
wouldn't for the wealth of the world be a gentleman. Better to labor
all day than spend half an hour in the grandest of company. Faix, I've
had enough and to spare of grand company and being a gentleman since I
have gone to sleep here in the potato-field; and Squire Kavanagh, if
he only knew it, had much more reason, poor man, to wish he was Jem
M'Gowan than I had to wish I was Squire Kavanagh.'


"And ever after that, Pat," concluded the old lady, "Jem M'Gowan went
about his work like a man, instead of wasting his time in nonsensical

"Thankee, granny," yawned Pat M'Gowan, as he shuffled off to bed.
"After that long story, I don't think I'll ever wish to be a lord


From Chambers's Journal.


The tunnel through the Alps at present being pierced to connect the
railway system of France and Italy, has acquired the title of the
"Mont Cenis Tunnel;" but its real position and direction have very
little in common with that well-known Alpine pass. On examining a
chart of the district which has been selected for this important
undertaking, we shall observe that the main chain of the Cottian Alps
extends in a direction very nearly East and West, and that this
portion of it is bounded on either side by two roughly parallel
valleys. On the North we have the valley of the Arc, and on the South
the valley of the Dora Ripari, or, more strictly speaking, the valley
of Rochemolles, a branch of the Dora. The Arc, flowing from East to
West, descends from Lanslebourg to Modane, and from thence, after
joining the Isere, empties itself into the Rhone above Valence. The
torrent Rochemolles, on the other hand, flowing from West to East,
unites itself with the Dora Ripari at Oulx, descends through a narrow
and winding valley to Susa, and thence along the plain to Turin. The
postal road, leaving St. Michel, mounts the valley of the Arc as far
as Lanslebourg, then turns suddenly to the South, passes the heights
of the Mont Cenis, and reaches Susa by a very steep descent. On
mounting the valley of the Arc, and stopping about eighteen miles West
of Mont Cenis, and a mile and a half below the Alpine village of
Modane, we arrive at a place called Fourneaux. Here, at about three
hundred feet above the level of the main road, is the Northern
entrance of the tunnel; the Southern entrance is at the picturesque
village of Bardonnêche, situated at about twenty miles West of Susa,
in the valley of Rochemolles.

The considerations which decided the Italian engineers upon selecting
this position for the contemplated tunnel, were principally the
following: first, it was the shortest route that could be found;
secondly, the difference of level between the two extremities was not
too great; and, thirdly, the construction of the connecting lines of
railway--on the North, from St. Michel to Fourneaux, and on the South,
from Susa to Bardonnêche were, as mountain railways go, practicable,
if not easy. The idea of a tunnel through the Alps had long occupied
the minds of engineers and of statesmen both in France and Italy; but
it is to the latter country that we must give the credit of having
worked the idea into a practical shape, and of having inaugurated one
of the most stupendous works ever undertaken by any people. To pierce
a tunnel seven and a half English miles long, by ordinary means,
through a hard rock, in a position where vertical shafts were
impossible, would be an exceedingly difficult, if not, _in a practical
point of view, an impossible_ undertaking, not only on account of the
difficulties of ventilation, but also on account of the immense _time_
and consequent expense which it would entail. It was evident, {61}
then, that if the project of a tunnel through the Alps was ever to be
realized, some extraordinary and completely new system of mining must
be adopted, by means of which not only a rapid and perfect system of
ventilation could be insured, enabling the miners to resume, without
danger, their labors immediately after an explosion, but which would
treble, or at least double, the amount of work usually performed in
any given time by the system hitherto adopted in tunnelling through
hard rock. To three Piedmontese engineers, Messrs. Grandis, Grattoni,
and Sommeiller, is due the merit of having solved this most difficult
problem; for whether the opening of the Alpine tunnel take place in
ten or twenty years, its ultimate success is now completely assured.

A short review of the history of this undertaking, and a summary of
the progress made, together with a description of the works as they
are conducted at the present time, derived from personal observation,
cannot fail to be interesting to English readers.

Early in 1857, at St. Pier d'Arena, near Genoa, a series of
experiments was undertaken before a select government commission, to
examine into the practicability of a project for a mechanical
perforating-engine, proposed by Messrs. Grandis, Grattoni, and
Sommeiller, for the more rapid tunnelling through hard rock, and with
a view to its employment in driving the proposed shaft through the
Alps. This machine was to be worked by means of air, highly compressed
by hydraulic or other economical means; which compressed air, after
performing its work in the perforating or boring machines, would be an
available and powerful source of ventilation in the tunnel. These
experiments placed so completely beyond any doubt the practicability
of the proposed system, that, so soon as August of the same year, the
law permitting the construction of the tunnel was promulgated.

At this time, absolutely nothing had been prepared, with the exception
of a very general project presented by the proposers, and the model of
the machinery with which the experiments had been made before the
government commission; we cannot, therefore, be much surprised on
finding that some considerable time elapsed before the new machinery
came into successful operation, the more particularly when we consider
the entire novelty of the system, and the unusual difficulties
naturally attending the first starting of such large works, in
districts so wild and uncongenial as those of Fourneaux and
Bardonnêche. Fourneaux was but a collection of mountain-huts,
containing about four hundred inhabitants, entirely deprived of every
means of supporting the wants of any increase of population, and where
outside-work could not be carried on for more than six months in the
year, owing to its ungenial climate. Nor was the case very different
at Bardonnêche, a small Alpine village, situated at more than thirteen
hundred metres (4,225 feet) above the level of the sea, and populated
by about one thousand inhabitants, who lived upon the produce of their
small patches of earth, and the rearing of sheep and goats, and with
their only road of communication with the outer world in a most
wretched and deplorable condition. Under these circumstances, we can
imagine that the task of bringing together large numbers of workmen,
and their competent directing staff, must have been by no means easy;
and that the first work of the direction, although of a nature really
most arduous and tedious (requiring, above all, time and patience),
was also of a nature that could scarcely render its effects very
apparent to the world at large for some considerable time. Again, it
was necessary in this time to make the detailed studies not only of
the tunnel itself, but of the compressing and perforating machinery on
the large scale proposed to be used. This machinery had to be made and
transported through a country abounding in difficulties. Then, as
might be {62} expected, actual trials showed serious defects in the
new machines for the compression of air; and, in perfecting the
mechanical perforators, unexpected difficulties were encountered,
which often threatened to prove insurmountable. The total inexperience
and unskilfulness of the workmen, and the necessity of giving to them
the most tedious instruction; accidents of most disheartening and
discouraging kinds--all tended to delay the successful application of
the new system.

The first important work to be undertaken was the tracing or setting
out of the centre line of the proposed tunnel. It was necessary first
to fix on the summit of the mountain a number of points, in a direct
line, which should pass through the two points chosen, or rather
necessitated by the conditions of the locality, for the two ends of
the tunnel in the respective valleys of the Arc and of Rochemolles;
secondly, to determine the exact distance between these two ends; and
thirdly, to know the precise difference of level between the same
points. These operations commenced toward the end of August, 1857.
Starting from the Northern entrance at Fourneaux, a line was set out
roughly in the direction of Bardonnêche, which line was found to cut
the valley of Rochemolles at a point considerably above the proposed
Southern entrance of the tunnel. On measuring this distance, however,
a second and corrected line could be traced, which was found to be
very nearly correct. Correcting this second line in the same manner,
always departing from the North end, a third line was found to pass
exactly through the two proposed and given points. The highest point
of this line was found to be very nearly at an equal distance from
each end of the tunnel, and at but a short distance below the true
summit of the mountain-point, called the "Grand Vallon." The line thus
approximately determined, it was necessary to fix definitely and
exactly three principal stations or observatories--one on the highest
or culminating point of the mountain, perpendicularly over the axis of
the tunnel; and the other two in a line with each entrance, in such a
manner that, from the centre observatory, both the others could be
observed. At the Southern end, owing to the convenient conformation of
the mountain, the observatory could be established at a point not very
far from the mouth of the tunnel; but toward the North, several
projecting points or counterforts on the mountain necessitated the
carrying of the Northern observatory to a very considerable distance
beyond the entrance of the gallery--not, however, so far as not to be
discerned clearly and distinctly, and without oscillation, by the very
powerful and excellent instrument employed. These three points
permanently established, remain as a check for those intervening, and
serve as the base of the operations for the periodical testing of the
accuracy of the line of excavation.

The first rough tracing out of the line was completed before the
winter of the year 1857, and it was considered sufficiently correct to
permit the commencement of the tunnel at each end by the ordinary
means--manual labor. In the autumn of 1858, the corrected line was
traced, and the observatories definitely fixed, and all other
necessary geodetic operations completed. Contemporaneously was
undertaken a careful levelling between the two ends, taken along the
narrow path of the Colle di Frejus, and bench-marks were established
at intervals along the whole line. All the data necessary for an exact
profile of the work were now obtained. The exact length of the future
tunnel was found to be twelve thousand two hundred and twenty metres,
or about seven and a half English miles; and the difference of level
between the two mouths was ascertained to be two hundred and forty
metres, or seven hundred and eighty feet, the Southern or Bardonnêche
end being the highest. Under these circumstances, it would have been
easy to have established a {63} single gradient from Bardonnêche down
to Fourneaux of about two centimètres per metrè--that is, of about one
in fifty. But a little reflection will show, that in working both ends
of the gallery at once, in order to effect the proper drainage of the
tunnel, it would be necessary to establish two gradients, each
inclining toward the respective mouths, and meeting in some point in
the middle. This, in fact, has been done, and the two hundred and
forty metres' difference of level has been distributed in the
following manner: From Bardonnêche, the gradient mounts at the rate of
0.50 per one thousand mètres--that is, one in two thousand as far as
the middle of the gallery; here it descends toward Fourneaux with a
gradient of 22.20 mètres per one thousand, or about one in forty-five.
The highest point of the Grand Vallon perpendicularly over the axis of
the tunnel is 1615.8 mètres, or 5251.31 feet.

The difficulties encountered in the carrying out of these various
geodetic operations can scarcely be exaggerated. It is true that
nothing is more easy than to picket out a straight line on the ground,
or to measure an angle correctly with a theodolite; but if we consider
the aspect of the locality in which these operations had to be
conducted, repeated over and over again, and tested in every available
manner with the most minute accuracy, we shall be quite ready to
accord our share of praise and admiration to the perseverance which
successfully carried out the undertaking. In these regions, the sun,
fogs, snow, and terrific winds succeed each other with truly
marvellous rapidity, the distant points become obscured by clouds,
perhaps at the very moment when an important sight is to be taken,
causing most vexatious delays, and often necessitating a
recommencement of the whole operation. These delays may in some cases
extend for days, and even weeks. To these inconveniences add the
necessity of mounting and descending daily with delicate instruments
from three thousand to four thousand feet over rocks and rugged
mountain-paths, the time occupied in sending from one point to
another, and the difficulty of planting pickets on elevated positions
often almost inaccessible. All these inconveniences considered, and we
must admit the unusual difficulties of a series of operations which,
under other circumstances, would have offered nothing peculiarly

As has already been pointed out, the excavation of the gallery at both
ends had already been in operation, by ordinary means, since the
latter part of the year 1857; this work continued without interruption
until the machinery was ready; and the progress made in that time
affords a valuable standard by which to measure the effect of the new
machinery. In the interval between the end of 1857 and that to which
we have now arrived, namely, the end of 1858, many important works had
been pushed forward. At Bardonnêche, the communications had been
opened, and bridges and roads constructed for facilitating the
transport of the heavy machinery. Houses for the accommodation of the
workmen had been rapidly springing up, together with the vast edifices
for the various magazines and offices. The canal, more than a mile and
a half in length, for conveying water to the air-compressing machines,
was constructed, and the little Alpine village had become the centre
of life and activity. At Fourneaux, works of a similar character had
been put in motion; only here the transport of the water for the
compressors was more costly and difficult, the water being at a low
level. At first, a current derived from the Arc was used to raise
water to the required height, but afterward it was found necessary to
establish powerful forcing-pumps, new in their details, which are
worked by huge water-wheels driven by the Arc itself. Early in the
month of June, 1859, the first erection of the compressing machinery
was commenced at Bardonnêche. The badness of the season, however, and
{64} the Italian campaign of this year, delayed the rapid progress,
and even caused a temporary suspension of this work. The results
obtained by the experiments which had previously been made on a small
scale at St. Pier d'Arena, failed completely in supplying the data
necessary to insure a practical success to the first applications of
the new system; numberless modifications, both in the
compressing-engines and in the perforating-machines, were found
necessary; and several months were consumed in experimenting with,
modifying, and improving the huge machinery; so that it was not before
the 10th of November, 1860, that five compressors were successfully
and satisfactorily at work. On the 12th, however, two of the large
conducting-pipes burst, and caused a considerable amount of damage,
without causing, however, any loss of life. This accident revealed one
or two very serious defects in the manner of working the valves of the
engine; and in order to provide against the possibility of future
accidents of the same nature, further most extensive modifications
were undertaken.

By the beginning of January, 1861, the five compressors were again at
work; and on the 12th of this month the boring-engine was introduced
for the first time into the tunnel. Very little useful result was,
however, obtained for a long and anxious period, beyond continually
exposing defects and imperfections in the perforators. The pipes
conducting the compressed air from the compressing-machines to the
gallery gave at first continued trouble and annoyance; soon, however,
a very perfect system of joints was established, and this source of
difficulty was completely removed. After much labor and patience, and
little by little, the perforating-machines became improved and
perfected, as is always the case in any perfectly new mechanical
contrivance having any great assemblage of parts. Actual practice
forced into daylight those numberless little defects which theory only
too easily overlooks; but there was no lack of perseverance and
ingenuity on the part of the directing engineers; one by one the
obstacles were met, encountered, and eventually overcome, and the
machines at last arrived at the state of precision and perfection at
which they may be seen to-day. About the month of May, 1861, the work
was suspended for about a month, in consequence of a derangement in
the canal supplying water to the compressors; and it was considered
necessary to construct a large reservoir on the flank of the mountain,
to act as a deposit for the impurities contained in the water, and
which often caused serious inconvenience in the compressors. In the
whole of the first year 1861, the number of working days was two
hundred and nine, and the advance made was but one hundred and seventy
metres (five hundred and fifty feet), or about eighteen inches per day
of twenty-four hours, an amount less than might have been done by
manual labor in the same time. In the year 1862, however, in the three
hundred and twenty-five days of actual work, the advance made was
raised to three hundred and eighty metres (one thousand two hundred
and thirty-five feet), giving a mean advance of 1.17 metres, or about
three feet nine inches per day. In the year 1863, the length done
(always referring to the South or Bardonnêche side) was raised to
above four hundred metres; and no doubt this year a still greater
progress will have been made.

At the Fourneaux or Northern end of the tunnel--owing to increased
difficulties peculiar to the locality--the perforation of the gallery
was much delayed. A totally different system of mechanism for the
compression of air was necessitated; and it was not before the 25th of
January, 1863, that the boring-machine was in _successful_ operation on
this side, or two years later than at Bardonnêche. The experience,
however, gained at this latter place, and the transfer of a few
skilful workmen, soon raised the advance {65} made per day to an
amount equivalent to that effected at the Southern entrance. Thus, on
the South side (omitting the first year, 1861) since the beginning of
1862, and on the North side since the beginning of 1863, the new
system of mechanical tunnelling may be said to have been in regular
and _successful_ operation.

In the beginning of September of this year were completed in all three
thousand five hundred and seventy metres of gallery. From this we
deduct sixteen hundred metres done by manual labor, leaving, for the
work done by the machines, a length of nineteen hundred and seventy
metres. From this we can make a further deduction of the one hundred
and seventy metres executed in the first year of experiment and trial
at Bardonnêche, so that we have eighteen hundred metres in length
excavated by the machines in a time dating from the beginning of 1862
at the South end, and from the beginning of 1863 at the North end of
the tunnel. Thus, up to the month of September, 1864, we have in all
four years and six months; and eighteen hundred metres divided by 4.5
gives us four hundred metres as the rate of progress per year at each
side, or in total, eight hundred metres per year. Basing our
calculation, then, on this rate, we find that the eight thousand six
hundred and fifty metres yet to be excavated will require about ten
and a half more years; so that we may look forward to the opening of
the Mont Cenis tunnel at about the year 1875. The directing engineers,
who have given good proof of competency and skill, are, however, of
opinion that this period may be considerably reduced, unless some
totally unlooked-for obstacles are met with in the interior of the
mountain. As has been indicated above, sixteen hundred metres in
length of the tunnel was completed by manual labor before the
introduction of the mechanical boring-engines, in a period of five
years at the North and three years at the South side, equal to four
years at each end; and eight hundred metres in four years gives us two
hundred metres per year, or just one-half excavated by the machine in
the same period.

In using the machines, up to the present time, a perfect ventilation
of the tunnel has been secured by the compressed air escaping from the
exhaust of the boring-engines; or by jets of air expressly impinged
into the lower end of the gallery to clear out rapidly the smoke and
vapor formed by the explosion of the mine. It should be remembered,
moreover, that in working a gallery of this kind, where vertical
shafts are impossible, by manual labor, a powerful and costly
air-compressing apparatus would have been necessary for the
ventilation of the tunnel alone, so that the economy of the system, as
applied at the Mont Cenis over the general system of tunnelling in
hard rock, is evident. I propose, in the second portion of this
article, to give a short description of the machinery employed and the
system of working adopted, both at the South and North ends of the
Mont Cenis gallery.


Travellers who are given to pedestrian exercises may easily visit the
works being carried on for the perforation of the tunnel through the
Alps, both at Bardonnêche and at Modane, passing from one mouth of the
tunnel to the other by the Colle di Frejus; and in fine weather, the
tourist would not repent the eight hours spent in walking from
Bardonnêche to Susa--a distance of about twenty-five miles. The road
descends the valley of the Dora Ripari, and abounds in beautiful
scenery. The railway to be constructed along this narrow defile will
be found to tax the skill of the engineer as much as any road yet
attempted. Its total length, from the terminus at Susa to the mouth of
the Mont Cenis tunnel, will be forty kilometres, {66} or about
twenty-four miles; and the difference of level between these two
points is about two thousand five hundred feet, the line having a
maximum gradient of one in forty, and a minimum of one in eighty-four.
There will be three tunnels of importance, having a total length of
about ten thousand feet; three others of lesser dimensions, having a
total length of five thousand five hundred feet; and twelve other
small tunnels, of lengths varying from two hundred and twenty to eight
hundred and fifty feet, their total length being five thousand four
hundred feet. Thus, the total length of tunnel on these twenty-four
miles of railway will be nearly twenty-one thousand feet, or about
four miles--just one-sixth of the whole line. There will also be
several examples of bridges and retaining walls of unusual dimensions.

The works being carried on at Bardonnêche are on a larger scale than
at Modane; so we will, with our readers' permission, suppose ourselves
arrived in company at the former place, and the first point which we
will visit together will be the large house containing the
air-compressing machinery. Before entering, however, we will throw a
glance at the exterior of the building. We find before us, as it were,
_two_ houses, in a direct line one with the other--one situated at the
foot of a steep ascent; and the other at about seventy or eighty feet
above it, on the side of the mountain. These two houses are, however,
but _one_, being joined by ten rows of inclined arch-work. Along the
summit of each row of arches is a large iron pipe, more than a foot in
diameter. These ten pipes, inclined at an angle of about forty-five
degrees, come out of the side of the upper house, and enter the side
of the lower house, and serve to conduct the water from the large
reservoir above to the air-compressing machinery, which is arranged in
the house below, exerting in this machinery the pressure of a column
of water eighty-four feet six inches in height. On entering the
compression-room, we have before us ten compressing-machines,
precisely the same in all their parts--five on the right hand, and five
on the left, forming, as it were, two groups of five each. In the
centre of these two groups are two machines, in every respect like a
couple of small steam-engines, only they are worked by compressed air
instead of steam, and which we will call _aereomotori_. Each of these
aereomotori imparts a rotary motion to a horizontal axis extending
along the whole length of the room, and on which are a series of cams,
which regulate the movements of the valves of the great compressors.
This axis we will call the "main shaft." One group of five compressors
is totally independent of the other, and has its aereomotore with its
main shaft; but still, with one single aereomotore, by means of a
simple connecting apparatus, it is possible to work one or the other
group separately, or both together; also, any number of the ten
compressors can be disconnected for repairs without affecting the
action of the rest, or may be injured without conveying any injury to
the others. In front of each of the ten compressors are placed
cylindrical recipients, in every respect like large steam-boilers,
except that they have no fire-grate or flues, each having a capacity
of seventeen cubic metres, or five hundred and eighty-three cubic
feet. These recipients are put into communication one with the other
by means of a tube similar to a steam-pipe connecting a series of
steam-boilers; and each connection is furnished with a stop-valve, so
that any one recipient can be isolated from the rest.

Let us now examine the end and action of this machinery. As the
aereomotori which work the valves of the machines for forcing air into
the recipients are themselves worked by compressed air coming from the
recipients, it is evident that before we can put the
compressing-machines in motion, we must have already some supply of
compressed air in the {67} cylindrical vessels. This supply of air,
compressed to a pressure of six atmospheres, is obtained in the
following manner: Each group of five recipients, filled with air at
the ordinary atmospheric pressure, is put in communication with a
large pipe which enters into a cistern placed in the side of the
mountain at about one hundred and sixty-two feet above the floor of
the compressing-room. The first operation, then, is to open the
equilibrium valves placed at the bottom of the two pipes (one from
each group of recipients); water then rushes into the vessels,
compressing the ordinary air therein contained to about a pressure of
six atmospheres. A communication is now opened between this compressed
air and the cylinders of the aereomotori, which commence their action
precisely as a steam-engine would do on the admission of steam; a
rotary motion is given to the main shaft; and the equilibrium valves,
placed in chambers at the bottom of each of the ten pipes coming from
the cistern of water placed in the house above, are opened. We will
observe the operation in one of the ten lines of action, as it were,
consisting of the pipe conducting the water from the cistern, the
compressing-machine, and the cylindrical recipient. The equilibrium
valve at the bottom of the pipe being opened in the manner above
explained, the water, with its head of eighty-four feet six inches,
rushes past it, along a short length of horizontal pipe (in which is
an exhaust valve, now closed), and begins to mount a vertical column
or tube of cast-iron about ten feet high and two feet in diameter: the
air in this column undergoes compression until it has reached a
pressure sufficient to force open a valve in a pipe issuing from the
summit of the tube, and connecting it with the recipient. This valve
being already weighted with the pressure of the air compressed to six
atmospheres by the means previously explained, a certain quantity of
air is thus forced into the vessel; at this moment, another revolution
of the main shaft causes the equilibrium valve at the bottom of the
conducting-pipe to be shut, and at the same time opens the exhaust
valve at the foot of the vertical column. The head of water being now
cut off, and the exhaust open, the water in the vertical column begins
to sink by its own gravity, leaving a vacuum behind it, if it were not
for a small clack-valve opening inward in the upper part of the
compressing column, which opens by the external pressure of the air,
so that by the time all the water has passed out of the exhaust valve,
the compressor is again full of atmospheric air; the valve in
connection with the recipient being closed by the compressed air
imprisoned in the vessel. The aereomotori continue their motion,
another revolution of the main shaft shuts the exhaust and opens the
equilibrium or admission valve; the column of water is again permitted
to act, and the same action is repeated, more air being forced into
the recipient at each round or _pulsation_ of the machine. Now,
supposing no consumption of the compressed air to take place beyond
that used for driving the aereomotori, it seems evident that the water
in the vessels would be gradually forced out, owing to the growing
pressure of the air inside, above the pressure of the column of water
coming from the higher cistern; but the communication with this higher
cistern is always kept open, the column of water acting, in fact, as a
sort of moderator or governor to the compressing-machine, rising or
falling according to the consumption of the compressed air, and always
insuring that there shall be a pressure of six atmospheres acting
against the valve at the summit of the vertical column. A water-tube
placed on the outside of each group of recipients, with a graduated
scale marked on it, indicates at a glance the consumption of air. If
the perforating-machines in the tunnel cease working, the pressure
augments in the recipients, and the water in them falls until an
equilibrium is established, {68} between the pressure of the column of
water and the force of the compressors, until, in fact, these work
without being able to lift the valve at the summit of the vertical
compressing column. On the other hand, if more air than usual be used
for ventilating the tunnel, or by an accidental leakage in the
conducting-pipes, the water rises rapidly in the recipients, and
consequently in the water-gauge outside, and in thus creating an
equilibrium, indicates the state of things. By this means a continual
compensation of pressure is kept up, which prevents any shock on the
valves, and causes the machine to work with the regularity and
uniformity of a steam-engine provided with a governor. In every turn
of the main shaft, a complete circle of effects take place in the
compressors; and experience has shown that three turns a minute of the
shaft--that is, three _pulsations_ of the compressing-machine per
minute--are sufficient. It will thus be seen that a column of water,
having the great velocity due to a head of eighty-four feet six
inches, acts upon a column of air contained in a vertical tube; the
effect of this velocity being to inject, as it were, a certain
quantity of air into a recipient at each upward stroke of the column,
and at each downward stroke drawing in after it an equivalent quantity
of atmospheric air as a fresh supply. The ten recipients charged with
air compressed to six atmospheres (ninety pounds on the square inch)
in the manner above explained, serve as a reservoir of the force
required for working the boring-engines in the tunnel, and for
ventilating and purifying the gallery. The air is conducted in pipes
about eight inches in diameter, having a thickness of metal of about
three-eighths of an inch. Much doubt had previously been expressed as
to the possibility of conveying compressed air to great distances
without a very great and serious loss of power. The experience gained,
however, at the Mont Cenis has shown that, conveyed to a distance of
thirteen English miles, the loss would be but one-tenth of the
original force; and that the actual measured loss of power in a
distance of six thousand five hundred feet, a little more than a mile
and a quarter, was less than 1-127th of the original pressure in the

The mouth of the tunnel is but a few hundred yards from the
air-compressing house--we will now proceed thither. For nearly a mile
in length the gallery is completed and lined with masonry. At the
first view, we are struck with the bold outline of its section and its
ample dimensions. Excepting, perhaps, the passage of an occasional
railway-truck, laden with pieces of rock and rubbish, we find nothing
to remind us of the numbers of busy workmen and of the powerful
machines which are laboring in the tunnel. All is perfectly quiet and
solitary. Looking around us as we traverse this first and completed
portion, we observe nothing very different from an ordinary
railway-tunnel, with the exception of the great iron pipe which
conveys the compressed air, and is attached to the side of the wall.
At the end of about a quarter of an hour we begin to hear sounds of
activity, and little lights flickering in the distance indicate that
we are approaching the scene of operations. In a few moments we reach
the second division of the tunnel, or that part which is being
enlarged from the comparatively small section made by the
perforating-machine to its full dimensions, previously to being lined
with masonry. In those portions where the workmen are engaged in the
somewhat dangerous operation of detaching large blocks of stone from
the roof, the tunnel is protected by a ceiling of massive beams, under
which the visitor passes--not, however, without hurrying his pace and
experiencing a feeling of satisfaction when the distance is completed.
Gradually leaving behind us the bee-like crowd of busy miners, with
the eternal ring of their boring-bars against the hard rock, we find
the excavated gallery {69} getting smaller and smaller, and the
difficulties of picking our way increasing at every step; the sounds
behind us get fainter and fainter, and in a short time we are again in
the midst of a profound solitude.

The little gallery in which we are now stumbling our way over blocks
of stone and rubbish, only varied by long tracts of thick slush and
pools of water, is the section excavated by the boring-machine--in
dimension about twelve feet broad by eight feet high. The tramway
which has accompanied us all the way is still continued along this
small section. In the middle portion underneath the rails is the
canal, inclined toward the mouth of the tunnel, for carrying off the
water; and in this canal are now collected the pipes for conveying the
compressed air to the machines, and the gas for illuminating the
gallery. At the end of a few minutes, a rattling, jingling sound
indicates that we are near the end of our excursion, and that we are
approaching the perforating-machines. On arriving, we find that nearly
the whole of the little gallery is taken up by the engine, the frame
of which, mounted upon wheels, rests upon the main tramway, so that
the whole can be moved backward or forward as necessary. On examining
the arrangement a little closely, we find that in reality we have
before us nine or ten perforators, completely independent of one
another, all mounted on one frame, and each capable of movement in any
direction. Attached to every one of them are two flexible tubes, one
for conveying the compressed air, and the other the water which is
injected at every blow or stroke of the tool into the hole, for the
purpose of clearing out the debris and for cooling the point of the
"jumper." In front, directed against the rock, are nine or ten tubes
(according to the number of perforators), very similar in appearance
to large gun-barrels, out of which are discharged with great rapidity
an equal number of boring-bars or jumpers. Motion is given to these
jumpers by the direct admission of a blast of compressed air behind
them, the return stroke being effected by a somewhat slighter pressure
of air than was used to drive them forward. We will suppose the
machine brought up for the commencement of an attack. The points most
convenient for the boring of the holes having been selected, the nine
or ten perforators, as the case may be, are carefully adjusted in
front of them. The compressed air is then admitted, and the boring of
the holes commences. On an average, at the end of about three-quarters
of an hour, the nine or ten holes are pierced to a depth of two feet
to two feet six inches. Another ten holes are then commenced, and so
on, until about eighty holes are pierced. The greater number of these
holes are driven toward the centre of the point of attack, and the
rest round the perimeter. The driving of these eighty holes to an
average depth of two feet three inches, is usually completed in about
seven hours, and the second operation is then commenced.

The flexible tubes conveying the compressed air and the water are
detached from the machines, and placed in security in the covered
canal. The perforating-machine, mounted on its frame or truck, is
drawn back on the tramway behind two massive folding-doors of wood.
Miners then advance and charge the holes in the centre with powder,
and adjust the matches; fire is given, and the miners retire behind
the folding-doors, which are closed. The explosion opens a breach in
the centre part of the front of attack. Powerful jets of compressed
air are now injected, to clear off the smoke formed by the powder. As
soon as the gallery is clear, the other holes in the perimeter are
charged and fired, and more air is injected. Then comes the third
operation. Gangs of workmen advance and clear away the debris and
blocks of stone detached by the explosion of the mine, in little
wagons running on a pair of rails placed by the side of the main
tramway. This done, the main line is {70} prolonged to the requisite
distance, and the perforating engine is again brought forward for a
fresh attack. Thus, we have three distinct operations--first, the
mechanical perforation of the holes; secondly, the charging and
explosion of the mine; and thirdly, the clearing away of the debris.
By careful registers kept since the commencement of the work, it is
found that the mean duration of each successive operation is as
follows: for the perforation of the holes, seven hours thirty-nine
minutes; for the charging and explosion of the mine, three hours
twenty-nine minutes; for the clearing away of the debris, two hours
thirty-three minutes; or, in all, nearly fourteen hours. Occasionally,
however, the three operations may be completed in ten hours, all
depending upon the hardness of the rock. It has been found practically
more expeditious to make two series of operations in twenty-four

Whatever may be the nature of the rock, if it is very hard, the depth
of the holes is reduced; that is, the perforation is only continued
for a certain given time--about six and a half hours--which, for the
eighty holes with ten perforaters, gives us about three-quarters of an
hour for each hole. The rock is generally of calcareous schist,
crystallized, and exceedingly hard, traversed by thick veins of
quartz, which often break the points of the boring-tools after a few
blows. Each jumper gives about three blows per second, and makes
one-eighteenth of a revolution on its axis at each blow, or one
complete revolution every six seconds. Thus, in the three-quarters of
an hour necessary to drive a single hole to the depth of twenty-seven
inches, we have four hundred and fifty revolutions of the bar, and
eighteen hundred violent blows given by the point against the hard
rock, and that under an impulse of about one hundred and eighty
pounds. These figures will give us some idea of the wear and tear of
the perforating-machines. It is calculated that on an average one
perforating-machine is worn out for every six metres of gallery, so
that more than two thousand will be consumed before the completion of
the tunnel. The total length completed at the Bardonnêche side at the
present time is just two thousand three hundred metres, or nearly a
mile and a half.

At the north or Modane end, the mechanical perforators are precisely
the same as at Bardonnêche, as also is the system of working in the
gallery. The machinery for the compression of air, however, is very
different, more simple, and in every way an improvement upon that at
the South end. Not finding any convenient means of obtaining a head of
eighty-four feet of water sufficient in quantity for working a series
of compressors, as at Bardonnêche, there has been established at
Modane a system of direct compression, the necessary force for which
is derived from the current of the Arc. Six large water-wheels moved
by this current give a reciprocating motion to a piston contained in a
large horizontal cylinder of cast iron. This piston, having a column
of water on each side of it, raises and lowers alternately these two
columns, in two vertical tubes about ten feet high, compressing the
air in each tube alternately, and forcing a certain quantity, at each
upward stroke of the water, to enter into a cylindrical recipient.
There is very little loss of water in this machine, which in its
action is very like a large double-barreled common air-pump. It is a
question open to science whether the employment of compressed air for
driving the perforating engines in a work such as is in operation at
the Mont Cenis, could not be advantageously and economically exchanged
for the employment of a direct hydraulic motive force, the ventilation
of the tunnel being provided for by other means. The system, however,
employed at Modane has many advantages, which it is impossible to
overlook, and its complete success has given a marked and decided
impulse to the modern science of tunnelling through hard rock.



Translated from the Civiltà Cattolica.



The generation of a human creature takes place neither by the
development of a being which is found in the germ, sketched as it were
like a miniature, nor by a sudden formation or an instantaneous
transition from potential to actual existence. It is effected by the
true production of a new being, which pre-exists only virtually in the
activity of the germ communicated by the conceiver, and the successive
transformation of the potential subject.

This truth, an _a priori_ postulate of philosophy, and demonstrated by
physiology _a posteriori_, was illustrated by us in a preceding
article. Here we must discard an error which has sprung from this
truth. For there have been materialists who maintained that there was
but one type in the whole animal kingdom, that is, _man_, as he unites
in himself in the highest possible degree perfection of organism and
delicacy of feelings; and that all the species of inferior animals
were so many stages in the development of that most perfect type. This
opinion is thus expressed by Milne-Edwards in his highly esteemed
lectures on the Physiology and Comparative Anatomy of Man and Animals:

  "Every organized being undergoes in its development deep and various
modifications. The character of the anatomical structure, no less than
  its vital faculties, changes as it passes from the state of embryo
  to that of a perfect animal in its own species. Now all the animals
  which are derived from the same type move during a certain time in
  the same embryonic road, and resemble each other in that process of
  organization during a certain period of time, the longer as their
  zoological relationship is closer; afterward they deviate from the
  common road and each acquires the properties belonging to it. Those
  that are to have a more perfect structure proceed further than those
  whose organization is completed at less cost. It results from this
  that the transitory or embryonic state of a superior animal
  resembles, in a more or less wonderful manner, the permanent state
  of another animal lower in the same zoological series. Some authors
  have thought right to conclude from this that the diversity of
  species proceeds from a series of stages of this kind taking place
  at different degrees of the embryonic development; and these
  writers, falling into the exaggerations to which imitators are
  especially liable, have held that every superior animal, in order to
  reach its definitive form, must pass through the series of the
  proper forms of animals which are its inferiors in the zoological
  hierarchy; so that man, for instance, before he is born, is at first
  a kind of worm, then a mollusk, then a fish, or something like it,
  before he can assume the characters belonging to his species. An
  eminent professor has recently expressed these views in a concise
  form, saying that the embryology of the most perfect being is a
  comparative transitory anatomy, and that the anatomic table of the
  whole animal kingdom is a fixed and permanent representation of the
  movable aspect of human organogeny."

Thus, according to this opinion, man is the only type of animal life;
and every inferior species is but an imitation, more or less perfect,
of the same; an inchoation stopped in its course at a greater or
shorter distance from the term to which the work of nature tends in
its organization of the human embryo. In short, an {72} _entoma in
difetto_, to use the language of Dante.

The doctrine is not new in the scientific world. It was proclaimed in
the last century by Robinet, who held that all inferior beings are but
so many proofs or sketches upon which nature practises in order to
learn how to form man. In the beginning of the present century
Lamarck, in Germany, following Kielmayer, reproduced the same theory.
According to him all the species of animals inferior to man are but so
many lower steps at which the human embryo stops in its gradual
development. Man, on the contrary, is the last term reached by nature
after she has travelled all through the zoological scale, to fit
herself for that work. About the same time the celebrated naturalist,
Stephen Geoffroy Saint Hilaire, began to disseminate in France
analogous ideas under the name of _stages of development_ (_arrêt de
devéloppement)_; and these ideas, exaggerated by some of his
disciples, amounted in their minds to the same doctrine of Lamarck,
just alluded to. Among them Professor Serres holds the first rank, and
it is to him that Milne-Edwards alludes in the passage just cited. He
expresses himself thus:

  "Human organogeny is a comparative transitory anatomy, as
  comparative anatomy is the fixed and permanent state of the
  organogeny of man; and, on the contrary, if we reverse the
  proposition, or method of investigation, and study animal life from
  the lowest to the highest, instead of considering it from the
  highest to the lowest, we shall see that the organisms of the series
  reproduce incessantly those of the embryos, and fix themselves in
  that state which for animals becomes the term of their development.
  The long series of changes of form presented by the same organism in
  comparative anatomy is but the reproduction of the numerous series
  of transformations to which this organism is subjected in the embryo
  in the course of its development. In the embryo the passage is
  rapid, in virtue of the power of the life which animates it; in the
  animal the life of the organism is exhausted, and it stops there,
  because it is not permitted to follow the course traced for the
  human embryo. Distinct stages on the one hand, progressive advance
  on the other, here is the secret of development, the fundamental
  difference which the human mind can perceive between comparative
  anatomy and organogeny. The animal series thus considered in its
  organisms is but a long chain of embryos which succeed each other
  gradually and at intervals, reaching at last man, who thus finds his
  physical development in comparative organogeny."

Thus speaks Serres. And in another place:

  "The whole animal kingdom appears only like one animal in the course
  of formation in the different organisms. It stops here sooner, there
  later, and thus at the time of each interruption determines, by the
  state in which it then is, the distinctive and organized characters
  of classes, families, genera, and species."



The futility of the above doctrine is manifest, in the first place,
from the weakness of the foundation on which it rests. That foundation
is no other than a kind of likeness which appears at first sight
between the rudimental forms which, in the first steps of its
development, are assumed by the human embryo, and the forms of some
inferior animals. For the germ, by the very reason that it has not, as
it was once believed, all the organism of the human body in
microscopic proportions, but in order to acquire it must pass from
potential to actual existence--by that very reason, is {73} subjected
to continual metamorphoses, that is, to successive transformations,
which give it different aspects, from that of a little disc to the
perfect human figure. Now, it is clear that, in this gradual
transition from the mere power to the act of perfect organization, a
kind of analogy or likeness to some of the numberless forms of
inferior organizations of the animal kingdom may, and must, be found
in its intermediate and incomplete state.

But, evidently, between analogy and identity there is an immense
difference; and the fact of there being an analogy with some of those
forms, gives us no right to infer that there is one with all. Hence
this theory is justly despised by the most celebrated naturalists as
the whim of an extravagant fancy.

"According to Lamarck," says Frédault, in speaking of this, theory,
"all the animals are but inferior grades at which the human germ
stopped in its development, and man is but the result of the last
efforts of a nature which has passed successively through the grades
of its novitiate, and has arrived at the last term of its perfection.
Presented in this view, the doctrine of epigenesis raised against
itself the most simple and scientific common sense, as being
manifestly erroneous. Numerous works on the development of the germ
have demonstrated that appearances were taken for realities, and that
imagination had created a real romance. It has been proved that if, at
certain epochs of its development, the human germ has a distant
resemblance either to a worm or a reptile, such resemblance is very
remote, and that on this point we must believe as much as we would
believe of the assertion of a man who, looking at the clouds, should
say that he could discover the palaces and gardens of Armida, with
horsemen and armies, and all that a heated imagination might fancy."

However, laying aside all that, the opinion which we are now examining
originates, with those who uphold it, in a total absence of
philosophical conceptions. That strange idea of the unity of type and
of its stages, in order to establish the forms of inferior animals,
would never have risen in the mind of any one who had duly considered
the immutability of essences and the reason of the formation of a
thing. The act of making differs from the thing made only as the means
differs from the end. Both belong to the same order--one implies
movement, the other rest. Their difference lies only in this: that
what in the term is unfolded and complete, in its progress toward the
term is found to be only sketched out, and having a tendency to
formation. Hence it follows that, whatever the point of view from
which we consider the embryo of each animal, it is nothing else but
the total organism of the same in the course of formation; and,
therefore, it differs as substantially from every other organism as
the term itself toward which it proceeds. And what we affirm of the
whole organism must be said of each of its parts, which are
essentially related to the whole and follow the nature of the whole.
The first rudiments, for instance, of the hands of man could not
properly be compared to the wings of a bird. As they are hands after
being made, so they are hands in the process of formation; as their
structure is different, so is their being immutable.

Whatever may be the likeness between the first appearances of the
human embryo and the forms of lower animals, they are not the effect
of a stable existence, but of a transitory and shifting existence,
which does not constitute a species, but is merely and essentially a
movement toward the formation of the species. On the contrary, the
forms presented by animals already constituted in their being belong
to a stable and permanent existence, which diversifies one species
from another. The difference, then, between the former and the latter
is interior and substantial, and cannot be changed into exterior and
accidental, as it would be if it consisted in {74} stopping or in
travelling further on. The movement or tendency which takes place in
the germ to become another thing until the said germ assumes a perfect
organization relative to the being it must produce, is not a quality
which can be discarded, since it is intimately combined with the
subject itself in which it is found. The essence itself must be
changed in it in order to obtain stability and consistency. But if the
essence be changed, we are out of the question, since in that case we
should have, not the human embryo arrested at this or that stage on
its road, but a different being substituted for it; of analogous
exterior appearance, perhaps, but substantially different, which would
constitute an annual of inferior degree.

In short, each animal is circumscribed in its own species, like every
other being in nature. If to reach to the perfection required by its
independent existence it needs development, every step in that journey
is an inchoation of the next, and cannot exist but as such. To change
its nature and to make it a permanent being, is as impossible as to
change one essence into another.

Again: From the opinion we are refuting it would follow that all
animals, man excepted, are so many monsters, since they are nothing
else but deviations, for want of ulterior development, from what
nature really intends to do as a term of its action. Thus anomaly is
converted into law, disorder into order, an accidental case into a
constant fact.

Finally, in that hypothesis we should have to affirm not only that the
inferior and more imperfect species appeared on earth before the
nobler and the more akin to the unique and perfect type, but also that
on the appearance of a more perfect species the preceding one had
disappeared; being inferior in the scale of perfection. For what other
reason could be alleged for nature's stopping at a bird when it
intends to make a man, but that the causes are not properly disposed,
or that circumstances are not quite favorable to the production of
that perfect animal? Then when the causes are ready, and the
circumstances propitious, it is necessary that man be fashioned and
that the bird disappear. Now all that is contrary to experience. For
all the species, together with the type, are of the same date, and we
see them born constantly in the same circumstances which are common to
all, either of temperature or atmosphere or latitude, etc.

The theory, then, of the unity of type in the animal kingdom and of
stages of development falls to the ground, if we only look at it from
a philosophical point of view.



However, physiological arguments have more force in this matter than
the philosophical; since they are more closely connected with the
subject, and have in their favor the tangible evidence of fact.

We shall take our arguments from three celebrated naturalists as the
representatives of an immense number, whom want of space forbids us to

Flourens shows the error of that opinion by referring to the diversity
of the nervous system. The nervous system is the foundation of the
animal organism; it is the general instrument of vital functions, of
sensation, and of motion. If then one archetypal idea presides over
the formation of the different organisms, only one nervous system
ought to appear in each, more or less developed or arrested. But
experience teaches us the contrary. It shows nervous systems differing
in different animals ordained to different functions, each perfect in
its kind. "Is there a unity of type?" asks this celebrated naturalist.
"To say that there is but one type is to say that there is but one
form of {75} nervous system; because the form of the nervous system
determines the type; that is, it determines the general form of the
animal. Now, can we affirm that there is but one form of nervous
system? Can we hold that the nervous system of the zoophyte is the
same as that of the mollusk, and this latter the same as that of the
articulata, or this again the same as that of the vertebrata? And if
we cannot say that there is only one nervous system, can we affirm
that there is only one type?"

He speaks likewise of the unity of plan. Every creature is built
differently, and the difference is especially striking between members
of the several grand divisions of the animal kingdom. The plan then of
each is different, and so is the typical idea which prescribes its
formation. No animal can then be considered as the proof or outline of

"Is there a unity of plan? The plan is the relative location of the
parts. One can conceive very well the unity of plan without the unity
of number; for it is sufficient that all the parts, whatever their
number may be, keep always relatively to each other the same place.
But can one say that the vertebrate animal, whose nervous system is
placed above the digestive canal, is fashioned after the same plan as
the mollusk, whose digestive canal is placed above the nervous system?
Can one say that the crustacean, whose heart is placed above the
spinal marrow, is fashioned after the same pattern as the vertebrate,
whose spinal marrow is placed above the heart? Is the relative
location of the parts maintained? On the contrary, is it not
overthrown? And if there is a change in the location of parts, how is
there a unity of plan?"

Müller draws nearer to the consideration of the development of the
human embryo, and forcibly illustrates the falsehood of the pretended
theory. "It is not long since it was held with great seriousness that
the human foetus, before reaching its perfect state, travels
_successively_ though the different degrees of development which are
permanent during the whole life of animals of inferior classes. That
hypothesis has not the least foundation, as Baer has shown. The human
embryo never resembles a radiate, or an insect, or a mollusk, or a
worm. The plan of formation of those animals is quite different from
that of the vertebrate. Man then might at most resemble these last,
since he himself is a vertebrate, and his organization is fashioned
after the common type of this great division of the animal kingdom.
But he does not even resemble at one time a fish, at another a
reptile, a bird, etc. The analogy is no greater between him and a
reptile or a bird, than it is between all vertebrate animals. During
the first stages of their formation, all the embryos of vertebrate
animals present merely the simplest and most general delineations of
the type of a vertebrate; hence it is that they resemble each other so
much as to render it very difficult to distinguish them. The fish, the
reptile, the bird, the mammal, and man are at first the simplest
expression of a type common to all; but in proportion as they grow,
the general resemblance becomes fainter and fainter, and their
extremities, for instance, after being alike for a certain time,
assume the characters of wings, of hands, of feet, etc."

Mr. Milne-Edwards takes the same view of embryonic generation:

  "I agree with Geoffrey Saint Hilaire, that often a great analogy is
  observed between the final state of certain parts of the bodies of
  some inferior animals, and the embryonic state of the same parts of
  other animals belonging to the same type the organism of which is
  further developed, and with the same philosopher, I call the cause
  of the state of permanent inferiority arrests of development. But I
  am far from thinking with some of his disciples that the embryo of
  man or of mammals exhibits in its different degrees of formation the
  species of the less perfect of animate creation. No! a {76} mollusk
  or an anhelid is not the embryo of a mammal, arrested in its organic
  development, any more than the mammal is a kind of fish perfected.
  Each animal carries within itself, from the very origin, the
  beginning of its specific individuality, and the development of its
  organism, in conformity to the general outline of the plan of
  structure proper to its species, is always a condition of its
  existence. There is never a complete likeness between an adult
  animal and the embryo of another, between one of its organs and the
  transitory state of the same in the course of formation; and the
  multiplicity of the products of creation could never be explained by
  a similar transmutation of species. We shall see hereafter, that in
  every zoological group composed of animals which seem to be derived
  from a common fundamental type, the different species do not exhibit
  at first any marked difference, but soon begin to be marked by
  various particularities of constructure always growing and numerous.
  Thus each species acquires a character of its own, which
  distinguishes it from all others in the way of development, and each
  of its organs becomes different from the analogous part of every
  other embryo. But the changes which the organs and the whole being
  undergo after they have deviated from the common genesiac form, are
  generally speaking the less considerable in proportion as the animal
  is destined to receive a less perfect organism, and consequently
  they retain a kind of resemblance to those transitory forms."

Reason then and experience, theory and fact, philosophy and
physiology, agree in protesting against the arbitrary doctrine of the
unity of type in the animal kingdom; a doctrine which has its origin
in an absence of sound scientific notions and a superficial
observation of the phenomena of nature. Through the former defect men
failed to consider that if the end of each animal species is
different, different also must be its being, and therefore a different
type must preside as a rule and supreme law over the formation of the
being. By the latter, some very slight and partial analogies have been
mistaken for identity and universality, and mere appearances have been
assumed as realities.


From Blackwood's Magazine.

DOMINE, QUO VADIS?  [Footnote 6]


  [Footnote 6: See Mrs. Jameson's "Sacred and Legendary Art," p. 180.]

  There stands in the old Appian Way,
     Two miles without the Roman wall,
  A little ancient church, and grey:
     Long may it moulder not nor fall!
  There hangs a legend on the name
  One reverential thought may claim.

  'Tis written of that fiery time,
     When all the angered evil powers
  Leagued against Christ for wrath and crime,
     How Peter left the accursed towers,
  Passing from out the guilty street,
  And shook the red dust from his feet.


  Sole pilgrim else in that lone road,
      Suddenly he was 'ware of one
  Who toiled beneath a weary load,
      Bare-headed, in the heating sun,
  Pale with long watches, and forespent
  With harm and evil accident.

  Under a cross his weak limbs bow,
     Scarcely his sinking strength avails.
  A crown of thorns is on his brow,
     And in his hands the print of nails.
  So friendless and alone in shame,
  One like the Man of Sorrows came.

  Read in her eyes who gave thee birth
     That loving, tender, sad rebuke;
  Then learn no mother on this earth,
     How dear soever, shaped a look
  So sweet, so sad, so pure as now
  Came from beneath that holy brow.

  And deeply Peter's heart it pierced;
     Once had he seen that look before;
  And even now, as at the first,
     It touched, it smote him to the core.
  Bowing his head, no word save three
  He spoke--_"Quo vadis, Domine?"_

  Then, as he looked up from the ground,
     His Saviour made him answer due--
  "My son, to Rome I go, thorn-crowned,
     There to be crucified anew;
  Since he to whom I gave my sheep
  Leaves them for other men to keep."

  Then the saint's eyes grew dim with tears.
     He knelt, his Master's feet to kiss--
  "I vexed my heart with faithless fears;
     Pardon thy servant, Lord, for this."
  Then rising up--but none was there--
  No voice, no sound, in earth or air.

  Straightway his footsteps he retraced,
     As one who hath a work to do.
  Back through the gates he passed with haste,
     Silent, alone and full in view;
  And lay forsaken, save of One,
  In dungeon deep ere set of sun.


  Then he who once, apart from ill,
     Nor taught the depth of human tears,
  Girded himself and walked at will,
     As one rejoicing in the years,
  Girded of others, scorned and slain,
  Passed heavenward through the gates of pain.

  If any bear a heart within,
     Well may these walls be more than stone,
  And breathe of peace and pardoned sin
     To him who grieveth all alone.
  Return, faint heart, and strive thy strife;
  Fight, conquer, grasp the crown of life.


From The Month.





I had not thought to write the story of my life; but the wishes of
those who have at all times more right to command than occasion to
entreat aught at my hands, have in a manner compelled me thereunto.
The divers trials and the unlooked-for comforts which have come to my
lot during the years that I have been tossed to and fro on this uneasy
sea--the world--have wrought in my soul an exceeding sense of the
goodness of God, and an insight into the meaning of the sentence in
Holy Writ which saith, "His ways are not as our ways, nor his thoughts
like unto our thoughts." And this puts me in mind that there are
sayings which are in every one's mouth, and therefore not to be
lightly gainsayed, which nevertheless do not approve themselves to my
conscience as wholly just and true. Of these is the common adage,
"That misfortunes come not alone." For my own part, I have found that
when a cross has been laid on me, it has mostly been a single one, and
that other sorrows were oftentimes removed, as if to make room for it.
And it has been my wont, when one trial has been passing away, to look
out for the next, even as on a stormy day, when the clouds have rolled
away in one direction and sunshine is breaking overhead, we see others
rising in the distance. There has been no portion of my life free from
some measure of grief or fear sufficient to recall the words that "Man
is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward;" and none so reft of
consolation that, in the midst of suffering, I did not yet cry out,
"The Lord is my shepherd; his rod and his staff comfort me."

I was born in the year 1557, in a very fair part of England, at
Sherwood Hall, in the county of Stafford. For its comely aspect,
commodious chambers, sunny gardens, and the sweet walks in its
vicinity, it was as commendable a residence for persons of moderate
fortune and contented minds as can well be thought of. Within and
without this my paternal home nothing was wanting which might please
the eye, or minister to {79} tranquillity of mind and healthful
recreation. I reckon it amongst the many favors I have received from a
gracious Providence, that the earlier years of my life were spent
amidst such fair scenes, and in the society of parents who ever took
occasion from earthly things to lead my thoughts to such as are
imperishable, and so to stir up in me a love of the Creator, who has
stamped his image on this visible world in characters of so great
beauty; whilst in the tenderness of those dear parents unto myself I
saw, as it were, a type and representation of his paternal love and

My father was of an ancient family, and allied to such as were of
greater note and more wealthy than his own. He had not, as is the
manner with many squires of our days, left off residing on his own
estate in order to seek after the shows and diversions of London; but
had united to a great humility of mind and a singular affection for
learning a contentedness of spirit which inclined him to dwell in the
place assigned to him by Providence. He had married at an early age,
and had ever conformed to the habits of his neighbors in all lawful
and kindly ways, and sought no other labors but such as were
incidental to the care of his estates, and no recreations but those of
study, joined to a moderate pursuit of field-sports and such social
diversions as the neighborhood afforded. His outward appearance was
rather simple than showy, and his manners grave and composed. When I
call to mind the singular modesty of his disposition, and the
retiredness of his manners, I often marvel how the force of
circumstances and the urging of conscience should have forced one so
little by nature inclined to an unsettled mode of life into one which,
albeit peaceful in its aims, proved so full of danger and disquiet.

My mother's love I enjoyed but for a brief season. Not that it waxed
cold toward me, as happens with some parents, who look with fondness
on the child and less tenderly on the maiden; but it pleased Almighty
God to take her unto himself when I was but ten years of age. Her face
is as present to me now as any time of my life. No limner's hand ever
drew a more faithful picture than the one I have of her even now
engraved on the tablet of my heart. She had so fair and delicate a
complexion that I can only liken it to the leaf of a white rose with
the lightest tinge of pink in it. Her hair was streaked with gray too
early for her years; but this matched well with the sweet melancholy
of her eyes, which were of a deep violet color. Her eyelids were a
trifle thick, and so were her lips; but there was a pleasantness in
her smile and the dimples about her mouth such as I have not noticed
in any one else. She had a sweet womanly and loving heart, and the
noblest spirit imaginable; a great zeal in the service of God,
tempered with so much sweetness and cordiality that she gave not
easily offence to any one, of howsoever different a way of thinking
from herself; and either won them over to her faith through the
suavity of her temper and the wisdom of her discourse, or else worked
in them a personal liking which made them patient with her, albeit
fierce with others. When I was about seven years of age I noticed that
she waxed thin and pale, and that we seldom went abroad, and walked
only in our own garden and orchard. She seemed glad to sit on a bench
on the sunny side of the house even in summer, and on days when by
reason of the heat I liked to lie down in the shade. My parents
forbade me from going into the village; and, through the perverseness
common to too many young people, on account of that very prohibition I
longed for liberty to do so, and wearied oftentimes of the solitude we
lived in. At a later period I learnt how kind had been their intent in
keeping me during the early years of childhood from a knowledge of the
woeful divisions which the late changes in religion had wrought in our
country; which I might easily have heard from {80} young companions,
and maybe in such sort as to awaken angry feelings, and shed a drop of
bitter in the crystal cup of childhood's pure faith. If we did walk
abroad, it was to visit some sick persons, and carry them food or
clothing or medicines, which my mother prepared with her own hands.
But as she grew weaker, we went less often outside the gates, and the
poor came themselves to fetch away what in her bounty she stored up
for them. I did not notice that our neighbors looked unkindly on us
when we were seen in the village. Children would cry out sometimes,
but half in play, "Down with the Papists!" but I witnessed that their
elders checked them, especially those of the poorer sort; and "God
bless you, Mrs. Sherwood!" and "God save you, madam!" was often in
their mouths, as she whom I loved with so great and reverent an
affection passed alongside of them, or stopped to take breath, leaning
against their cottage-palings.

Many childish heartaches I can even now remember when I was not
suffered to join in the merry sports of the 1st of May; for then, as
the poet Chaucer sings, the youths and maidens go

  "To fetch the flowers fresh and branch and bloom,
  And these, rejoicing in their great delight,
  Eke each at other throw the blossoms bright."

I watched the merry wights as they passed our door on their way to the
groves and meadows, singing mirthful carols, and bent on pleasant
pastimes; and tears stood in my eyes as the sound of their voices died
away in the distance. My father found me thus weeping one May-day, and
carried me with him to a sweet spot in a wood, where wild-flowers grew
like living jewels out of the green carpet of moss on which we sat;
and there, as the birds sang from every bough, and the insects hovered
and hummed over every blossom, he entertained me with such quaint and
pleasant tales, and moved me to merry laughter by his witty devices;
so that I set down that day in my book of memory as one of the
joyfullest in all my childhood. At Easter, when the village children
rolled pasch eggs down the smooth sides of the green hills, my mother
would paint me some herself, and adorned them with such bright colors
and rare sentences that I feared to break them with rude handling, and
kept them by me throughout the year, rather as pictures to be gazed on
than toys to be played with in a wanton fashion.

On the morning of the Resurrection, when others went to the top of
Cannock Chase to hail the rising sun, as is the custom of those parts,
she would sing so sweetly the psalm which speaketh of the heavens
rejoicing and of the earth being glad, that it grieved me not to stay
at home; albeit I sometimes marvelled that we saw so little company,
and mixed not more freely with our neighbors.

When I had reached my ninth birthday, whether it was that I took
better heed of words spoken in my hearing, or else that my parents
thought it was time that I should learn somewhat of the conditions of
the times, and so talked more freely in my presence, it so happened
that I heard of the jeopardy in which many who held the Catholic faith
were, and of the laws which were being made to prohibit in our country
the practice of the ancient religion. When Protestants came to our
house--and it was sometimes hard in those days to tell who were such at
heart, or only in outward semblance out of conformity to the queen's
pleasure--I was strictly charged not to speak in their hearing of aught
that had to do with Catholic faith and worship; and I could see at
such times on my mother's face an uneasy expression, as if she was
ever fearing the next words that any one might utter.

In the autumn of that year we had visitors whose company was so great
an honor to my parents, and the occasion of so much delight to myself,
that I can call to mind every little circumstance of their brief
sojourn under our roof, even as if it had taken place but {81}
yesterday. This visit proved the first step toward an intimacy which
greatly affected the tenor of my life, and prepared the way for the
direction it was hereafter to take.

These truly honorable and well-beloved guests were my Lady Mounteagle
and her son Mr. James Labourn, who were journeying at that time from
London, where she had been residing at her son-in-law the Duke of
Norfolk's house, to her seat in the country; whither she was carrying
the three children of her daughter, the Duchess of Norfolk, and of
that lady's first husband, the Lord Dacre of the North. The eldest of
these young ladies was of about my own age, and the others younger.

The day on which her ladyship was expected, I could not sit with
patience at my tambour-frame, or con my lessons, or play on the
virginals; but watched the hours and the minutes in my great desire to
see these noble wenches. I had not hitherto consorted with young
companions, save with Edmund and John Genings, of whom I shall have
occasion to speak hereafter, who were then my playmates, as at a riper
age friends. I thought, in the quaint way in which children couple one
idea with another in their fantastic imaginations, that my Lady
Mounteagle's three daughters would be like the three angels, in my
mother's missal, who visited Abraham in his tent.

I had craved from my mother a holiday, which she granted on the score
that I should help her that forenoon in the making of the pasties and
jellies, which, as far as her strength allowed, she failed not to lend
a hand to; and also she charged me to set the bed-chambers in fair
order, and to gather fresh flowers wherewith to adorn the parlor.
These tasks had in them a pleasantness which whiled away the time, and
I alternated from the parlor to the store-room, and the kitchen to the
orchard, and the poultry-yard to the pleasure-ground, running as
swiftly from one to the other, and as merrily, as if my feet were
keeping time with the glad beatings of my heart. As I passed along the
avenue, which was bordered on each side by tall trees, ever and anon,
as the wind shook their branches, there fell on my head showers of red
and gold-colored leaves, which made me laugh; so easy is it for the
young to find occasion of mirth in the least trifle when their spirits
are lightsome, as mine were that day. I sat down on a stone bench on
which the western sun was shining, to bind together the posies I had
made; the robins twittered around me; and the air felt soft and fresh.
It was the eve of Martinmas-day--Hallowtide Summer, as our country
folk call it. As the sun was sinking behind the hills, the tread of
horses' feet was heard in the distance, and I sprang up on the bench,
shading my eyes with my hand to see the approach of that goodly
travelling-party, which was soon to reach our gates. My parents came
out of the front door, and beckoned me to their side. I held my posies
in my apron, and forgot to set them down; for the first sight of my
Lady Mounteagle, as she rode up the avenue with her son at her side,
and her three grand-daughters with their attendants, and many
richly-attired serving-men beside, filled me with awe. I wondered if
her majesty had looked more grand on the day that she rode into London
to be proclaimed queen. The good lady sat on her palfry in so erect
and stately a manner, as if age had no dominion over her limbs and her
spirits; and there was something so piercing and commanding in her
eye, that it at once compelled reverence and submission. Her son had
somewhat of the same nobility of mien, and was tall and graceful in
his movements; but behind her, on her pillion, sat a small counterpart
of herself, inasmuch as childhood can resemble old age, and youthful
loveliness matronly dignity. This was the eldest of her ladyship's
grand-daughters, my sweet Mistress Ann Dacre. This was my first sight
of her who was hereafter to hold so great a place in my heart and {82}
in my life. As she was lifted from the saddle, and stood in her
riding-habit and plumed hat at our door, making a graceful and modest
obeisance to my parents, one step retired behind her grandam, with a
lovely color tinging her cheeks, and her long lashes veiling her sweet
eyes, I thought I had never seen so fair a creature as this high-born
maiden of my own age; and even now that time, as it has gone by, has
shown me all that a court can display to charm the eyes and enrapture
the fancy, I do not gainsay that same childish thought of mine. Her
sisters, pretty prattlers then, four and six years of age, were led
into the house by their governess. But ere our guests were seated, my
mother bade me kiss my Lady Mounteagle's hand and commend myself to
her goodness, praying her to be a good lady to me, and overlook, out
of her great indulgence, my many defects. At which she patted me on
the cheek, and said, she doubted not but that I was as good a child as
such good parents deserved to have; and indeed, if I was as like my
mother in temper as in face, I must needs be such as her hopes and
wishes would have me. And then she commanded Mistress Ann to salute
me; and I felt my cheeks flush and my heart beat with joy as the sweet
little lady put her arms round my neck, and pressed her lips on my

Presently we all withdrew to our chambers until such time as supper
was served, at which meal the young ladies were present; and I
marvelled to see how becomingly even the youngest of them, who was but
a chit, knew how to behave herself, never asking for anything, or
forgetting to give thanks in a pretty manner when she was helped. For
the which my mother greatly commended their good manners; and her
ladyship said, "In truth, good Mistress Sherwood, I carry a strict
hand over them, never suffering their faults to go unchastised, nor
permitting such liberties as many do to the ruin of their children." I
was straightway seized with a great confusion and fear that this was
meant as a rebuke to me, who, not being much used to company, and
something overindulged by my father, by whose side I was seated, had
spoken to him more than once that day at table, and had also left on
my plate some victuals not to my liking; which, as I learnt at another
time from Mistress Ann, was an offence for which her grandmother would
have sharply reprehended her. I ventured not again to speak in her
presence, and scarcely to raise my eyes toward her.

The young ladies withdrew early to bed that night, and I had but
little speech with them. Before they left the parlor, Mistress Ann
took her sisters by the hand, and all of them, kneeling at their
grandmother's feet, craved her blessing. I could see a tear in her eye
as she blessed them; and when she laid her hand on the head of the
eldest of her grand-daughters, it lingered there as if to call down
upon her a special benison. The next day my Lady Mounteagle gave
permission for Mistress Ann to go with me into the garden, where I
showed her my flowers and the young rabbits that Edmund Genings and
his brother, my only two playmates, were so fond of; and she told me
how well pleased she was to remove from London unto her grandmother's
seat, where she would have a garden and such pleasant pastimes as are
enjoyed in the country.

"Prithee, Mistress Ann," I said, with the unmannerly boldness with
which children are wont to question one another, "have you not a
mother, that you live with your grandam?"

"I thank God that I have," she answered; "and a good mother she is to
me; but by reason of her having lately married the Duke of Norfolk, my
grandmother has at the present time the charge of us."

"And do you greatly love my Lady Mounteagle?" I asked, misdoubting in
my folly that a lady of so grave aspect and stately carriage should be
loved by children.


"As greatly as heart can love," was her pretty answer.

"And do you likewise love the Duke of Norfolk, Mistress Ann?" I asked

"He is my very good lord and father," she answered; "but my knowledge
of his grace has been so short, I have scarce had time to love him

"But I have loved you in no time," I cried, and threw my arms round
her neck. "Directly I saw you, I loved you, Mistress Ann."

"Mayhap, Mistress Constance," she said, "it is easier to love a little
girl than a great duke."

"And who do you affection beside her grace your mother, and my lady
your grandam, Mistress Ann?" I said, again returning to the charge; to
which she quickly replied:

"My brother Francis, my sweet Lord Dacre."

"Is he a child?" I asked.

"In truth, Mistress Constance," she answered, "he would not be well
pleased to be called so; and yet methinks he is but a child, being not
older, but rather one year younger than myself, and my dear playmate
and gossip."

"I wish I had a brother or a sister to play with me," I said; at which
Mistress Ann kissed me and said she was sorry I should lack so great a
comfort, but that I must consider I had a good father of my own,
whereas her own was dead; and that a father was more than a brother.

In this manner we held discourse all the morning, and, like a rude
imp, I questioned the gracious young lady as to her pastimes and her
studies and the tasks she was set to; and from her innocent
conversation I discovered, as children do, without at the time taking
much heed, but yet so as to remember it afterward, what especial care
had been taken by her grandmother--that religious and discreet
lady--to instill into her virtue and piety, and in using her, beside
saying her prayers, to bestow alms with her own hands on prisoners and
poor people; and in particular to apply herself to the cure of
diseases and wounds, wherein she herself had ever excelled. Mistress
Ann, in her childish but withal thoughtful way, chide me that in my
own garden were only seen flowers which pleased the senses by their
bright colors and perfume, and none of the herbs which tend to the
assuagement of pain and healing of wounds; and she made me promise to
grow some against the time of her next visit. As we went through the
kitchen-garden, she plucked some rosemary and lavender and rue, and
many other odoriferous herbs; and sitting down on a bench, she invited
me to her side, and discoursed on their several virtues and properties
with a pretty sort of learning which was marvellous in one of her
years. She showed me which were good for promoting sleep, and which
for cuts and bruises, and of a third she said it eased the heart.

"Nay, Mistress Ann," I cried, "but that must be a heartsease;" at
which she smiled, and answered:

"My grandam says the best medicines for uneasy hearts are the bitter
herb confession and the sweet flower absolution."

"Have you yet made your first communion, Mistress Ann?" I asked in a
low voice, at which question a bright color came into her cheek, and
she replied:

"Not yet; but soon I may. I was confirmed not long ago by the good
Bishop of Durham; and at my grandmother's seat I am to be instructed
by a Catholic priest who lives there."

"Then you do not go to Protestant service?" I said.

"We did," she answered, "for a short time, whilst we stayed at the
Charterhouse; but my grandam has understood that it is not lawful for
Catholics, and she will not be present at it herself, or suffer us any
more to attend it, neither in her own house nor at his grace's."

While we were thus talking, the two little ladies, her sisters, came
from the house, having craved leave from the governess to run out into
the {84} garden. Mistress Mary was a pale delicate child, with soft
loving blue eyes; and Mistress Bess, the youngest, a merry imp, whose
rosy cheeks and dimpling smiles were full of glee and merriment.

"What ugly sober flowers are these, Nan, that thou art playing with?"
she cried, and snatched at the herbs in her sister's lap. "When I
marry my Lord William Howard, I'll wear a posy of roses and

"When I am married," said little Mistress Mary, "I will wear nothing
but lilies."

"And what shall be thy posy, Nan?" said the little saucy one again,
"when thou dost wed my Lord Surrey?"

"Hush, hush, madcaps!" cried Mistress Ann. "If your grandam was to
hear you, I doubt not but the rod would be called for."

Mistress Mary looked round affrighted, but little Mistress Bess said
in a funny manner, "Prithee, Nan, do rods then travel?"

"Ay; by that same token, Bess, that I heard my lady bid thy nurse take
care to carry one with her."

"It was nurse told me I was to marry my Lord William, and Madge my
Lord Thomas, and thee, Nan, my Lord Surrey, and brother pretty Meg
Howard," said the little lady, pouting; "but I won't tell grandam of
it an it would be like to make her angry."

"I would be a nun!" Mistress Mary cried.

"Hush!" her elder sister said; "that is foolish talking, Madge; my
grandmother told me so when I said the same thing to her a year ago.
Children do not know what Almighty God intends them to do. And now
methinks I see Uncle Labourn making as if he would call us to the
house, and there are the horses coming to the door. We must needs obey
the summons. Prithee, Mistress Constance, do not forget me."

Forget her! No. From that day to this years have passed over our heads
and left deep scars on our hearts. Divers periods of our lives have
been signalized by many a strange passage; we have rejoiced, and,
oftener still, wept together; we have met in trembling, and parted in
anguish; but through sorrow and through joy, through evil report and
good report, in riches and in poverty, in youth and in age, I have
blessed the day when first I met thee, sweet Ann Dacre, the fairest,
purest flower which ever grew on a noble stem.


A year elapsed betwixt the period of the so brief, but to me so
memorable, visit of the welcomest guests our house ever received--to
wit, my Lady Mounteagle and her grand-daughters--and that in which I
met with an accident, which compelled my parents to carry me to
Lichfield for chirurgical advice. Four times in the course of that
year I was honored with letters writ by the hand of Mistress Ann
Dacre; partly, as the gracious young lady said, by reason of her
grandmother's desire that the bud acquaintanceship which had sprouted
in the short-lived season of the aforesaid visit should, by such
intercourse as may be carried on by means of letters, blossom into a
flower of true friendship; and also that that worthy lady and my good
mother willed such a correspondence betwixt us as would serve to the
sharpening of our wits, and the using our pens to be good servants to
our thoughts. In the course of this history I will set down at
intervals some of the letters I received at divers times from this
noble lady; so that those who read these innocent pictures of herself,
portrayed by her own hand, may trace the beginnings of those virtuous
inclinations which at an early age were already working in her soul,
and ever after appeared in her.

On the 15th day of January of the next year to that in which my eyes
had feasted on this creature so embellished with rare endowments and
{85} accomplished gracefulness, the first letter I had from her came
to my hand; the first link of a chain which knit together her heart
and mine through long seasons of absence and sore troubles, to the
great comforting, as she was often pleased to say, of herself, who was
so far above me in rank, whom she chose to call her friend, and of the
poor friend and servant whom she thus honored beyond her deserts. In
as pretty a handwriting as can well be thought of, she thus wrote:

  --Though I enjoyed your company but for the too brief time during
  which we rested under your honored parents' roof, I retain so great
  a sense of the contentment I received therefrom, and so lively a
  remembrance of the converse we held in the grounds adjacent to
  Sherwood Hall, that I am better pleased than I can well express that
  my grandmother bids me sit down and write to one whom to see and to
  converse with once more would be to me one of the chiefest pleasures
  in life. And the more welcome is this command by reason of the hope
  it raises in me to receive in return a letter from my well-beloved
  Mistress Constance, which will do my heart more good than anything
  else that can happen to me. 'Tis said that marriages are made in
  heaven. When I asked my grandam if it were so, she said, 'I am of
  opinion, Nan, they are made in many more places than one; and I
  would to God none were made but such as are agreed upon in so good a
  place.' But methinks some friendships are likewise made in heaven;
  and if it be so, I doubt not but that when we met, and out of that
  brief meeting there arose so great and sudden a liking in my heart
  for you, Mistress Constance,--which, I thank God, you were not slow
  to reciprocate,--that our angels had met where we hope one day to be,
  and agreed together touching that matter.

  "It suits ill a bad pen like mine to describe the fair seat we
  reside in at this present time--the house of Mr. James Labourn,
  which he has lent unto my grandmother. 'Tis most commodious and
  pleasant, and after long sojourn in London, even in winter, a
  terrestrial paradise. But, like the garden of Eden, not without
  dangers; for the too much delight I took in out-of-doors pastimes--
  and most of all on the lake when it was frozen, and we had merry
  sports upon it, to the neglect of my lessons, not heeding the lapse
  of time in the pursuit of pleasure--brought me into trouble and sore
  disgrace. My grandmother ordered me into confinement for three days
  in my own chamber, and I saw her not nor received her blessing all
  that time; at the end of which she sharply reproved me for my fault,
  and bade me hold in mind that 'twas when loitering in a garden Eve
  met the tempter, and threatened further and severe punishment if I
  applied not diligently to my studies. When I had knelt down and
  begged pardon, promising amendment, she drew me to her and kissed
  me, which it was not her wont often to do. 'Nan,' she said, 'I would
  have thee use thy natural parts, and improve thyself in virtue and
  learning; for such is the extremity of the times, that ere long it
  may be that many first shall be last and many last shall be first in
  this realm of England. But virtue and learning are properties which
  no man can steal from another; and I would fain see thee endowed
  with a goodly store of both. That great man and true confessor, Sir
  Thomas More, had nothing so much at heart as his daughter's
  instruction; and Mistress Margaret Roper, once my sweet friend,
  though some years older than my poor self, who still laments her
  loss, had such fine things said of her by the greatest men of this
  age, as would astonish thee to hear; but they were what she had a
  right to and very well deserved. And the strengthening of her mind
  through study and religious discipline served {86} her well at the
  time of her great trouble; for where other women would have lacked
  sense and courage how to act, she kept her wits about her, and
  ministered such comfort to her father, remaining near him at the
  last, and taking note of his wishes, and finding means to bury him
  in a Christian manner, which none other durst attempt, that she had
  occasion to thank God who gave her a head as well as a heart. And
  who knows, Nan, what may befal thee, and what need thou mayst have
  of the like advantages?'

  "My grandmother looked so kindly on me then, that, albeit abashed at
  the remembrance of my fault, I sought to move her to further
  discourse; and knowing what great pleasure she had in speaking of
  Sir Thomas More, at whose house in Chelsea she had oftentimes been a
  visitor in her youth, I enticed her to it by cunning questions
  touching the customs he observed in his family.

  "'Ah, Nan!' she said, that house was a school and exercise of the
  Christian religion. There was neither man nor woman in it who was
  not employed in liberal discipline and fruitful reading, although
  the principal study was religion. There was no quarrelling, not so
  much as a peevish word to be heard; nor was any one seen idle; all
  were in their several employs: nor was there wanting sober mirth.
  And so well-managed a government Sir Thomas did not maintain by
  severity and chiding, but by gentleness and kindness.'

  "Methought as she said this, that my dear grandam in that matter of
  chiding had not taken a leaf out of Sir Thomas's book; and there was
  no doubt a transparency in my face which revealed to her this
  thought of mine; for she straightly looked at me and said, 'Nan, a
  penny for thy thoughts!' at the which I felt myself blushing, but
  knew nothing would serve her but the truth; so I said, in as humble
  a manner as I could think of, 'An if you will excuse me, grandam, I
  thought if Sir Thomas managed so well without chiding, that you
  manage well with it.' At the which she gave me a light nip on the
  forehead, and said, 'Go to, child; dost think that any but saints
  can rule a household without chiding, or train children without
  whipping? Go thy ways, and mend them too, if thou wouldst escape
  chastisement; and take with thee, Nan, the words of one whom we
  shall never again see the like of in this poor country, which he
  used to his wife or any of his children if they were diseased or
  troubled, "We must not look at our pleasures to go to heaven in
  feather-beds, or to be carried up thither even by the chins."' And
  so she dismissed me; and I have here set down my fault, and the
  singular goodness showed me by my grandmother when it was pardoned,
  not thinking I can write anything better worth notice than the
  virtuous talk with which she then favored me.

  "There is in this house a chapel very neat and rich, and an ancient
  Catholic priest is here, who says mass most days; at the which we,
  with my grandmother, assist, and such of her servants as have not
  conformed to the times; and this good father instructs us in the
  principles of Catholic religion. On the eve of the feast of the
  Nativity of Christ, my lady stayed in the chapel from eight at night
  till two in the morning; but sent us to bed at nine, after the
  litanies were said, until eleven, when there was a sermon, and at
  twelve o'clock three masses said, which being ended we broke our
  fast with a mince-pie, and went again to bed. And all the
  Christmas-time we were allowed two hours after each meal for
  recreation, instead of one. At other times, we play not at any game
  for money; but then we had a shilling a-piece to make us merry;
  which my grandmother says is fitting in this time of mirth and joy
  for his birth who is the sole origin and spring of true comfort. And
  now, sweet Mistress Constance, I must bid you farewell; for the
  greatest of {87} joys has befallen me, and a whole holiday to enjoy
  it. My sweet Lord Dacre is come to pay his duty to my lady and tarry
  some days here, on his way to Thetford, the Duke of Norfolk's seat,
  where his grace and the duchess my good mother have removed. He is a
  beauty, Mistress Constance; and nature has so profusely conferred on
  him privileges, that when her majesty the queen saw him a short time
  back on horseback, in the park at Richmond, she called him to her
  carriage-door and honored him with a kiss, and the motto of the
  finest boy she ever beheld. But I may not run on in this fashion,
  letting my pen outstrip modesty, like a foolish creature, making my
  brother a looking-glass and continual object for my eyes; but learn
  to love him, as my grandam says, in God, of whom he is only
  borrowed, and not so as to set my heart wholly on him. So beseeching
  God bless you and yours, good Mistress Constance, I ever remain,
  your loving friend and humble servant,


Oh, how soon were my Lady Mounteagle's words exalted in the event! and
what a sad brief note was penned by that affectionate sister not one
month after she writ those lines, so full of hope and pleasure in the
prospect of her brother's sweet company! For the fair boy that was the
continual object of her eyes and the dear comfort of her heart was
accidentally slain by the fall of a vaulting horse upon him at the
duke's house at Thetford.

  (she wrote, a few days after his lamentable death),--"The lovingest
  brother a sister ever had, and the most gracious creature ever born,
  is dead; and if it pleased God I wish I were dead too, for my heart
  is well-nigh broken. But I hope in God his soul is now in heaven,
  for that he was so young and innocent; and when here, a short time
  ago, my grandmother procured that he should for the first, and as it
  has pleased God also for the only and the last, time, confess and be
  absolved by a Catholic priest, in the which the hand of Providence
  is visible to our great comfort, and reasonable hope of his
  salvation. Commending him and your poor friend, who has great need
  of them, to your good prayers, I remain your affectionate and humble


In that year died also, in childbirth, her grace the Duchess of
Norfolk, Mistress Ann's mother; and she then wrote in a less
passionate, but withal less comfortable, grief than at her brother's
loss, and, as I have heard since, my Lady Mounteagle had her
death-blow at that time, and never lifted up her head again as
heretofore. It was noticed that ever after she spent more time in
prayer and gave greater alms. Her daughter, the duchess, who at the
instance of her husband had conformed to the times, desired to have
been reconciled on her deathbed by a priest, who for that end was
conducted into the garden, yet could not have access unto her by
reason of the duke's vigilance to hinder it, or at least of his
continual presence in her chamber at the time. And soon after, his
grace, whose wards they were, sent for his three step-daughters to the
Charterhouse; the parting with which, and the fears she entertained
that he would have them carried to services and sermons in the public
churches, and hinder them in the exercise of Catholic faith and
worship, drove the sword yet deeper through my Lady Mounteagle's
heart, and brought down her gray hairs with sorrow to the grave,
notwithstanding that the duke greatly esteemed and respected her, and
was a very moral nobleman, of exceeding good temper and moderate
disposition. But of this more anon, as 'tis my own history I am
writing, and it is meet I should relate in the order of time what
events came under my notice whilst in {88} Lichfield, whither my
mother carried me, as has been aforesaid, to be treated by a famous
physician for a severe hurt I had received. It was deemed convenient
that I should tarry some time under his care; and Mr. Genings, a
kinsman of her own, who with his wife and children resided in that
town, one of the chiefest in the county, offered to keep me in their
house as long as was convenient thereunto a kindness which my parents
the more readily accepted at his hands from their having often shown
the like unto his children when the air of the country was desired for

Mr. and Mrs. Genings were of the religion by law established. He was
thought to be Catholic at heart; albeit he was often heard to speak
very bitterly against all who obeyed not the queen in conforming to
the new mode of worship, with the exception, indeed, of my mother, for
whom he had always a truly great affection. This gentleman's house was
in the close of the cathedral, and had a garden to it well stored with
fair shrubs and flowers of various sorts. As I lay on a low settle
near the window, being forbid to walk for the space of three weeks, my
eyes were ever straying from my sampler to the shade and sunshine out
of doors. Instead of plying at my needle, I watched the bees at their
sweet labor midst the honeysuckles of the porch, or the swallows
darting in and out of the eaves of the cathedral, or the butterflies
at their idle sports over the beds of mignonette and heliotrope under
the low wall, covered with ivy, betwixt the garden and the close. Mr.
Genings had two sons, the eldest of which was some years older and the
other younger than myself. The first, whose name was Edmund, had been
weakly when a child, and by reason of this a frequent sojourner at
Sherwood Hall, where he was carried for change of air after the many
illnesses incident to early age. My mother, who was some years married
before she had a child of her own, conceived a truly maternal
affection for this young kinsman, and took much pains with him both as
to the care of his body and the training of his mind. He was an apt
pupil, and she had so happy a manner of imparting knowledge, that he
learnt more, as he has since said, in those brief sojourns in her
house than at school from more austere masters. After I came into the
world, he took delight to rock me in my cradle, or play with me as I
sat on my mother's knee; and when I first began to walk, he would lead
me by the hand into the garden, and laugh to see me clutch marigolds
or cry for a sunflower.

"I warrant thou hast an eye to gold, Con," he would say; "for 'tis the
yellow flowers that please thee best."

There is an old hollow tree on the lawn at Sherwood Hall where I often
hid from him in sport, and he would make pretence to seek me
elsewhere, till a laugh revealed me to him, and a chase ensued down
the approach or round the maze. He never tired of my petulance, or
spoke rude words, as boys are wont to do; and had a more serious and
contemplative spirit than is often seen in young people, and likewise
a singular fancy for gazing at the sky when glowing with sunset hues
or darkened by storms, and most of all when studded at night with
stars. On a calm clear night I have noticed him for a length of time,
forgetting all things else, fix his eyes on the heavens, as if reading
the glory of the Lord therein revealed.

My parents did not speak to him of Catholic faith and worship, because
Mr. Genings, before he suffered his sons to stay in their house, had
made them promise that no talk of religion should be ministered to
them in their childhood. It was a sore trial to my mother to refrain,
as the Psalmist saith, from good words, which were ever rising from
her heart to her lips, as pure water from a deep spring. But she
instructed him in many things which belong to gentle learning, and in
French, which she knew well; and {89} taught him music, in which he
made great progress. And this wrought with his father to the
furtherance of these his visits to us. I doubt not but that, when she
told him the names of the heavenly luminaries, she inwardly prayed he
might one day shine as a star in the kingdom of God; or when she
discoursed of flowers and their properties, that he should blossom as
a rose in the wilderness of this faithless world; or whilst guiding
his hands to play on the clavichord, that he might one day join in the
glorious harmony of the celestial choirs. Her face itself was a
preachment, and the tones of her voice, and the tremulous sighs she
breathed when she kissed him or gave him her blessing, had, I ween, a
privilege to reach his heart, the goodness of which was readable in
his countenance. Dear Edmund Genings, thou wert indeed a brother to me
in kind care and companionship whilst I stayed in Lichfield that
never-to-be-forgotten year! How gently didst thou minister to the sick
child, for the first time tasting the cup of suffering; now easing her
head with a soft pillow, now strewing her couch with fresh-gathered
flowers, or feeding her with fruit which had the bloom on it, or
taking her hand and holding it in thine own to cheer her to endurance!
Thou wert so patient and so loving, both with her who was a great
trouble to thee and oftentimes fretful with pain, and likewise with
thine own little brother, an angel in beauty and wit, but withal of so
petulant and froward a disposition that none in the house durst
contradict him, child as he was; for his parents were indeed weak in
their fondness for him. In no place and at no time have I seen a boy
so indulged and so caressed as this John Genings. He had a pretty
wilfulness and such playful ways that his very faults found favor with
those who should have corrected them, and he got praise where others
would have met with chastisement. Edmund's love for this fair urchin
was such as is seldom seen in any save in a parent for a child. It was
laughable to see the lovely imp governing one who should have been his
master, but through much love was his slave, and in a thousand cunning
ways, and by fanciful tricks, constraining him to do his bidding.
Never was a more wayward spirit enclosed in a more winsome form than
in John Genings. Never did childish gracefulness rule more absolutely
over superior age, or love reverse the conditions of ordinary
supremacy, than in the persons of these two brothers.

A strange thing occurred at that time, which I witnessed not myself,
and on which I can give no opinion, but as a fact will here set it
down, and let such as read this story deem of it as they please. One
night that, by reason of the unwonted chilliness of the evening, such
as sometimes occurs in our climate even in summer, a fire had been lit
in the parlor, and the family were gathered round it, Edmund came of a
sudden into the room, and every one took notice that his face was very
pale. He seemed in a great fear, and whispered to his mother, who said
--"Thou must have been asleep, and art still dreaming, child."
Upon which he was very urgent for her to go into the garden, and used
many entreaties thereunto. Upon which, at last, she rose and followed
him. In another moment she called for her husband, who went out, and
with him three or four other persons that were in the room, and I
remained alone for the space of ten or fifteen minutes. When they
returned, I heard them speaking with great fear and amazement of what
they had seen; and Edmund Genings has often since described to me what
he first, and afterward all the others, had beheld in the sky. He was
gazing at the heavens, as was his wont, when a strange spectacle
appeared to him in the air. As it were, a number of armed men with
weapons, killing and murdering others that were disarmed, and great
store of blood running everywhere about them. His parents and those
with them witnessed the same thing, and a great {90} fear fell upon
them all. I noticed that all that evening they seemed scared, and
could not speak of this appearance in the sky without shuddering. But
one that was more bold than the rest took heart, and cried, "God send
it does not forbode that the Papists will murder us all in our beds!"
And Mistress Genings, whose mother was a French Huguenot, said,
"Amen!" I marked that her husband and one or two more of the company
groaned, and one made, as if unwittingly, the sign of the cross. There
were some I know in that town, nay and in that house, that were at
heart of the old religion, albeit, by reason of the times, they did
not give over attending Protestants' worship.

A few days later I was sitting alone, and had a long fit of musing
over the many new thoughts that were crowding into my mind, as yet too
childish to master them, when Edmund came in, and I saw he had been
weeping. He said nothing at first, and made believe he was reading;
but I could see tears trickling down through his fingers as he covered
his face with his hands. Presently he looked up and cried out,

"Cousin Constance, Jack is going away from us."

"And if it please God, not for a long time," I answered; for it
grieved me to see him sad.

"Nay, but he is going for many years, I fear," Edmund said. "My uncle,
Jean de Luc, has asked for him to be brought up in his house at La
Rochelle. He is his godfather, and has a great store of money, which
he says he will leave to Jack. Alack! cousin Constance, I would that
there was no such thing in the world as money, and no such country as
France. I wish we were all dead." And then he fell to weeping again
very bitterly.

I told him in a childish manner what my mother was wont to say to me
when any little trouble fell to my lot--that we should be patient, and
offer up our sufferings to God.

"But I can do nothing now for Jack," he cried. "It was my first
thought at waking and my last at night, how to please the dear urchin;
but now 'tis all over."

"Oh, but Edmund," I cried, "an if you were to be as good as the
blessed saints in heaven, you could do a great deal for Jack."

"How so, cousin Constance?" he asked, not comprehending my meaning;
and thereupon I answered:

"When once I said to my sweet mother, 'It grieves me, dear heart, that
I can give thee nothing, who gives me so much,' she bade me take heed
that every prayer we say, every good work we do, howsoever imperfect,
and every pain we suffer, may be offered up for those we love; and so
out of poverty, and weakness, and sorrow, we have wherewith to make
precious and costly and cheerful gifts."

I spoke as a child, repeating what I had heard; but he listened not as
a child. A sudden light came into his eyes, and methinks his good
angel showed him in that hour more than my poor lips could utter.

"If it be as your sweet mother says," he joyfully cried, "we are rich
indeed; and, even though we be sinners and not saints, we have
somewhat to give, I ween, if it be only our heartaches, cousin
Constance, so they be seasoned with prayers."

The thought which in my simplicity I had set before him took root, as
it were, in his mind. His love for a little child had prepared the way
for it; and the great brotherly affection which had so long dwelt in
his heart proved a harbinger of the more perfect gift of charity; so
that a heavenly message was perchance conveyed to him that day by one
who likewise was a child, even as the word of the Lord came to the
prophet through the lips of the infant Samuel. From that time forward
he bore up bravely against his grief; which was the sharper inasmuch
that he who was the cause of it showed none in return, but rather joy
in the expectancy of the change which was to part them. He {91} would
still be a-prattling on it, and telling all who came in his way that
he was going to France to a good uncle; nor ever intended to return,
for his mother was to carry him to La Rochelle, and she should stay
there with him, he said, and not come back to ugly Lichfield.

"And art thou not sorry, Jack," I asked him one day, "to leave poor
Edmund, who loves thee so well?"

The little madcap was coursing round the room, and cried, as he ran
past me, for he had more wit and spirit than sense or manners:

"Edmund must seek after me, and take pains to find me, if so be he
would have me."

These words, which the boy said in his play, have often come back to
my mind since the two brothers have attained unto a happy though
dissimilar end.

When the time had arrived for Mistress Genings and her youngest son to
go beyond seas, as I was now improved in health and able to walk, my
father fetched me home, and prevailed on Mr. Genings to let Edmund go
back with us, with the intent to divert his mind from his grief at his
brother's departure.

I found my parents greatly disturbed at the news they had had touching
the imprisonment of thirteen priests on account of religion, and of
Mr. Orton being likewise arrested, who was a gentleman very dear to
them for his great virtues and the steadfast friendship he had ever
shown to them.

My mother questioned Edmund as to the sign he had seen in the heavens
a short time back, of which the report had reached them; and he
confirming the truth thereof, she clasped her hands and cried:

"Then I fear me much this forebodes the death of these blessed
confessors, Father Weston and the rest."

Upon which Edmund said, in a humble manner:

"Good Mistress Sherwood, my dear mother thought it signified that
those of your religion would murder in their beds such as are of the
queen's religion; so maybe in both cases there is naught to

"My good child," my mother answered, "in regard of those now in
durance for their faith, the danger is so manifest, that if it please
not the Almighty to work a miracle for their deliverance, I see not
how they may escape."

After that we sat awhile in silence; my father reading, my mother and
I working, and Edmund at the window intent as usual upon the stars,
which were shining one by one in the deep azure of the darkening sky.
As one of greater brightness than the rest shone through the branches
of the old tree, where I used to hide some years before, he pointed to
it, and said to me, who was sitting nearest to him at the window:

"Cousin Constance, think you the Star of Bethlehem showed fairer in
the skies than yon bright star that has just risen behind your
favorite oak? What and if that star had a message for us!"

My father heard him, and smiled. "I was even then," he said, "reading
the words of one who was led to the true religion by the contemplation
of the starry skies. In a Southern clime, where those fair luminaries
shine with more splendor than in our Northern heavens, St. Augustine
wrote thus;" and then he read a few sentences in Latin from the book
in his hand,--"Raising ourselves up, we passed by degrees through all
things bodily, even the very heavens, whence sun and moon and stars
shine upon the earth. Yea, we soared yet higher by inward musing and
discourse and admiring of God's works, and we came to our own minds
and went beyond them, so as to arrive at that region of never-failing
plenty where thou feedest Israel for ever with the food of truth."
These words had a sweet and solemn force in them which struck on the
ear like a strain of unearthly music, such as the wind-harp wakes in
the silence of the {92} night. In a low voice, so low that it was like
the breathing of a sigh, I heard Edmund say, "What is truth?" But when
he had uttered those words, straightway turning toward me as if to
divert his thoughts from that too pithy question, he cried: "Prithee,
cousin Constance, hast thou ended reading, I warrant for the hundredth
time, that letter in thine hand? and hast thou not a mind to impart to
thy poor kinsman the sweet conceits I doubt not are therein
contained?" I could not choose but smile at his speech; for I had
indeed feasted my eyes on the handwriting of my dear friend, now no
longer Mistress Dacre, and learnt off, as it were by heart, its
contents. And albeit I refused at first to comply with his request,
which I had secretly a mind to; no sooner did he give over the urging
of it than I stole to his side, and, though I would by no means let it
out of my hand, and folded down one side of the sheet to hide what was
private in it, I offered to read such parts aloud as treated of
matters which might be spoken of without hindrance.

With a smiling countenance, then, he set himself to listen, and I to
be the mouthpiece of the dear writer, whose wit was so far in advance
of her years, as I have since had reason to observe, never having met
at any time with one in whom wisdom put forth such early shoots.

  (thus the sweet lady wrote),--"Wherefore this long silence and
  neglect of your poor friend? An if it be true, which pains me much
  to hear, that the good limb which, together with its fellow, like
  two trusty footmen, carried you so well and nimbly along the alleys
  of your garden this time last year, has, like an arrant knave,
  played fast and loose, and failed in its good service,--wherein, I am
  told, you have suffered much inconvenience,--is it just that that
  other servant, your hand, should prove rebellious too, refuse to
  perform its office, and write no more letters at your bidding? For
  I'll warrant 'tis the hand is the culprit, not the will; which
  nevertheless should be master, and compel it to obedience. So, an
  you love me, chide roundly that contumacious hand, which fails in
  its duty, which should not be troublesome, if you but had for me
  one-half of the affection I have for you. And indeed, Mistress
  Constance, a letter from you would be to me, at this time, the
  welcomest thing I can think of; for since we left my grandmother's
  seat, and came to the Charterhouse, I have new friends, and many
  more and greater than I deserve or ever thought to have; but, by
  reason of difference of age or of religion, they are not such as I
  can well open my mind to, as I might to you, if it pleased God we
  should meet again. The Duke of Norfolk is a very good lord and
  father to me; but when there are more ways of thinking than one in a
  house, 'tis no easy matter to please all which have a right to be
  considered; and, in the matter of religion, 'tis very hard to avoid
  giving offence. But no more of this at present; only I would to God
  Mr. Fox were beyond seas, and my lady of Westmoreland at her home in
  the North; and that we had no worse company in this house than Mr.
  Martin, my Lord Surrey's tutor, who is a gentleman of great learning
  and knowledge, as every one says, and of extraordinary modesty in
  his behavior. My Lord Surrey has a truly great regard for him, and
  profits much in his learning by his means. I notice he is Catholic
  in his judgment and affections; and my lord says he will not stay
  with him, if his grace his father procures ministers to preach to
  his household and family, and obliges all therein to frequent
  Protestant service. I wish my grandmother was in London; for I am
  sometimes sore troubled in my mind touching Catholic religion and
  conforming to the times, of which an abundance of talk is ministered
  unto us, to my exceeding great discomfort, by my Lady Westmoreland,
  his grace's {93} sister, and others also. An if I say aught thereon
  to Mistress Fawcett (a grave and ancient gentlewoman, who had the
  care of my Lord Surrey during his infancy, and is now set over us
  his grace's wards), and of misliking the duke's ministers and that
  pestilent Mr. Fox--(I fear me, Mistress Constance, I should not have
  writ that unbeseeming word, and I will e'en draw a line across it,
  but still as you may read it for indeed 'tis what he is; but 'tis
  from himself I learnt it, who in his sermons calls Catholic religion
  a pestilent idolatry, and Catholic priests pestilent teachers and
  servants of Antichrist, and the holy Pope at Rome the man of sin)
  she grows uneasy, and bids me be a good child to her, and not to
  bring her into trouble with his grace, who is indeed a very good
  lord to us in all matters but that one of compelling us to hear
  sermons and the like. My Lord Surrey mislikes all kinds of sermons,
  and loves Mr. Martin so well, that he stops his ears when Mr. Fox
  preaches on the dark midnight of papacy and the dawn of the gospel's
  restored light. And it angers him, as well it should, to hear him
  call his majesty King Philip of Spain, who is his own godfather,
  from whom he received his name, a wicked popish tyrant and a son of
  Antichrist. My Lady Margaret, his sister, who is a year younger than
  himself, and has a most admirable beauty and excellent good nature,
  is vastly taken with what she hears from me of Catholic religion;
  but methinks this is partly by reason of her misliking Mr. Fulk and
  Mr. Clarke's long preachments, which we are compelled to hearken to;
  and their fashion of spending Sunday, which they do call the
  Sabbath-day, wherein we must needs keep silence, and when not in
  church sit still at home, which to one of her lively disposition is
  heavy penance. Methinks when Sunday comes we be all in disgrace;
  'tis so like a day of correction. My Lord Surrey has more liberty;
  for Mr. Martin carries him and his brothers after service into the
  pleasant fields about Westminster Abbey and the village of Charing
  Cross, and suffers them to play at ball under the trees, so they do
  not quarrel amongst themselves. My Lord Henry Howard, his grace's
  brother, always maintains and defends the Catholic religion against
  his sister of Westmoreland; and he spoke to my uncles Leonard,
  Edward, and Francis, and likewise to my aunt Lady Montague, that
  they should write unto my grandmother touching his grace bringing us
  up as Protestants. But the Duke of Norfolk, Mrs. Fawcett says, is
  our guardian, and she apprehends he is resolved that we shall
  conform to the times, and that no liberty be allowed us for the
  exercise of Catholic religion."

At this part of the letter I stopped reading; and Edmund, turning to
my father, who, though he before had perused it, was also listening,
said: "And if this be liberty of conscience, which Protestants speak
of, I see no great liberty and no great conscience in the matter."

His cheek flushed as he spoke, and there was a hoarseness in his voice
which betokened the working of strong feelings within him. My father
smiled with a sort of pitiful sadness, and answered:

"My good boy, when thou art somewhat further advanced in years, thou
wilt learn that the two words thou art speaking of are such as men
have abused the meaning of more than any others that can be thought
of; and I pray to God they do not continue to do so as long as the
world lasts. It seems to me that they mostly mean by 'liberty' a
freedom to compel others to think and to act as they have themselves a
mind to; and by 'conscience' the promptings of their own judgments
moved by their own passions."

"But 'tis hard," Edmund said, "'tis at times very hard, Mr. Sherwood,
to know whereunto conscience points, in the midst of so many inward
clamors as are raised in the soul by conflicting passions of dutiful
affection {94} and filial reverence struggling for the mastery. Ay,
and no visible token of God's will to make that darkness light. Tis
that," he cried, more moved as he went on, "that makes me so often
gaze upward. Would to God I might see a sign in the skies! for there
are no sign-posts on life's path to guide us on our way to the
heavenly Jerusalem, which our ministers speak of."

"If thou diligently seekest for sign-posts, my good boy," my father
answered, "fear not but that he who said, 'Seek, and you shall find,'
will furnish thee with them. He has not left himself without
witnesses, or his religion to be groped after in hopeless darkness, so
that men may not discern, even in these troublous times, where the
truth lies, so they be in earnest in their search after it. But I will
not urge thee by the cogency of arguments, or be drawn out of the
reserve I have hitherto observed in these matters, which be
nevertheless the mightiest that can be thought of as regards the
soul's health."

And so, breaking off this discourse, he walked out upon the terrace;
and I withdrew to the table, where my mother was sitting, and once
more conned over the last pages of _my lady's_ letter, which, when the
reader hath read, he will perceive the writer's rank and her right to
be thus titled.

  "And now, Mistress Constance, I must needs inform you of a matter I
  would not leave you ignorant of, so that you should learn from
  strangers what so nearly concerns one whom you have a friendship to--
  and that is my betrothal with my Lord Surrey. The ceremony was
  public, inasmuch as was needful for the solemnising of a contract
  which is binding for life--'until death us do part,' as the marriage
  service hath it. How great a change this has wrought in my thoughts,
  none knows but myself; for though I be but twelve years of age (for
  his grace would have the ceremony to take place on my birthday), one
  year older than yourself, and so lately a child that not a very long
  time ago my grandmother would chastise me with her own hands for my
  faults, I now am wedded to my young lord, and by his grace and all
  the household titled Countess of Surrey! And I thank God to be no
  worse mated; for my lord, who is a few months younger than me, and a
  very child for frolicksome spirits and wild mirth, has,
  notwithstanding, so great a pleasantness of manners and so forward a
  wit, that one must needs have pleasure in his company; and I only
  wish I had more of it. Whilst we were only friends and playmates, I
  used to chide and withstand him, as one older and one more staid and
  discreet than himself; but, ah me! since we have been wedded, 'tis
  grand to hear him discourse on the duty of wives, and quote the
  Bible to show they must obey their husbands. He carries it in a very
  lordly fashion; and if I comply not at once with his commands, he
  cries out what he has heard at the play-house:

    'Such duty as the subject owes the prince
    Even such a woman oweth to her husband;
    And when she's froward, peevish sullen, sour,
    And not obedient to his honest will,
    What is she but a foul contending rebel
    And graceless traitor to her loving lord?
    I am ashamed that women are so simple
    To offer war where they should kneel for peace;
    Or seek for rule, supremacy, or sway,
    Where they are bound to serve, love, and obey.'

  He has a most excellent memory. If he has but once heard out of any
  English or Latin book so much read as is contained in a leaf, he
  will forthwith perfectly repeat it. My Lord Henry, his uncle, for a
  trial, invented twenty long and difficult words a few days back,
  which he had never seen or heard before; yet did he recite them
  readily, every one in the same order as they were written, having
  only once read them over. But, touching that matter of obedience,
  which I care not to gainsay, 'tis not easy at present to obey my
  lord my husband, and his grace his father, and Mistress Fawcett,
  too, who holds as strict a hand over the Countess of Surrey as over
  Mistress Ann Dacre; for the commands of these my rulers do not at
  all times accord: but I pray to God I may do my duty, and be a good
  wife to my lord; and I {95} wish, as I said before, my grandmother
  had been here, and that I had been favored with her good counsel,
  and had had the benefit of shrift and spiritual advice ere I entered
  on this stage of my life, which is so new to me, who was but a child
  a few weeks ago, and am yet treated as such in more respects than

  "My lord has told me a secret which Higford, his father's servant,
  let out to him; and 'tis something so weighty and of so great
  import, that since he left me my thoughts have been truants from my
  books, and Monsieur Sebastian, who comes to practice us on the lute,
  stopped his ears, and cried out that the Signora Contessa had no
  mercy on him, so to murther his compositions. Tis not the part of a
  true wife to reveal her husband's secrets, or else I would tell you,
  Mistress Constance, this great news, which I can with trouble keep
  to myself; and I shall not be easy till I have seen my lord again,
  which should be when we walk in the garden this evening; but I pray
  to God he may not be off instead to the Mall, to play at kittlepins;
  for then I have small chance to get speech with him to-day. Mr.
  Martin is my very good friend, and reminds the earl of his duty to
  his lady; but if my lord comes at his bidding, when he would be
  elsewhere than in my company, 'tis little contentment I have in his

  "'Tis yesterday I writ thus much, and now 'tis the day to send this
  letter; and I saw not my lord last night by reason of his
  grandfather my Lord Arundel sending to fetch me unto his house in
  the Strand. His goodness to me is so great, that nothing more can be
  desired; and his daughter my Lady Lumley is the greatest comfort I
  have in the world. She showed me a fair picture of my lord's mother,
  who died the day he was born, not then full seventeen years of age.
  She was of so amiable a disposition, so prudent, virtuous, and
  religious, that all who knew her could not but love and esteem her.
  And I read a letter which this sweet lady had written in Latin to
  her father on his birthday, to his great contentment, who had
  procured her to be well instructed in that language, as well as in
  her own and in all commendable learning. Then I played at primero
  with my Lord Arundel and my Lady Lumley and my uncle Francis. The
  knave of hearts was fixed upon for the quinola, and I won the flush.
  My uncle Francis cried the winning card should be titled Dudley.
  'Not so,' quoth the earl; 'the knave that would match with the queen
  in the suit of hearts should never win the game.' And further talk
  ensued; from which I learnt that my Lord Arundel and the Duke of
  Norfolk mislike my Lord Leicester, and would not he should marry the
  queen; and my uncle laughed, and said, 'My lord, no good Englishman
  is there but must be of your lordship's mind, though none have so
  good reason as yourself to hinder so base a contract; for if my Lord
  of Leicester should climb unto her majesty's throne, beshrew me if
  he will not remember the box on the ear your lordship ministered to
  him some time since;' at which the earl laughed, too; but my Lady
  Lumley cried, 'I would to God my brother of Norfolk were rid of my
  Lord Leicester's friendship, which has, I much fear me, more danger
  in it than his enmity. God send he does not lead his grace into
  troubles greater than can well be thought of!' Alack, Mistress
  Constance, what uneasy times are these which we have fallen on! for
  methinks 'troubles' is the word in every one's mouth. As I was about
  to step into the chair at the hall-door at Arundel House, I heard
  one of my lord's guard say to another, 'I trust the white horse will
  be in quiet, and so we shall be out of trouble.' I have asked Mr.
  Martin what these words should mean; whereupon he told me the white
  horse, which indeed I might have known, was the Earl of Arundel's
  cognisance; and that the times were very troublesome, and plots were
  spoken of in the North anent the Queen of Scots, her majesty the
  {96} queen's cousin, who is at Chatesworth; and when he said that,
  all of a sudden I grew red, and my cheeks burned like two hot coals;
  but he took no heed, and said, 'A true servant might well wish his
  master out of trouble, when troubles were so rife.' And now shame
  take me for taking up so much of your time, which should be spent in
  more profitable ways than the reading of my poor letters; and I must
  needs beg you to write soon, and hold me as long as I have held you,
  and love me, sweet one, as I love you. My Lady Margaret, who is in a
  sense twice my sister, says she is jealous of Mistress Constance
  Sherwood, and would steal away my heart from her; but, though she is
  a winsome and cunning thief in such matters, I warrant you she shall
  fail therein. And so, commending myself to your good prayers, I

  "Your true friend and loving servant,

As I finished and was folding up my letter the clock struck nine. It
was waning darker without by reason of a cloud which had obscured the
moon. I heard my father still pacing up and down the gravel-walk, and
ever and anon staying his footsteps awhile, as if watching. After a
short space the moon shone out again, and I saw the shadows of two
persons against the wall of the kitchen garden. Presently the
hall-door was fastened and bolted, as I knew by the rattling of the
chain which hung across it. Then my father looked in at the door and
said, "'Tis time, goodwife, for young folks to be abed." Upon which my
mother rose and made as if she was about to withdraw to her
bed-chamber. Edmund followed us up stairs, and, wishing us both
good-night, went into the closet where he slept. Then my mother,
taking me by the hand, led me into my father's study.



Translated from Der Katholik.



The Church is, in a twofold respect, universal or catholic. While, on
the one hand, she extends herself over the whole earth, and encircles
the entire human race with the bond of the same faith and an equal
love, on the other she makes known, by this very act, the most special
inward character of her own being. Thus the Church is the Catholic
Church, both in her interior being and in her exterior manifestation.

The ground of the well-known saying of St. Ambrose, "Where Peter is,
there is the Church,"  [Footnote 7] lies in the thought, that the
nature of the Church admits of only one form of historical
manifestation. The idea of the true Church can only be realized where
Peter is, in the communion of the legitimate Pope as the successor of

  [Footnote 7: Ubi Petrus ibi ecclesia. In Ps. xl. No. 30.]

This proposition has its proximate justification in that clear
expression of the will of Jesus Christ, the founder of the Church, in
which he designates the Apostle Peter as the rock on which he will
build his Church. Moreover, it is precisely this rock-foundation which
is to make the Church indestructible. [Footnote 8] From this it
follows that, in virtue of the ordinance of Jesus, the office of
Peter, or the primacy given him in the Church, was not to expire with
the death of the apostle. For, if the {97} Church is indestructible
precisely on account of her foundation upon the rock-man Peter, he
must remain for all time the support of the Church, and historical
connection with him is the indispensable condition on which the Church
can be firmly established in any part of the earth. This constant
connection with the Apostle Peter is maintained through the bishop of
Rome for the time being. For these two offices, the episcopate of Rome
and the primacy, were connected with each other in the person of the
Apostle Peter. Consequently the same superior rank in the Church which
Peter possessed is transmitted to the legitimate bishop of Rome at the
same time with the Roman episcopal see. Thus the Prince of the
Apostles remains in very deed the rock-foundation of the Church,
continually, in each one of his successors for the time being.

  [Footnote 8: Matt. xvi. 18.]

In the view of Christian antiquity, the unity of the Church was the
particular object for which the papacy was established.  [Footnote 9]
This unity, apprehended in its historical development, gives us the
conception of catholicity.   [Footnote 10]

  [Footnote 9: St. Cyprian, _De Unit Eccl. Primatus Petro dafur, ut
  una Christi ecclesia et cathedra una monstretur_. The primacy is
  given to Peter, that the Church of Christ may be shown to be one,
  and the chair one.]

  [Footnote 10: Ibid. _Ecclesia quoque una est, quae in multitudinem.
  latius incremento faeccunditatis extenditur.... ecclesia Domini luce
  perfusa per obem totam radios suos porrigit. Unum tamen lumen est,
  quod ubique diffunditur, nec unitas corporis separatur._

  The Church also is one, which is extended to a very great multitude
  by the increase of fruitfulness . . . the Church of the Lord
  pervaded with light extends its rays over the whole world.
  Nevertheless the light which is everywhere diffused is one, and the
  unity of the body is never separated.]

Both these marks of the Church must embody themselves in the form of
an outwardly perceptible historical reality. The Church being indebted
for her unity, and by necessary consequence for her catholicity,
precisely to her historical connection with Peter, catholicity is thus
rooted in the idea of the papacy. But does its ultimate and most
profound principle lie therein?

The argument, briefly sketched above, obliges us to rest the
catholicity of the Church on the actual institution of Christ. We can,
however, inquire into the essential reason of this institution. Does
this reason lie simply in a free, voluntary determination of Christ,
or in the interior essence of the Church herself? In the latter case,
the Church would appear as Catholic, because the end of her
establishment could be fulfilled under no other condition. There would
be in her innermost being a secret determination, by force of which
the idea of the Church is completely incapable of realization under
any other form than that of catholicity. A Christian Church without
the papacy were, therefore, entirely inconceivable. If this is
actually the case, there lies hidden under the rind of the Church's
visible form of catholicity, a still deeper catholicity, in which we
are bound to recognize the most profound principle of the outward,
historical side of catholicity.

But that inward principle, the marrow of the Church, where are we to
look for it? Our theologians, following St. Augustine, teach that the
Church, like man, consists of soul and body. The theological virtues
form the soul of the Church, and her body is constituted by the
outward profession of the faith, the participation of the sacraments,
and exterior connection with the visible head of the Church.
[Footnote 11] St. Augustine, indeed, also designates the Holy Ghost as
the soul or the inner principle of the Church. This is the same
thought with the one which will be presently evolved, in which the
inner principle of catholicity will be reduced to the conception of
the _supernatural_. This, however, considered in itself, is withdrawn
from the region of historical manifestation. In order that it may pass
from the region of the invisible into that of apprehensible reality,
it needs a medium that may connect together both orders, the invisible
order of the supernatural and the order of historical manifestation.
It is only in this {98} way that catholicity can acquire for itself a
historical shape, and assume flesh and blood.

  [Footnote 11: Bellarm., _De Eccl. milit._, cap. ii.]

We might be disposed to regard the sacraments as this medium, because
they are the instruments by which grace is conferred, in a manner
apprehensible through the senses. Nevertheless, we cannot find the
constitutive principle of the Church in the sacraments alone. It is
well known that Protestantism has set forth the legitimate
administration of the sacraments as a mark of the true Church. A
searching glance at the Protestant conception of the Church will
hereafter give us a proof that a bare communication in sacraments, at
least from the Protestant stand-point, cannot possibly verify itself
as making a visible Church. According to the Protestant doctrine of
justification, a sacrament is indebted for its grace-giving efficacy
solely to the faith of the receiver. In this view, therefore, the
connection of the invisible element of the supernatural with the
historically manifested reality, and consequently the making visible
of the true Church, is dependent on conditions where historical
fulfilment is not provable. Who can prove whether the recipient of a
sacrament has faith? It is true that, according to the Catholic view,
an objective efficacy is ascribed to the sacrament, i.e., the
outwardly perceptible completion of the sacramental action of itself
permits the invisible element of the supernatural to penetrate into
the sphere of the visible.

Notwithstanding this, the Catholic sacrament is, by itself alone, no
sufficient medium through which the being of the true Church can be
brought into visibility. Did she embody herself historically only in
so far as a sensible matter and an outward action are endued with a
supernatural efficacy, the element of the supernatural would come to a
historical manifestation only as the purely objective. A profound view
of the essence of the Church would not find this satisfactory. The
Church, even on her visible side, is not a purely objective, or merely
outward, institution. The ultimate principle of catholicity--and this
statement will make our conception intelligible--although implanted in
the world as a supernatural leaven from above, has nevertheless its
seat in the deepest interior of the human spirit. Thence it penetrates
upward into the sphere of historical manifestation, and thus proves
itself a church-constitutive principle. Such a connection of the
region of the interior and subjective with that of historical and
visible reality is caused by the objective efficacy of a sacrament,
only in the case where the same is productive of its proper effect.
This, however, according to Catholic doctrine, presupposes an inward
disposition on the part of the recipient, the presence of which cannot
be manifested to outward apprehension. A Church, whose essence
consisted merely in the bond established through the sacraments, could
either not be verified with certitude, or would have an exclusively
exterior character. Accordingly, we have not yet found, in the
Catholic sacramental conception, the middle term we are seeking, by
which the essence of catholicity can be brought into visible
manifestation. Rather, this process has to be already completed and
the conception of the Church to be actualized, before the sacrament
can manifest its efficacy. Through this last, the element of the
supernatural, i.e., the invisible germ of the Church, must be
originally planted or gradually strengthened in individual souls. But
this is effected by the sacrament as the organ and in the name of the
Church, though in particular cases outside of her communion.

The continuous existence of Catholicity is essentially the
self-building of the body of Christ. It produces its own increase
through the instrumentality of the sacraments.  [Footnote 12] The
union between the supernatural and the historical actuality, or the
bond of {99} catholicity, is not then first established in the
sacraments. These only mediate for individual souls the reception into
the union, or confirm them in their organic relation to it, and are
signs of fellowship. In addition to what has been already said, there
is another reason, and one of wider application, to be considered, as
bearing on this point. The principle of a new life which has to be
infused into individual souls through the sacraments is sanctifying
grace. In this, therefore, by logical consequence, we should be
obliged to recognize the interior constitutive principle of the
Church, if it were true that the connection between the inner being of
the Church and her historical manifestation were brought to pass
through the efficacy of the sacraments. According to this apprehension
of the subject, only the saints would belong to the true Church.

  [Footnote 12: Eph. iv. 16.]

One might seek to evade this last conclusion by averring that in the
instance of baptism, the sacrament produces in the soul of the
recipient, beside sanctifying grace, still another effect,
independently of the disposition, namely, the baptismal character.
This character is an indelible mark impressed on the soul. Here, then,
is given us a supernatural principle which penetrates the deepest
interior of the human spirit, and which is, at the same time, capable
of verifying itself as a historical fact; inasmuch as it is infallibly
infused into the soul through an outward, sensible action, and
thereby, through the medium of the latter, becomes visible. Beside
this, one might be still more inclined to regard the baptismal
character as the Church's formative principle, because the same is
stamped upon the soul through a sacrament, whose special end is to
incorporate with the body of Christ its individual members; for which
reason, also, baptism is designated in the language of the Church as
the gate of the spiritual life, _vitae spiritualis janua_.   [Footnote

  [Footnote 13: _Decret. pro Armenia_.]

We must, however, in this immediate connection, put in a reminder,
that it is a disputed point in theology, whether baptism is really, in
all cases, the indispensably necessary condition of becoming a member
of the Church. In the opinion of prominent theologians, a mere
catechumen can, under certain circumstances, be a member of the
Church.   [Footnote 14] Be that as it may, no one will certainly
dispute the fact that a catechumen, whose soul is glowing with divine
love, belongs at least to the soul of the Church. In him, therefore,
the inner germ of the Church's life really exists before the reception
of the baptismal character. Beside this, it appears to us that the
sacramental character, precisely in view of its determinate end, is
not so qualified that we can put it forward as the interior principle
of catholicity. The baptismal character is intended for a distinctive
mark; by it the seal of Church membership is stamped on the soul. It
is true that the same action by which the character is impressed on
the soul also makes the baptized person a member of the Church, or,
that in the same act which plants the inner germ of the Church's being
in the heart, the soul receives also the characteristic outward
impress of that being. But in so far as it is the immediate and proper
faculty of the baptismal character to impress the stamp of the Church
in indelible features upon the soul, the very conception of this
character presupposes necessarily the conception of the Church, as
prior to itself; which shows that we cannot find the principle of the
interior being of the Church in the baptismal character. This is
confirmed by the additional consideration that the baptismal character
is not effaced from those souls which have broken off every kind of
connection with the Church, and have absolutely nothing remaining in
them by which they communicate in her being. Finally, the existence of
the Church, at least so far as her inner being or soul is concerned,
{100} does not date its origin from the institution of baptism. We
must, therefore, go one step further, in order to discover the
interior source of catholicity. As has been heretofore pointed out,
this source lies in that region which we are usually wont to designate
as the Supernatural Order. Let us, therefore, make a succinct
exposition of the interior law of development in this order.

  [Footnote 14: Suarez, _De Fide. Disp._ ix., § i., No. 18.]

According to the Catholic doctrine, _faith_ is the beginning of human
salvation, the ground and root of justification, [Footnote 15] _i.e._,
of the supernatural life of the soul. St. Paul designates faith "the
substance of things hoped for."   [Footnote 16] That is to say, the
beatific vision of God, and with it the point toward which the whole
supernatural order tends and in which it rests, has its foundation
laid in faith, and is already in germ contained in it. Christ, and
with him the fountain of our supernatural life, dwells in us through
faith.   [Footnote 17] Is Christ, therefore, called the foundation,
beside which no other can be laid,   [Footnote 18 ]then is faith
recognized in the basis of the supernatural order, because by faith we
are immediately brought into union with Christ. Wherefore the apostle
makes our participation in the fruits of the work of redemption
precisely dependent on the condition, "If so ye continue in the faith,
grounded and settled."  [Footnote 19] The same portion as foundation,
which faith has in the inner life of grace in the soul, is also
accorded to it in relation to the exterior structure of the Church.
The visibility of the true Church is only the historical embodiment of
the element of the supernatural. The divine building of the Church has
for its foundation the apostles,  [Footnote 20] that is, as the sense
of the passage evidently is, through the faith which they preached.
Very remarkable is the form of expression in the well-known saying of
the apostle: "One Lord, one faith, one baptism."   [Footnote 21] Here
the unity of faith is given the precedence of the unity produced
through baptism, as being its necessary pre-requisite. The one baptism
is the bond of unity of the Church only in the second line. Through
it, namely, the fruitful germ of the one faith in which exclusively
the unity of the Church has its root, is continually planted in
individual souls, an actual confession of that faith being also
included in the ceremony of baptism itself.

  [Footnote 15: _Trid. Sess._ vi.,  cap. 8.]

  [Footnote 16: Heb. xi. i.]

  [Footnote 17: Eph iii. 17.]

  [Footnote 18: I Cor. iii. 11.]

  [Footnote 19: Coloss. i. 23.]

  [Footnote 20: Eph. ii. 20.]

  [Footnote 21: Eph. iv. 5.]

The Church herself makes use of language which clearly shows that she
regards faith as the deepest principle of her being.  [Footnote 22]
The Catechism of the Council of Trent defines the Church as "the
faithful dispersed throughout the world."  [Footnote 23]

  [Footnote 22: _Concil. Lateran., iv. cap. Firmiter: Una fidelium
  universalis ecclesia_. ]

  [Footnote 23: _Catech. Rom._,  pars 1,  cap. x. . qu. 2. ]

According to St. Thomas, also, the unity, and consequently the
catholicity of the Church, is radically grounded in faith. The angelic
doctor means here living faith, or _fides formata_. According to this
view, the principle of catholicity pervades the innermost depth of
subjectivity. At the same time it is clear how the same comes to an
historical manifestation. This takes place in the symbol of the
Church. The faith which finds its historical expression in the
ecclesiastical symbol is to be regarded as _fides formata_,  [Footnote
24] for this reason, because it is a confession of faith made in the
name and by the personality of the collective Church, which possesses
its inward principle of unity in the _fides formata_, or living faith.
Moreover, the symbol of the Church is a constant warning for those of
her members who have not the grace of sanctification to make their
faith living through charity.   [Footnote 25]

  [Footnote 24: That is, faith made perfect by charity as it exists in
  a person who is in the state of grace, in contradistinction from the
  faith of a sinner.--TRANSLATOR ]

    [Footnote 25: _Secunda Secundae_, qu. 1. a. q. ad 3. ]

In the foregoing doctrinal exposition St. Thomas has marked out for us
the path to be followed in seeking {101} for the medium of union
between the exterior and ulterior catholicity of the Church. Our
argument must start, therefore, from the position that the unity of
the Church in the first line is a unity in faith. In this notion we
have the speculative middle term between the inner being of the Church
and her historical form of manifestation. From the blending of both
these elements is formed the full, adequate idea of catholicity. This
last exhibits itself as a force acting in two distinct spheres, that
of the inward subjectivity and that of historical objectivity.
Consequently, the exterior and interior catholicity of the Church, or
the two sides of Catholicism, must be reduced to the same principle. A
further evolution of this thought will make it clear, why the being of
the true Church can only find its true actualization in the historical
form of Catholicism.

The catholic visible form of the Church, as pointed out above, is
indicated in the papacy. But in what relation does the latter stand to
the interior catholicity of the Church? In order to find the right
answer to this decisive question, we must first more exactly define in
what sense the papacy must be regarded as the bond of the historical
unity of the Church. It must be so regarded, precisely in so far as
the primacy has been instituted for the special end of preserving the
faith incorrupt. According to the teaching of the Fathers of the
Church, Peter is the Church's foundation of rock, in virtue of his
faith.  [Footnote 26] By this, of course, is not meant the personal
confession of the Apostle Peter, but the object-matter of the same,
the contents of the faith to be preached by Peter and his successors.
Peter, says Leo the Great, is called by Christ the Rock, on account of
the solidity of the faith which he was to preach, _pro soliditate
fidei quam erat praedicaturus_.  [Footnote 27 ] This is not the place
to develop further in what way the papacy proves itself in act the
cement of the unity of faith. We shall speak of that later. It is
enough for our purpose, in the meanwhile, to take note of the judgment
of the ancient Church. According to the doctrine of the Fathers of the
Church, the fundamental significance which the papacy has for the
Church, rests upon a relation of dependence between her faith and the
faith of Peter, including by consequence that of his successors. In
this sense St. Hilarius distinctly calls the faith of the Apostle
Peter the foundation of the Church.  [Footnote 28] The same view is
found in St. Ambrose,  [Footnote 29] expressed in nearly the same
words. But if Peter is the Church's foundation of rock precisely
through his faith, that mutual relation between the inner catholicity
of the Church and the papacy is no longer doubtful. For that the
Church, according to her inward essence, verifies herself as the
Catholic Church, she owes precisely to her faith, as likewise, on the
other side, her catholic visible form is conditioned by the outward
profession of the same faith. Consequently, the papacy as guardian of
the unity of faith, stands also in a necessary connection with the
inner being of the Church. Here then we have the uniting member we
have been seeking between inward and outward catholicity, the essence
and the manifestation of the Church. _In so far as the historical
connection with Peter must be conceived as a bond of faith, in this
same connection or in the form of Catholicism, the true Church, even
as to her inner being, comes historically into visible manifestation._

  [Footnote 26: See the relevant passages from the fathers in
  Ballerini, _De vi ac rations primatus Rom. Pont._, cap. xii., § 1,
  No. 1. ]

  [Footnote 27: Serm. 62.]

  [Footnote 28: _De Trin_., vi. 37. ]

  [Footnote 29: _De Incarn_., cap. 5. ]

Faith, which we affirm to be the essential kernel of Catholicism, has
two sides, one which is interior and subjective, and another which
comes to outward manifestation. With the heart we believe unto
justification, but with the mouth confession is made unto salvation.
[Footnote 30] A revealed truth {102} corresponds to supernatural faith
as its necessary object. Therefore, it may be remarked in passing, the
subjective act of faith is equally infallible with the divine
testimony itself, upon which it is essentially based.   [Footnote 31]
This revealed object of faith, without which a supernatural faith is
entirely inconceivable, is mediated or set forth through an organ
directly instituted by God for this purpose. An individual, who thinks
that he has discovered, through private investigation or in any other
way, a particular point of doctrine, which hitherto has not been
universally received as such, to be a revealed truth, can only make it
an object of supernatural faith, when he is able to judge with
certainty that this supposed new doctrine of faith would be approved
by the infallible, divinely appointed organ of revealed truth.
[Footnote 32]

  [Footnote 30:  Rom. x. 10.]

  [Footnote 31: St. Thomas, _Secunda Secunda_, q. 1 a. 3.]

  [Footnote 32: Suarez, _De Fide. Disp._ iii., Sect, xiii., No. 9.]

This mediating organ is, however, as we shall fully show in the course
of our further exposition, no other than the Apostle Peter, and
through the relation which he bears to him, his legitimate successor
in office. Peter is the support and the strength of his brethren,
inasmuch as _his_ faith, to which the dogmatic utterance of his
successors gives a new expression according to the needs of the
Church, forms a criterion for the faith of the Church. Peter,
preaching of the faith, continually apprehensible through the papal
definitions of faith, gives to the faith of the Church the specific
form under which the same incorporates itself historically in an
ecclesiastical confession. But in the Church-confession of faith, as
we have before shown, its inner being comes into visible
manifestation. As medium of Peter's preaching of the faith, the papacy
is consequently also a Church-constitutive principle, inasmuch as
through the actualization of the supreme power delegated to him by
Christ, the being of the Church is made visible, and obtains an
historical form. This is the sense of the words, "On this Rock I will
build my Church."

As we have, in the foregoing remarks, conceived of the papacy as the
angle at which the two sides of Catholicism meet, the uniting bond of
the outward and inward catholicity of the Church, we are further bound
to show why precisely the papacy is the appropriate organ to establish
that union between the essence and the manifestation of Catholicism,
and thereby to mediate the actualization of the true idea of the
Church. For this purpose we must endeavor to penetrate somewhat deeper
into the inner being or soul of the Church. We shall there find a
tendency which makes the Catholic form of manifestation of the Church
a postulate of her being. This tendency lies in the character of the
_supernatural_. In the conception of the supernatural we shall
endeavor to point out the radical conception of Catholicism. The
papacy, and the Catholic visible form of the Church mediated by it,
is, in our opinion, the necessary consequence of the supernaturality
of her being.

Thus far we have sketched in brief outlines the mutual relation of the
two sides of Catholicism. We must reserve for a subsequent article the
detailed theological proof of that which we have for the present
suggested as a new theory. Meanwhile we would like to exhibit, in a
few words, the interest which an investigation of this subject claims
for itself at this particular period of time.


The distinction between an exterior and interior catholicity of the
Church is but slightly touched upon in our books of dogmatic
instruction. No one need wonder at this circumstance. It is well known
that the controversy with Protestantism gave occasion to the usual
modern method of treating of the marks of the Church. The {103} method
of the great controversialists of the age of the Reformation has, at
least in regard to the present question, remained, to a considerable
extent, the model for the dogmatic writers of the present time. The
theologians of a former time, however, found no necessity for
expressly distinguishing between the catholicity of the being of the
Church and that of her manifestation. It was enough for their purpose
to prove that the Church, in her historical manifestation, is the
Catholic Church.

The Protestantism of the epoch of the Reformation claimed for its
congregations the honor of having actualized the true idea of the
Church. The churches of Wittenberg, Zurich, and Geneva each pretended
to be the true copy of the evangelical primitive Church. It was easy
for Catholic polemics to destroy this pretension. It was only
necessary to inspect the particular Protestant churches a little
closely. Such a reconnoissance conducted necessarily to the
indubitable conclusion that none of those communions had the marks of
the true Church upon it, and that these were realized only in the
Church in communion with the Pope.

Modern Protestantism is much more modest in its pretensions. The
present champions of the Protestant cause characterize, without
disguise, the attempt of the Reformers to bring the essence of the
true Church historically into manifestation in their communions as a
gross error and a backsliding into Catholicism. They will have it,
that the characteristic principle of Protestantism lies precisely in
the acknowledgment that the true essence of the Church can find its
correlative expression in none of the existing churches. The true
Church, according to this notion, remains an unattainable ideal as
long as the world stands. Not to actualize the idea of the Church,
only to strive after its actualization, is the task of a religious
communion. The Protestantism of the day accordingly recognizes it as
its vocation "to give Christianity precisely the expression and form
which best corresponds to the necessities of the time, the demands of
an advanced science and culture, the grade of intellectual and moral
development of the Christian nations."  [Footnote 33]

  [Footnote 33: Schenkel, "Essence of Prot.," p. 4.]

Protestant polemic theology makes the following use of this view. Over
against the magnificent historical manifestation of the Catholic
Church, the torn and rent condition of the Protestant religious
community presents a striking contrast. The proximate conclusion that
the true Church can only be found within the circle of Catholicism,
they seek now to anticipate on the Protestant side by the observation
that already from the outset one makes a false start who would wish to
recognize the true Church by her form of historical manifestation.
According to the Protestant view, the mark of catholicity verifies
itself exclusively in the inner being of the Church, and not in her
outward manifestation. For, owing to the constant progress of human
development, and the extremely diversified individuality of single
nations, the historical manifestation of the Church must be multiform
to the same extent as the intellectual and moral wants of the
different peoples are various. Nevertheless, in spite of the manifold
differences which distinguish the particular churches in their
historical manifestation, the members of the same blend themselves
together into a great invisible spiritual kingdom. This is the _ideal_

This is the response which modern Protestantism makes when Catholic
criticism places before its eyes the melancholy picture of its inward
divisions and the history of its variations. From the historical
manifestation of a church to its inner being they say the conclusion
is invalid. In order, therefore, to make Catholic polemics effective,
the relation between the essence and the manifestation of the Church
must be first of all theologically {104} established. It is only after
this has been done that the comparison between "the Church and the
churches" can be exhibited in its entire argumentative force.

The theory of the ideal church is not yet effectively refuted, when we
on the Catholic side content ourselves with proving that the true
Church must become visible. This general proposition does not exclude
the proposition of our opponents. For, according to the Protestant
doctrine, also, the creative power of the spirit of Christianity
exhibits itself in the construction of visible congregations, and the
gradual actualization of the ideal Church is conditioned by a sensibly
apprehensible mediation. The final decision of this question must
therefore be sought in the demonstration of the proposition that the
inmost being of the Church can only realize itself historically in the
one specific form; that a catholicity of the essence of the Church
without a catholicity in her manifestation is entirely inconceivable.
Only by this demonstration will the retreat of Protestant polemics
into the ideal Church be for ever cut off.

Some have argued against the Protestant view, that as Christian truth
is one so the visible Church can also be but one.  [Footnote 34] The
argument is valid only in the prior supposition that there can be but
a single form of historical manifestation for the inner being of the
Church. This, however, Protestantism denies in the sense, that from
its stand-point every particular church represents the idea of the
Church,  [Footnote 35] even though it may be on one side only.
According to the diversified stages of cultivation in the Christian
people, so they say, now one, now another side of Christian truth
attains to its expression in the particular confessions, but in none
the full and entire truth. The contradiction existing between these,
therefore, in nowise falls back upon the Christian verity itself. This
Protestant evasion can also be alone met in the way above designated,
by establishing the relation between the essence and the manifestation
of Catholicism.

  [Footnote 34: Moehler, "Symbolism."]

  [Footnote 35: This is also the theory of High-Church
  Episcopalianism. Mr. Sewall has defined it more logically than any
  other writer of that school. According to him, the unity of the
  Church consists in this, that all churches are formed after one
  ideal model, or on one principle, and the separate churches of
  individual bishops are each a perfect organic whole. That is,
  Catholic unity is an _abstract_ unity, concreted in each particular
  bishop and diocese. Hence there can be no organized unity of the
  universal Church, but only _union_ or friendly communion of
  independent churches. This notion was highly approved by Bishop
  Whittingham, who expressed it in this way, that the true communion
  of churches with each other is in _speculo Trinitatis_. It is pure
  Congregationalism, bating the difference between a diocese governed
  by a chief and inferior pastors, and a single congregation under one
  pastor or several of the same order. But it is the only logical
  conception of a visible church possible, when the papacy, or
  principle of universal organic unity, is denied. It is the logical
  result of the schismatical position of the Greeks, who have no unity
  among themselves except that which is national, but are divided into
  several independent bodies. Hence, the so-called "union movement,"
  as clearly shown by Cardinal Patrizi in the Decree sent to the
  English bishops, is one which proceeds from a denial of Catholic
  unity, and therefore can never lead to unity, but only aim at union,
  or voluntary co-operation of distinct churches with each other. The
  High-Church theory differs from that of the German Protestants in
  this that the former requires that all churches should be alike, and
  each one represent completely the ideal Church; but both are based
  on the same principle, that of an abstract, invisible unity and
  catholicity, concreted in an individual and not a generic and
  universal mode.--TRANSLATOR.]

It has been further argued that a Church of the Nations, which the
Christian Church must be, according to its idea, is entirely
inconceivable without the papacy at its summit.  [Footnote 36] Here,
also, it is presupposed, as already proved, that the conception of
universality which is essentially connected with the idea of the true
Church must also necessarily impress itself upon her actual
explication of herself in time. But it is precisely against this
notion that modern Protestantism contends. Therefore, if our polemic
arms are to bring down their man, the affair must begin with a sharper
delineation of the mutual relation between the essence and the visible
form of the Church.

  [Footnote 36: Döllinger, "The Church and the Churches."]

Beside the polemic advantages to be gained in the course which has
been suggested, there is another in the interest of pacification.
Under the rubbish of the Protestant Church-idea there still lies
buried a remnant of {105} Catholic truth. We ought not to shun the
trouble of bringing this to light. It is the Christian truth contained
in his confession which binds the believing Protestant to it. Catholic
theology has to reclaim this as its own property. It has the mission
intrusted to it to show how the religious satisfaction, which the
deeper Protestant mind thinks it finds in the doctrinal conception of
its confession, is imparted to it in richer abundance and morally
purified through the dogma of the Church. Through this conciliatory
method, an understanding of the Catholic truth can be much more easily
and effectually imparted to the unprejudiced Protestant mind than by a
rough polemical method. This end is most essentially served by the
distinction between the essence and the manifestation of Catholicism.

Protestant piety makes a great boast of its deep spirituality. The
modern ideal theory of the Church owes a great share of its popularity
to its aptitude of application in this direction. By means of this
conception, the Protestant Church is expected to exhibit itself in a
new light as the church of the interior and spiritual life. Does one
attain the same depth of view from the Catholic stand-point? All doubt
on this point must disappear on thorough consideration of what we have
above named, the inner side of Catholicism.

There is another ground for the favor with which this ideal theory of
the Church is at present received. Protestant theology regards it as a
means of its own resuscitation. The old doctrine of justification by
faith alone has in great part lost the charm it once exercised over
the hearts of the German people. The once mighty battle-cry of inward,
subjective faith is no longer to the taste of our age. Therefore, in
our time, instead of the antiquated idea of immediate union with
Christ, the world-moving power of the mind, the creative power of the
idea, is set up as the distinguishing principle of Protestantism. The
latter is thus made to appear as the most powerful protector of the
liberal aspirations of the age.

Catholic controversy must take some cognizance of this, if it would
make its own proper principle prevail. While Protestantism seeks to
gain the favor of the contemporary world by obsequiously yielding to
the caprices of the spirit of the age, the inner principle of
Catholicism raises it above the vacillations which sway particular
periods. Only a Church which, thanks to its native principle, is not
borne along by intellectual and social periodical currents, can
effectually correct their movement. In order, therefore, to measure
accurately the influence which the Church, by virtue of her
institution, is called to exercise upon human society, we must
penetrate into her innermost essence, to the very point where
Catholicism has its deepest principle. First from this point can we
correctly understand in how far the Church is a social power. From
this point of view alone can we comprehend her aptitude to be the
teacher of the nations. And precisely of this social and instructive
vocation have our contemporaries lost the right understanding to a
great extent. It is one of the mightiest tasks of our modern theology
to make the minds of men once more capable of apprehending this truth.
[Footnote 37]

  [Footnote 37: A few sentences rather digressive from the main topic
  of the article are hero omitted.--TRANSLATOR.]

The high importance of authority in the system of Catholicism is well
known. This fundamental principle runs a danger of being placed in a
false light, when it is depressed to the level of the historical and
exterior side of the Church. Ecclesiastical authority, separated from
the ground which lies back of it and which is above the temporal
order, may appear even to the well-disposed as a mere brake for the
stoppage of all intellectual progress. This suggests a temptation to
desire a compromise between the Church and the spirit of the age. When
one takes a merely exterior and {106} historical view of church
authority, the proper spirit of joyousness which ought to belong to
faith is wanting in the submission which is rendered to its decrees.
It is very easy, then, to fall into a sort of diplomatic way of acting
toward the Church as teacher of doctrine. One seeks to accommodate
one's self to her doctrine through subtile distinctions. On the
contrary, the boldest scientific mind frankly and cheerfully bows
itself under the yoke of the obedience of faith, when it sees that the
Church, in her doctrinal decision, is acting from her own interior

Our doctrinal exposition requires now that we should go into a more
thorough argument respecting the immanent principle of Catholicism,
which we shall first of all undertake to do on Scriptural grounds.
This part of the subject will be treated in an ensuing article.


From The Cornhill Magazine.



In the immediate vicinity of the capital of the kingdom of Lilliput
there is a charming village called "Les Grenouillettes." This rural
resort of the citizens of Mildendo consists, mainly, of three hotels,
thirty public-houses, and five ponds. The population I should reckon
at about ten millions, inclusive of frogs, who are the principal
inhabitants, and who make a great noise in the world there.

Hither flock the jocund burgesses, and dance to the sound of harp and
viol. . . .

It occurs to me that, sprightly as I may think it to call Belgium
Lilliput, the mystification might possibly become tiresome and
inconvenient if persisted in throughout this narrative, beside
becoming absolutely unnecessary. As for the village in question, I
have a reason or two for not calling it by its right name.

About half-a-dozen years ago, my brother (Captain John Freshe, R.N.),
his wife, and I had been wearily jogging all a summer's day in search
of country lodgings for a few weeks in the immediate neighborhood of
Brussels. Now nothing can be more difficult to find in that locality,
except under certain conditions.

You can live at a village hotel, and pay a maximum price for minimum

You can, possibly, lodge in a public-house, where it will cost you
dear, however little you pay.

Or you can, in some villages, hire empty rooms in an entirely empty
house, and hire furniture from Brussels, and servants, if you have
none, by the month.

This last alternative has the advantage of ennobling your position
into a quasi-martyrdom, by, in a measure, compelling you to stay where
you are, whether you like it or not.

Toward the end of that longest of the long days, we began to regard
life and circumstance with the apathy of despair, and to cease to hope
for anything further from them except dinner.

The capital of the kingdom of Lilliput appeared to be partially
surrounded by a vast and melancholy campagna of turnips. These wilds,
immeasurably spread, seemed lengthening as we went. Village after
{107} village had we reached, and explored in vain. Judging by our
feelings, I should say we had ransacked at least half-a-hundred of
those rural colonies. Almost all these villages possessed at least six
public-houses and two ponds. Some few had no ponds, but all had six
public-houses. Rural, dusty, cracked public-houses; with frowzy
gardens, with rotten, sloppy tables and benches; with beery gorillas
playing at quoits and ninepins.

The names of none of these settlements seemed to us pronounceable by
human beings, with the exception of two, which sounded like Diggum and
Hittumontheback. But our city driver appeared to be acquainted with
the Simian tongue, and was directed from village to village by the
good-natured apes whom he interrogated.

About sunset we came to a larger and quite civilized place, with a
French name, signifying "The Tadpoles"--the place I have described at
the commencement of this narrative. Our dusty fly and dejected horse
turned into the carriage entrance of the first little hotel we saw. It
stood sideways to a picturesque little lake, with green shores. The
carriage entrance went through the house. Beyond, we had caught sight
of a paved yard or court, and of a vista of green leafiness that
looked cool and inviting. We heard the noisy jangling of a
barrel-organ playing a polka, and we found a performance going on in
the court that absorbed the attention of the whole household. No one
seemed to hear, or at least to heed, the sound of our wheels, but,
when our vehicle fairly stopped in the paved yard, a fishy-eyed waiter
came toward us, jauntily flipping time with his napkin. We begged him
to get us dinner instantly.

"Way, Mosou," replied that official, in the sweet Belgian-French
language, and let us out of the fly. We had been so long cramped up in
it that we were glad to walk, and stand, and look about the court
while our food was got ready.

The organ-grinder had not ceased grinding out his polka for a moment.
The wiry screams of his infernal machine seemed to charm him as much
as they did the rest of the company assembled. He was the usual
Savoyard, with a face like a burnt crust; all fire-brown eyes, sable
ringlets, and insane grimace. He leaned against a low stone post, and
ground out that horrible bray, like a grinning maniac. We walked to a
short distance, and took in the scene.

A little sallow young man, having a bushy mustache, stood near a door
into the house, with a dish in his hand, as if he had been transfixed
in the act of carrying it somewhere. Beside him, on the step of the
door, sat a blonde young woman, with large blue eyes and a little
mouth--as pretty and as _fade_ as a Carlo-Dolcian Madonna. Evidently
these were the landlord and his lady.

On a garden-bench, by the low wall that divided the court from the
garden beyond, sat, a little apart, a young person of a decidedly
French aspect, dressed quite plainly, but with Parisian precision, in
black silk. In her hand and on her lap lay some white embroidery. She
was not pretty, but had neat, small features, that wore a pleasant
though rather sad smile, as she suspended her work to watch what was
going on. An old woman in a dark-blue gown and a clean cap, with a
pile of freshly-ironed linen in her arms, stood at the top of some
steps leading into a little building which was probably the laundry.
She was wagging her old head merrily to the dance tune. Other
lookers-on lounged about, but some of them had vanished since our
arrival--for instance, the fishy-eyed waiter and a burly individual in
a white nightcap.

The centre of attraction remains to be described. Within a few paces
of the organ-grinder, a little girl and boy danced indefatigably on
the stones, to the unmusical music of his box. The little boy was a
small, fair, sickly child, in a linen blouse, and about four years
old. He jumped, and stamped, and {108} laughed excitedly. The little
girl looked about a year older. She was plump and rosy, dressed in a
full pink frock and black silk apron. She had light brown hair, cut
short and straight, like a boy's. She danced very energetically, but
solemnly, without a smile on her wee round mouth. She poussetted, she
twirled--her pink frock spread itself out like a parasol. Her fat
little bare arms akimbo, she danced in a gravely coquettish,
thoroughly business-like way; now crossing, changing places with her
partner; now setting to him, with little pattering feet; now suddenly
whisking and whirling off. The little boy watched her, and followed
her lead: she was the governing spirit of the dance. Both children
kept admirable time. They were dancing the tarantella, though they had
never heard of it; but of all the poetry of motion, the tarantella is
the most natural measure to fall into.

The organ-grinder ground, and grinned, and nodded; the landlord and
his wife exchanged looks of admiration and complacency whenever they
could take their eyes off the little dancing nymph: it was easy to see
they were her proud parents. The quiet young lady on the bench looked
tenderly at the tiny, sickly boy, as he frisked. We felt sure she was
his mother. His eyes were light blue, not hazel; but he had the same
neat little features.

All of a sudden, down from an open window looking into the court,
there came an enormous voice--

"Ah, ah! Bravo! Ah, ah, Monsieur Babébibo-BOU!"

The little boy stopped dancing; so did the little girl, and every one
looked up at the window. The little boy, clapping his hands and
screaming with glee, ran under it. No one could be seen at that
aperture, but we had caught a momentary glimpse of a big blond man in
a blue blouse, who had instantly dropped out of sight, and who was
crouching on the floor, for we saw, though the child below could not,
the top of his straw hat just above the window-edge. The little boy
screamed, "Papa, papa!" The great voice, making itself preternaturally
gruff, roared out--

"Qui est là? Est-ce par chance Monsieur Babébibo-BOU?" (The first
syllables very fast, the final one explosive.)

"Way, way! C'est Mosou Babi--_bou_!" cried the child, trying to
imitate the gruff voice, and jumping and laughing ecstatically.

Out of the window came flying a huge soft ball of many colors, and
then another roar: "Avec les compliments du Roi de tous les joujoux, à
Monsieur Babébibo-BOU!"

More rapture. Then a large white packet, palpably sugar-plums, "Avec
les compliments de la Reine de tous les bonbons, a Mademoiselle Marie,
et à Monsieur Babébibo-BOU!"

Rapture inexpressible, except by shrill shrieks and capers. The plump
little girl gravely advances and assists at the examination of the
packet, popping comfits into her tiny mouth with a placid melancholy,
which I have often observed in fat and rosy faces.

Meanwhile, the organ-grinder has at last stopped grinding, has lowered
his box, and is eating a plateful of cold meat and bread which the old
woman has brought out to him. The landlord and his wife have
disappeared. The young Frenchwoman on the garden-bench has risen, and
come toward the children; and now, from a doorway leading into the
house, issues the big blond man we caught a momentary glimpse of at
the window.

The little boy abandons the sugar-plums to his playfellow, and crying
"Papa! papa!" darts to the new comer, who stoops and gathers him up to
his broad breast, in his large arms and hands, kissing him fondly and
repeatedly. The child responds with like effusion. The father's great
red face, with its peaked yellow beard, contrasts touchingly, somehow,
with the wee pale phiz of his little son. {109} The child's tiny white
pads pat the jolly cheeks and pull the yellow beard. Then the man in
the blouse sets his son carefully on the ground, and kisses the young
Frenchwoman who stands by.

The big man has evidently been absent awhile from his family. "How
goes it, my sister?" says he.

"Well, my brother," she answers quietly. "Thou hast seen Auguste
dance. Thou hast seen how well, and strong, and happy he is--the good
God be thanked."

"And after him, thee, my good sister," says the big man,

We had been called in to dinner by this time, but the open window of
our eating-room looked into the court close to where the group stood.
We observed that Mademoiselle Marie had remained sole possessor of the
packet of sweets; and that the little boy, content to have got his
papa, made no effort to assert his rights in them. The big papa
interfered, saying, "Mais, mais, la petite.... Give at least of the
bonbons to thy comrade. It is only fair."

"Let her eat them, Jean," put in his sister, with naive feminine
generosity and justice. "They are so unwholesome for Auguste, seest

The big man laughed, lit his pipe, and the three went away into the
little garden, where they strolled, talking in the summer twilight.

We came happily to an anchor here, in this foggy little haven, and
finding we could secure, at tolerably moderate charges, the
accommodation we required, made up our minds to stay at this little
hotel for the few weeks of our absence from Brussels.


Next morning we were breakfasting in the garden under a trellis of
hop-leaves, when the big man in the blouse came up the gravel-walk,
with his small son on his shoulder.

They were making a tremendous noise. The little boy was pulling his
father's great red ear; he affected to bellow with anguish, his
roaring voice topped by the child's shrill, gleeful treble. We saluted
the new comers in a neighborly manner.

"A beautiful day, Madame," said the big man, in French, taking off his
hat and bowing politely to John's wife, at the same time surrounding
his son safely with his left arm.

"Madame and these Messieurs are English, is it not?"

"A pretty place," we went on to say, after owning our nationality,
"and very pleasant in this hot weather after the glare of Brussels."

"It is that; and I am here as often as possible," returned our new
acquaintance. "My sister is staying here for the advantage of this
little man. . . . Monsieur Auguste, at your service. Salute then the
society, Auguste. You must know he has the pretension to be a little
delicate, this young man. An invalid, if you please; consequently his
aunt spoils him! It is a ruse on his part, you perceive. Ah, bah! An
invalid! My word, he fatigues my poor arm. Ah--h! I cannot longer
sustain him. I faint--I drop him down he goes. . . la--a--à!"

Here, lowering him carefully, as if he were crystal, he pretended to
let his son suddenly tumble on a bit of grass-plot.

"At present" (grumbling) "here he is, broken to pieces probably; we
shall have the trouble of mending him. His aunt must bring her needle
and thread."

Monsieur Auguste was so enchanted with this performance that he
encored it ecstatically. His father obeyed, and then sent him off
running to call out his aunt to breakfast, which was laid under a
neighboring trellis.

"He is strong on his legs, is it not, Madame?" said the father,
looking after him; his jolly face and light blue eyes a little grave,
and wistful. "His spirits are so high, see you? He is {110} too
intelligent, too intellectual--he has a little exhausted his strength;
that says all. He is well enough; he has no malady; and every day he
is getting stouter, plainly to the eye."

Here the aunt and nephew joined us. Our new acquaintance introduced

"Ma belle-soeur. Ma chère,--Madame and these Messieurs are English.
They are good enough to take an interest in this infant Hercules of

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 "même 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 fiancé 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. "Ohé! 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.


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 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.

"Sauvé! sauvé!" 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 Médecin; 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

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

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.




"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.

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

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

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 Gesù 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

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



From All The Year Bound.


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, £5,000 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 £1,200
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 £40,000 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 £20,000." 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



From the Dublin Review.


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.





_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
£25 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 £10 to
£12, 10s. The original cost of the young ostriches is said to be £5
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.


The past winter in New York has scarcely kept pace with its immediate
predecessor in the number and merit of the collections of pictures
opened to public inspection or disposed of at auction. The
unprecedented prices obtained for the really excellent collection of
Mr. Wolfe, in Christmas week of 1863, seemed to have inoculated art
collectors and dealers with what may be called a _cacoethes vendendi_,
and until far into the succeeding summer the picture auctioneers were
called upon to knock down dozens of galleries of "private gentlemen
about to leave the country," varying in merit from respectable to
positively bad. In these sales the moderns had decidedly the best of
it, the few {137} "old masters" who ventured to appeal to the
sympathies and pockets of our collectors being at last treated with
proper contempt. But the prices realized by the Wolfe gallery, even
when reduced to a specie basis, were too high to become a recognized
standard of value, and gradually the interest in such sales, as well
as the bids, declined, until the sellers became aware (the purchasers
had become aware some time previous) that the market was overstocked
and the demand for pictures had ceased. The contributions of the
foreign artists to the New York Sanitary Fair brought probably less
than a third of the money that would have been obtained for them had
they been sold in January instead of June, and such collections as
have been scraped together for sale during the present season have met
with but moderate pecuniary success. It is gratifying to know,
however, that our resident artists, both native and foreign-born, have
for the most part been busily and profitably employed, and that in
landscape, and in some departments of _genre_, their works have not
suffered in competition with similar ones by reputable European
painters. Without wishing in any respect to recommend or suggest a
protective system for fostering native art, we cannot but rejoice that
the overthrow of the late exaggerated prices for foreign works will
tend to encourage and develop American artists.

The principal art event in anticipation is the opening of next
exhibition of the National Academy of Design in the building now
hastening to completion at the corner of Fourth avenue and
Twenty-third streets. It is to be hoped that the contributions will be
worthy of the place and the occasion. Recent exhibitions have not been
altogether creditable to the Academy.

Durand, the late president of the Academy, and one of our oldest and
most careful landscape painters, has a characteristic work on
exhibition at Avery's Art Agency, corner of Fourth street and
Broadway. It is called "A Summer Afternoon," and is pervaded by a
soft, pensive sentiment of rural repose. In the elaboration of the
trees and in the soft, mellow distances the artist shows his early
skill, albeit in some of his later pieces the timid handling
inseparable from age is discernible.

A collection of several hundred sketches and studies of no special
merit, by Hicks, has recently been disposed of at auction. The essays
of this gentleman in landscape are not happy, and the specimens in
this collection had better, perhaps, have been excluded.

Rossiter's pictures representing Adam and Eve in Paradise, now on
exhibition in New York, have excited more remark than commendation. It
may be said briefly, that they fail to do justice to the subject.

Curnmings's "Historic Annals of the Academy of Design" have been
published, and constitute an interesting addition to the somewhat
meagre collection of works illustrating American art history.

Mr. Thomas Ball, the well-known sculptor of Boston, is about to depart
for Italy, with the intention of remaining several years in Florence,
and executing there in marble a number of plaster models. Among these
are a life-size statue of Edwin Forrest in the part of "Coriolanus,"
and busts of the late Rev. Thomas Starr King and Edward Everett. The
latter is said to be an admirable likeness.

M. J. Heade, an American artist, formerly of Boston and Providence, is
publishing in London a work upon the humming-birds of Brazil,
illustrated from designs by himself.

The United States Senate was recently the scene of a somewhat animated
debate on art matters, arising out of a proposition to authorize the
artist Powell to "paint a picture for the Capitol at a cost not to
exceed $25,000." The scheme was defeated, chiefly through the
opposition of Senator Sumner, who thought the present an improper time
to devote so large a sum to such a purpose.

A very remarkable picture by Gérôme, the most original, and realistic
of living French painters, is now on exhibition at Goupil's, in this
city. It is entitled "The Prayer of the Arab in the Desert," and in a
small space presents a complete epitome of Oriental life.

In London the General Exhibition of water-color drawings, and
collections of works of Holman Hunt, Madox Brown, and the late David
Roberts, have recently been opened. The last named contains 900
pictures, drawings, and sketches, showing the amazing industry of the
artist, and his skill as a draughtsman.


A monument to Shakespeare, from penny subscriptions, is to be erected
on Primrose Hill, near London.

The sale of the celebrated Pourtalès collection at Paris has been the
all-absorbing art topic abroad. The gallery, at last accounts, was
daily crowded with representatives from all parts of Europe, and the
prices surpassed the estimates of the experts. The value set upon the
whole collection was upward of 3,000,000 francs, but that sum will
probably fall far short of the real total. The bronzes and terra-cotta
occupied four days, and produced over 150,000 francs. The following
are among the most remarkable items: A very small statuette of
Jupiter, found at Besançon in 1820, 8,000 francs; another small
statuette of the same, seated, formerly in the Denon collection,
12,000 francs; the celebrated statuette of Apollo, supposed to date
from the sixth century B.C., from the Neri collection, 5,000 francs;
small statuette of Minerva, arms missing, found at Besançon, 19,200
francs; armor found at Herculaneum, and presented by the Queen of
Naples to Josephine, purchased by the Emperor for 13,000 francs; a
small Roman bust, supposed by Visconti to be a Balbus, bought for the
Louvre for 4,550 francs; a tripod, found in the ruins of the town of
Metapont, and described by Panofka, purchased for the Berlin gallery,
10,000 francs; fine old Roman seat, in bronze, bought for the Louvre,
5,300 francs; vase from Locres, 7,000 francs; another vase, found in
one of the tombs of the Vulci, 9,000 francs.

At the sale of the collection of the Marquis de Lambertye, in Paris, a
charming work by Meissonier, "Reynard in his Study, reading a
Manuscript," was purchased for 12,600 francs; had it not been for the
effect of the Pourtalès sale on the art market, the work would have
fetched considerably more money. It was purchased of the artist
himself, for 16,000 francs, by the late marquis. Another and smaller
picture, not six inches by four, also by Meissonier, was sold on the
same occasion--subject, "Van de Velde in his Atelier"--for 7,020
francs. In the same collection were four works by Decamps, whose
pictures are in great request. One of these, an Eastern landscape,
sold for 15,500 francs; another, a small work, a peasant girl in the
forest, for 4,240 francs; and two still smaller and less important
works, "Tide Out, with Sunset," and "Gorges d'Ollioule," for 1,500
francs each. Three small works by Eugene Delacroix, a "Tiger attacking
a Serpent," "Combat between Moors and Arabs," and "The Scotch Ballad,"
sold, respectively, for 1,820 francs, 1,300 francs, and 2,300 francs.
A minute picture by Paul Delaroche, "Jesus on the Mount of Olives,"
sold for 2,200 francs; Diogenes sitting on the edge of an immense jar,
holding his lantern, by Gèrôme, 1,950 francs; and "Arnauts at Prayer,"
by the same, 3,900 francs. "The Beach at Trouville," by the lately
deceased painter, Troyon, 4,000 francs, and "Feeding the Poultry," by
the same, 4,850 francs.

At the sale of a collection of the works of M. Cordier, the sculptor,
who has earned considerable popularity by his variegated works,
composed of marbles, onyx and bronze, and variously tinted and
decorated, a marble statue, called "La Belle Gallinara," sold for
4,100 francs; a young Kabyle child carrying a branch loaded with
oranges, in Algerian onyx and bronze, and partly colored, 3,000
francs; an Arab woman, a statue of the same materials as the
preceding, intended to support a lamp or candelabrum, purchased by the
Due de Morny for 6,825 francs.

There is a report that the collections of pictures and curiosities
belonging to the Comte de Chambord will shortly be dispersed by the
hammer in Paris.

The scaffolding before the north front of the cathedral of Notre Dame,
in Paris, has been removed, and the façade, with the magnificent
Gothic window, forty feet in diameter, can now be seen to great
perfection, all the rich sculptures having been admirably restored.

A Paris letter says: "The celebrated painting of the 'Assassination of
the Bishop of Liege,' by Eugene Delacroix, was recently sold at
auction at 35,000 francs. The 'Death of Ophelia,' in pencil, by the
same painter, was knocked down for 2,020 francs, which was considered
a large sum for a sketch. 'St. Louis at the Bridge of Taillebourg,' in
water-colors, fetched 3,100 francs. Some copper-plates engraved by
Eugene Delacroix himself were likewise sold."

At the sale of the collection of the Chevalier de Knyff, at Brussels,
the Virgin with the host and surrounded by angels, by Ingres, was
withdrawn at 28,500 francs.


Among the works of art destroyed in the recent conflagration of the
ducal palace at Brunswick was the colossal bronze figure of Brunonia,
the patron goddess of the town, standing in a car of victory, drawn by
four horses. It was executed by Professor Howaldt and his sons, after
a design by Rietschel.

The colossal bronze statue of Hercules, lately exhumed at Rome, has
been safely deposited in the Vatican.



By his Eminence Cardinal Wiseman. 8vo., pp. 421. New York: D. & J.
Sadlier & Co.

Coming to us almost in the same moment in which we hear of Cardinal
Wiseman's death, these sermons will be read with a deep and peculiar
interest, now that the eloquent lips which uttered them are closed for
ever. Most of them were preached in Rome, some so long ago as 1827.
These were addressed to congregations composed partly of
ecclesiastics, partly of Catholic sojourners in the Eternal City, and
partly of Protestants. At least one was delivered in Ireland in 1858.
But although some of the discourses belong to the period of the
author's noviceship in the pulpit, and between some there is an
interval of more than thirty years, we are struck by no incongruity of
either thought or style. The earliest have the finish and elegance of
maturity; the latest all the vigor and enthusiasm of youth.

They are not controversial, and hardly any of them can even be called
dogmatic sermons. They are addressed more to the heart than directly
to the understanding, although reasoning and exhortation are often so
skilfully blended that it is hard to say where one begins and the
other ends. They are the outpourings, in fact, of a warm and loving
heart and a full brain. The argument is all the more effective because
the cardinal covers his frame-work of logic with the rich drapery of
his brilliant rhetoric. And yet, with all their gorgeous phraseology,
they are characterized by a simplicity of thought which brings them
down to the level of the commonest intellect.

The greater part of them were preached during the seasons of Lent and
Advent, and the subjects will therefore be found especially
appropriate to the present period. Here is a beautiful passage in
reference to our Lord's agony in the garden:

  "There are plants in the luxurious East, my dearly beloved brethren,
  which men gash and cut, that from them may distil the precious
  balsams they contain; but that is ever the most sought and valued
  which, issuing forth of its own accord, pure and unmixed, trickles
  down like tears upon the parent tree. And so it seems to me, we may
  without disparagement speak of the precious streams of our dear
  Redeemer's blood. When forced from his side, in abundant flow, it
  came mixed with another mysterious fluid; when shed by the cruel
  inflictions of his enemies, by their nails, their thorns, and
  scourges, there is a painful association with the brutal instruments
  that drew it, as though in some way their defilement could attaint
  it. But here we have the first yield of that saving and life-giving
  heart, gushing forth spontaneously, pure and untouched by the
  unclean hand of man, dropping as dew upon the ground. It is the
  first juice of the precious vine; before the wine-press hath bruised
  its grapes, richer and sweeter to the loving and sympathizing soul,
  than what is afterward pressed out. It is every drop of it ours; and
  alas, how painfully so! For here no lash, no impious palm, no
  pricking thorn hath called it forth; but our sins, yes, our sins,
  the executioners not of the flesh, but of the heart of Jesus, have
  driven it all out, thence to water that garden of sorrows! Oh, is it
  not dear to us; is it not gathered up by our affections, with far
  more reverence and love than by virgins of old was the blood of
  martyrs, to be placed for ever in the very sanctuary, yea, within
  the very altar of our hearts?"

From the discourse on the "Triumphs of the Cross," we select the
closing paragraph:


  "O blessed Jesus, may the image of these sacred wounds, as expressed
  by the cross, never depart from my thoughts. As it is a badge and
  privilege of the exalted office, to which, most unworthy, I have
  been raised, to wear ever upon my breast the figure of that cross,
  and in it, as in a holy shrine, a fragment of that blessed tree
  whereon thou didst hang on Golgotha, so much more let the lively
  image of thee crucified dwell within my bosom, and be the source
  from which shall proceed every thought, and word, and action of my
  ministry! Let me preach thee, and thee crucified, not the plausible
  doctrines of worldly virtue and human philosophy. In prayer and
  meditation let me ever have before me thy likeness, as thou
  stretchest forth thine arms to invite us to seek mercy and to draw
  us into thine embrace. Let my Thabor be on Calvary; there it is best
  for me to dwell. There thou hast prepared three tabernacles; one for
  such as, like Magdalen, have offended much, but love to weep at thy
  blessed feet; one for those who, like John, have wavered in
  steadfastness for a moment, but long again to rest their head upon
  thy bosom; and one whereinto only she may enter whose love burns
  without a reproach, whose heart, always one with thine, finds its
  home in the centre of thine, fibre intertwined with fibre, till both
  are melted into one in that furnace of sympathetic love. With these
  favorites of the cross, let me ever, blessed Saviour, remain in
  meditation and prayer, and loving affection for thy holy rood. I
  will venerate its very substance, whenever presented to me, with
  deep and solemn reverence. I will honor its image, wherever offered
  to me, with lowly and respectful homage. But still more I will
  hallow and love its spirit and inward form, impressed on the heart,
  and shown forth in the holiness of life. And oh! divine Redeemer,
  from thy cross, thy true mercy-seat, look down in compassion upon
  this thy people. Pour forth thence abundantly the streams of
  blessing, which flow from thy sacred wounds. Accomplish within them,
  during this week of forgiveness, the work which holy men have so
  well begun,  [Footnote 40] that all may worthily partake of thy
  Paschal feast. Plant thy cross in every heart; may each one embrace
  it in life, may it embrace him in death; and may it be a beacon of
  salvation to his departing soul, a crown of glory to his immortal
  spirit! Amen."

  [Footnote 40: Alluding to the mission just closed by the Fathers of
  the Institute of Charity.]

What follows is from the sermon on the "Veneration of the Blessed

  "If, then, any one shall accuse me of wasting upon the mother of my
  Saviour feelings and affections which he hath jealously reserved for
  himself. I will appeal from the charge to his judgment, and lay the
  cause before him, at any stage of his blessed life. I will go unto
  him at the crib of Bethlehem, and acknowledge that, while, with the
  kings of the East, I have presented to him all my gold and
  frankincense and myrrh, I have ventured, with the shepherds, to
  present an humbler oblation of respect to her who was enduring the
  winter's frost in an unsheltered stable, entirely for his sake. Or I
  will meet him, as the holy fugitives repose on their desert-path to
  Egypt, and confess that, knowing from the example of Agar, how a
  mother cast forth from her house into the wilderness, for her
  infant's sake, only loves it the more, and needs an angel to comfort
  her in her anguish (Gen. xxi. 17), I have not restrained my eyes
  from her whose fatigues and pain were a hundred-fold increased by
  his, when I have sympathized with him in this his early flight,
  endured for my sins. Or I will approach a more awful tribunal, and
  step to the foot of his cross, and own to him, that while I have
  adored his wounds, and stirred up in my breast my deepest feelings
  of grief and commiseration for what I have made him suffer, my
  thoughts could not refrain from sometimes glancing toward her whom I
  saw resignedly standing at his feet, and sharing his sorrows; and
  that, knowing how much Respha endured while sitting opposite to her
  children justly crucified by command of God (2 Kings xxi. 10), I had
  felt far greater compassion for her, and had not withheld the
  emotions, which nature itself dictated, of love, and veneration, and
  devout affection toward her. And to the judgment of such a son I
  will gladly bow, and his meek mouth shall speak my sentence, and I
  will not fear it. For I have already heard it from the cross,
  addressed to me, to you, to all, as he said: 'Woman, behold thy
  son;' and again: 'Behold thy mother.' (John xix. 26, 27.)"

An appendix to the volume contains six beautiful pastorals, on
devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, in connection with education.

SPIRITUAL PROGRESS. By J. W. Cummings, D.D., LL.D., of St. Stephen's
Church, New York City. 12mo., pp. 330. New York: P. O'Shea.

We cannot better state the purpose of this excellent little book than
in the words of the author's preface: "_Spiritual Progress_ is a
familiar exposition of Catholic morality, which has for its object to
tell people of common intelligence what they are expected to do in
{141} order to be good Christians, and how they shall do it, and the
results that will follow." It is written not for those strong, heroic
souls, whose faith is firm, whose devotion is ardent, and who crave
strong spiritual food; but for that numerous class of weak Christians,
recent converts, honest inquirers, and fervent but uninstructed
Catholics, who are not yet prepared to accept the more difficult
counsels of perfection; who are ready perhaps to do what God says they
must do; but need a little training before they can be brought to do
any more. To put an ascetic work into the hands of such persons would
often be like giving beef to a young baby: it would hurt, not help
them. Dr. Cummings's book, in fact, is a sort of spiritual primer for
the use of those who are just beginning their spiritual education. It
is simple, straightforward, and practical. There is a charm in the
style--so clear, so terse, often almost epigrammatic, and sometimes
rising to the poetical--which carries the reader along in spite of
himself. The tone is not conversational; yet when you read, it seems
as if you were not so much reading as listening. And that argues great
literary merit.

Here is an extract from the chapter on "Faults of Conversation:"

  "Gossip is the bane of conversation, for it is the name under which
  injustice makes her entrance into society. There is an element in
  the breast of the most civilized communities, even in times of great
  refinement, that explains how man may, under certain circumstances,
  become a cannibal. It is exhibited in the turns our humor takes in
  conversation. We are not ill-natured, nor disposed to lay a straw in
  the way of any one who has not injured us, and yet, when spurred on
  by the stimulus of talking and being talked to, we can bring
  ourselves to mimic, revile, and misrepresent others, traduce and
  destroy their good name, reveal their secrets, and proclaim their
  faults; and all this merely to follow the lead of others, or for the
  sake of appearing facetious and amusing, or for the purpose of
  building up ourselves by running down those whom in our hearts we
  know and believe to be better than we are.... But as the gossip
  attacks the absent because the absent cannot defend himself or
  herself, shall not we, dear readers, form a society to assist the
  weak and the persecuted? Shall we not enter into a compact to defend
  those who cannot defend themselves? Let us answer as a love of fair
  play suggests. If we are at all influenced by regard for Christian
  charity, let us remember that it takes two to carry on a
  conversation against our neighbor, and that if our visitor is guilty
  of being a gossip, a false witness, or a detractor, we are also
  guilty by consenting to officiate as listeners."

In a chapter on the "Schooling of the
Imagination," Dr. Cummings shows how
the imaginative faculty may be made to
serve the cause of religion, especially in
the practice of meditation, and how
dangerous it becomes when it is not held
in check:

  "We hear songs and the flutters of many wings at Bethlehem, and see
  the light streaming from heaven upon the face of the new-born
  Saviour. We look out over the blue waters of the Lake of Genesareth,
  and see the quaint little bark of Peter as it lay near the shore
  when Jesus preached to the people from its side, or as it flew
  before the wind when the sea waxed wroth, and a great storm arose,
  he meanwhile sleeping and they fearing they would perish. With the
  aid of this wonderful faculty we see him before us in the hour of
  his triumph, surrounded by the multitudes singing, 'Hosanna to the
  son of David,' and in that sad day of his final sorrow, when the
  same voices swelled the fearful cry, 'Crucify him, crucify him.'"

American from the last French edition. With an Introduction and Notes,
by the Most Rev. M. J. Spalding, D.D., Archbishop of Baltimore. Parts
1, 2, and 3. 8vo. New York: P. O'Shea.

This valuable work, which Mr. O'Shea, with a laudable spirit of
enterprise, is giving us by instalments, is intended for just that
class of readers who stand most in need of a readable and pretty full
Church history. When completed it will fill four portly volumes,
imperial octavo; yet it is a work adapted more especially to family
reading than to the use of the scholar in his closet. The Abbé Darras
has judiciously refrained from obstructing the flow of his narrative
by minute references and quotations, nor has he suffered his pen to
run away into long discussions of controverted questions. What he says
of the chronology which he has followed, he might have said, if we
have read him {142} aright, of his whole work: "We have adopted a
system already completed, not that it may perhaps be the most exact in
all its details, but because it is the one most generally followed."
This seems to be the principle which he has kept before his eyes
throughout; and considering the purpose for which he wrote, we think
it a good one. With all the simplicity and modesty of his style,
however, he shows a thorough knowledge of the intricacies of his
subject, and an acquaintance with what the best scholars have written
before him. His history, therefore, fills a void which has long been

The translation, made by a lady well known and respected by the
Catholics of the United States, reads smoothly, and we doubt not is
accurate. It has been revised by competent theologians, and has the
special sanction of the Archbishop of Baltimore, beside the
approbation of the Archbishops of New York and Cincinnati. The work in
the original French received the warmest encomiums from the European
clergy, and the author was honored, at the conclusion of his labors,
by a kind letter from the Pope.

The mechanical execution of the book is beautiful. The paper is good,
and the type large and clear. We thank Mr. O'Shea for giving us so
important a work in such a rich and appropriate dress.

delivered before the St. Xavier Conference of the St. Vincent de Paul
Brotherhood in the Hall of St. Louis University. By the Rev. Louis
Heylen, S. J. 12mo., pp. 107. Cincinnati: John P. Walsh.

These two lectures formed parts of a course delivered during the
winter of 1862-63, by some of the professors of the St. Louis
University. They are admirable compositions, redolent of good sense,
learning, and ripe thought, and deeply interesting. The style has a
true oratorical ring. In the first lecture Father Heylen, after
adverting to the fact that every age since the days of Adam has been
marked by some special characteristic, examines the claim set forth by
our own century to be emphatically the age of progress. In part he
admits and in part he denies it. In material progress, and in the
natural sciences, especially as applied to the purposes of industry
and commerce, it stands at the head of ages. But moral progress is not
one of its characteristics. "Here I feel," says he, "that I am
entering upon a difficult question. Has there been, in the last fifty
years, any marked increase of crime? Is our age, all things
considered, really worse than preceding ages? This question I shall
not undertake to decide; but there are some forms of crime which
appear to me decidedly peculiar to our age." A brief review of these
sins of the day leads naturally to the subject of the second lecture.
Father Heylen sees our greatest danger in that practical materialism
which places material interests and materialistic passions above the
interests of the soul and the claims of virtue. He considers
successively its extent, its effects, and the means to avert it--the
last being, of course, the ennobling and spiritualizing influence of

We advise those who wish to see how a scholar and an orator can throw
a fresh charm into a stale subject, to read Father Heylen's review of
the startling discoveries of modern science in the first lecture, and
his brilliant description in the second of the ruins with which
materialism has spread the pages of history and the new life which
Catholicism has infused into effete civilizations.

Prefixed to the little volume before us is a short biographical sketch
of Father Heylen, who died in 1863.

From the German of Friedrich de la Motte Fouqué. I vol. 12mo., pp.
238. New York: James Miller.

THIODOLF, THE ICELANDER. A Romance. From the German of the Baron de la
Motte Fouqué. 12mo., pp. 308. New York: James Miller.

For a man of refined and cultivated taste we know of hardly any more
delightful literary recreation than to turn from the novels of our own
day to one of the exquisite romances of La Motte Fouqué. There is a
nobleness of sentiment in his wild and beautiful fancies which seems
to lift us out of this world into a higher sphere. All his writings
are pervaded by an ideal Christian chivalry, {143} spiritualizing and
refining the supernatural machinery which he is so fond of borrowing
from the old Norse legends. No other author has ever treated the
Northern mythology so well; because no other has attempted to give us
its beauties without its grossness. The gods and heroes of the
Norsemen have been very much in fashion of late years; but take almost
any of the Scandinavian tales recently translated--tales which, if
they have any moral, seem to inculcate the morality of lying and
cheating, and the virtue of strong muscles and how immeasurably finer
and more beautiful by the side of them appear the fairy legends which
Fouqué interweaves with his romances, mingling old superstitions with
Christian faith and virtues, in so delicate a manner that we see no
incongruity in the association. This mutual adaptation, if we may call
it so, he effects partly by transporting us back to those early times
when the faith was as yet only half-rooted in the Northern soil, and
when even many Christian converts clung almost unconsciously to some
of their old pagan beliefs; partly by the genuine religious spirit
which inspires every page of his books, no matter what their subject;
and partly by the allegorical significance which his romances
generally convey. So from tales of water-sprites and evil spirits,
devils, dwarfs, and all manner of supernatural appearances, we rise
with the feeling that we have been reading a lesson of piety, truth,
integrity, and honor. Carlyle calls the chivalry of Fouqué more
extravagant than that which we supposed Cervantes had abolished; but
we are far from agreeing in such a judgment. A chivalry which rests
upon "wise and pious thoughts, treasured in a pure heart," deserves
something better to be said of it.

The three tales whose titles are given above are specimens of three
somewhat different styles in which Fouqué treats his darling subject
of Christian knighthood. The story of "Undine" has always been a pet
in every language of Europe. Sir Walter Scott called it "ravishing;"
Coleridge expressed unbounded admiration of it; the author himself
termed it his darling child. For the tale of "Sintram" we have a
particular affection. As a work of art, it is not to be compared with
the former: it has but little of that tender aerial fancy which makes
the story of the {144} water-sprite so inexpressibly graceful; but
there is a sombre beauty in it which is not less captivating. It is a
story of temptation and trial, of battle with self and triumph over
sin. Its allegorical meaning is more distinct than that of Undine; it
speaks more unmistakably of faith and heroic virtue. "Thiodolf, the
Icelander," is a picture of Norse and Byzantine manners in the tenth
century, and presents an interesting contrast between the rough
manliness of the former and the luxury of the court of Constantinople.
To the merits of wealth of imagination, skilful delineation of
character, and dramatic power of narration, it is said to add
historical accuracy.

New York: James Miller.

It is no slight proof of the merit of this little book that it has
gone through at least twelve editions in England, and had so many
imitators that it may almost be called the founder of a school of
literature. Its popularity is still undiminished, and promises long to
continue so. Hardly any one can fail of being interested in this
simple narrative of the blunders, mishaps, and final triumphs of two
city-bred sisters, in their effort to keep a little farm and make it
pay; but to those who, either for health's sake or economy, are about
entering on a similar enterprise, we cannot too strongly recommend it.
It is so practical that we cannot doubt it is all true--indeed its
directness and air of truth and good sense are the secrets of its
remarkable success. We commend it to our readers as an interesting
exemplification of a truth which ought to be more widely known than it
is--that with proper management a small family on a small place in the
country can raise all their own vegetables, not only to their great
comfort, but with considerable pecuniary profit. Men who spend
half-a-year's income in the rent of a city house would do well to take
to heart the lessons of this little book.

THE IRVINGTON STORIES. By M. E. Dodge. Illustrated by F. O. C. Darley.
16mo., pp. 256. New York: James O'Kane.

This is a collection of tales for young people, manufactured with
considerable {145} taste and neatness. Some of the stories bear a good
moral, distinctly brought out.

8vo., pp. 24. Boston: Patrick Donahoe.

The _Christian Examiner_ for January, 1865, contained an article on
"The Order of St. Paul the Apostle, and the New Catholic Church," in
which the writer, after describing a visit to the Paulist
establishment in Fifty-ninth street, and representing Father Hecker
and his companions as being engaged in the attempt to found a new
Catholic Church, passed on to the consideration of the question what
form of religion is best adapted to the wants of the American people.
It was a remarkable article--remarkable not only for its graceful
diction, but for its curious admissions of the failure of
Protestantism as a religious system. "The process of disintegration,"
says the _Examiner_, "is going forward with immense rapidity
throughout Protestant Christendom. Organizations are splitting
asunder, institutions are falling into decay, customs are becoming
uncustomary, usages are perishing from neglect, sacraments are
deserted by the multitude, creeds are decomposing under the action of
liberal studies and independent thought." But from these falling ruins
mankind will seek refuge not in the bosom of the Catholic Church, says
the Christian Examiner, but in Naturalism. The object of the pamphlet
before us is to show, after correcting certain misstatements
concerning the congregation of Paulists, that Naturalism is utterly
unable to satisfy those longings of the heart which, as the _Examiner_
confesses, no Protestant sect can appease.

Baltimore: Kelly & Piet.

In promulgating the jubilee lately proclaimed by the sovereign
pontiff, the Most Rev. Archbishop Spalding takes occasion to make a
few timely remarks on the Encyclical, the character of Pius IX., the
temporal power of the Popes, and the errors recently condemned. He
explains the true purport of the much-abused Encyclical, shows against
whom it is directed--namely, the European radicals and infidels--and
proves that it never was the intention of the Pope, as has been
alleged, to assail the institutions of this country. In view of the
absurd mistranslations of the Encyclical which have been published by
the Protestant press, Catholics will be glad to have the correct
English version of that important document, which is given by way of
appendix to the pastoral.

We have received the _First Supplement to the Catalogue of the Library
of the Young Men's Association of the City of Milwaukee_, with the
annual report of the Board of Directors for 1863.



VOL. I., NO. 2. MAY, 1865.

From the Dublin Review.


Hedwige was the youngest daughter of Lewis, nephew and successor to
Casimir the Great, who, on account of the preference he evinced for
his Hungarian subjects, drew upon himself the continued ill-will of
the nation he was called upon to govern. Finding he was unable to cope
with the numerous factions everywhere ready to oppose him, he, not
without many humiliating concessions to the nobles of Poland, induced
them to elect as his successor his daughter Maria, wife of Sigismund,
Marquis of Brandenburg (afterward emperor), and having appointed the
Duke of Oppelen regent of the kingdom, retired to his native Hungary,
unwilling to relinquish the shadow of the sceptre which continually
evaded his grasp.

On his death, which happened in 1382, Poland became the theatre of
intestine disorders fomented by the turbulent nobles, who,
notwithstanding the allegiance they had sworn to the Princess Maria,
refused to allow her even to enter the kingdom. Sigismund was not,
however, inclined thus easily to forego his wife's claims; and as the
Lord of Mazovia at the same time aspired to the vacant throne, many of
the provinces became so desolated by civil war that the leaders of the
adverse factions threw down their arms, and simultaneously agreed to
offer the crown to the Princess Hedwige, then residing in Hungary
under the care of her mother Elizabeth. By no means approving of a
plan which thus unceremoniously excluded her eldest daughter from the
throne, the queen dowager endeavored to oppose injustice by policy.
Hedwige was at the time only fourteen years of age, and the deputies
were informed that, as the princess was too young to undertake the
heavy responsibilities of sovereignty, her brother-in-law Sigismund
must act in her stead until such time as she herself should be
considered capable of assuming the reins of government. This stratagem
did not succeed; the duke was not allowed to cross the frontiers of
Poland, and Elizabeth found herself compelled to part with her
daughter, if she would not see the crown placed on the brow of
whomever the diet might elect.

Now commenced the trials of the young Hedwige, who was thus early
called upon to exercise those virtues of heroic fortitude, patient
endurance, and self-denial which rendered her life a sort of continual
martyrdom, a sacrifice daily offered up at the shrines of religion and
patriotism. At the early age of four years she had been affianced to
William, Duke of Austria, {146} who, in accordance with the custom of
the times, had been educated in Hungary; his affection for his
betrothed growing with his growth, and increasing with his years.
Ambition had no charms for Hedwige; her fervent piety, shrinking
modesty, and feminine timidity sought to conceal, not only her
extraordinary beauty, but those rare mental endowments of which she
was possessed. Bitter were the tears shed by this gentle girl, when
her mother, alarmed at the menaces of the Polish nobles, informed her
she must immediately depart for Cracow, under the protection of
Cardinal Demetrius, Bishop of Strigonia, who was pledged to deliver
her into the hands of those whom she was disposed to regard rather as
her masters than as her subjects. There had been one stipulation made,
which, had she been aware of its existence, would have added a sharper
pang to the already poignant anguish of Hedwige: the Poles required
that their young sovereign should marry only with the consent of the
diet, and that her husband should not only reside constantly in
Poland, but pledge himself never to attempt to render that country
dependent on any other power. Although aware of the difficulties thus
thrown in the way of her union with Duke William, her mother had
subscribed to these conditions; and Hedwige, having been joyfully
received by the prelates and nobles of her adopted country, was
solemnly crowned in the cathedral at Cracow, October 15, 1385, being
the festival of her patron, St. Hedwige. Her youth, loveliness, grace,
and intellectual endowments won from the fierce chieftains an
enthusiastic affection which had been denied to the too yielding
Lewis; their national pride was flattered, their loyalty awakened, by
the innocent fascinations of their young sovereign, and they almost
sought to defer the time which, in her husband, would necessarily give
them a ruler of sterner mould. Nor was Hedwige undeserving of the
exalted station she had been compelled to fill: a worthy descendant of
the sainted Lewis, her every word and action waa marked by a gravity
and maturity which bore witness to the supernatural motives and
heavenly wisdom by which it was inspired; and yet, in the silence of
her chamber, many were the tears she shed over the memory of ties
severed, she feared, for ever. Amongst the earliest candidates for her
hand was Ziemovit, Duke of Mazovia, already mentioned as one of the
competitors for the crown after the death of her father; but the
Poles, still smarting from the effects of his unbridled ambition,
dismissed his messengers with a refusal couched in terms of
undisguised contempt. The question of her marriage once agitated, the
mind of Hedwige naturally turned to him on whom her heart was
unalterably fixed, and whom from her childhood she had been taught to
consider as her future husband; but an alliance with the house of
Austria formed no part of Polish policy, and neither the wishes nor
the entreaties of their queen could induce the diet to entertain the
idea for a moment; in short, their whole energy was employed in
bringing about a union which, however disagreeable to the young
sovereign, was likely to be in every way advantageous to the country
and favorable to the interests of religion.

Jagello, the pagan Duke of Lithuania, was from his proximity and the
extent of his possessions (comprising Samogitia and a large portion of
Russia [Footnote 41]) a formidable enemy to Poland. Fame was not slow
in wafting to his ears rumors of the beauty and accomplishments of
Hedwige, which being more than corroborated by ambassadors employed to
ascertain the truth, the impetuous Jagello determined to secure the
prize, even at the cost of national independence. The idolatry of the
Lithuanians and the early betrothal of Hedwige to Duke William were
the chief obstacles with which he had to contend; but, after a brief
{147} deliberation, an embassy was despatched, headed by Skirgello,
brother to the grand-duke, and bearing the most costly presents;
Jagello himself being with difficulty dissuaded from accompanying them
in person. The envoys were admitted into the presence of the council,
at which the queen herself presided, and the prince proceeded to lay
before the astonished nobles the offers of the barbarian suitor,
offers too tempting to be weighed in the balance against such a trifle
as a girl's happiness, or the violation of what these overbearing
politicians were pleased to term a mere childish engagement,
contracted before the parties were able to judge for themselves. After
a long harangue, in which Skirgello represented how vainly the most
illustrious potentates and the most powerful rulers had hitherto
endeavored to effect the conversion of Lithuania, he offered as "a
tribute to the charms of the queen" that Jagello and his brothers,
together with the princes, lords, and people of Lithuania and
Samogitia, should at once embrace the Catholic faith; that all the
Christian captives should be restored unransomed; and the _whole of
their extensive dominions be incorporated with Poland_; the grand-duke
also pledging himself to reconquer for that country Pomerania,
Silesia, and whatever other territories had been torn from Poland by
neighboring states; and, finally, promising to make good to the Poles
the sum of two hundred thousand florins, which had been sent to
William of Austria as the dowry forfeited by the non-fulfilment of the
engagement entered into by their late king Lewis. A murmur of applause
at this unprecedented generosity ran through the assembly; the nobles
hailed the prospect of so unlooked-for an augmentation of national
power and security; and the bishops could not but rejoice at the
prospect of rescuing so many souls from the darkness of heathenism,
and securing at one and the same time the propagation of the Catholic
faith and the peace of Poland. But the queen herself shared not these
feelings of satisfaction: no sooner had Skirgello ceased than she
started from her seat, cast a hasty glance round the assembly, and, as
if reading her fate in the countenances of the nobles, buried her face
in her hands and burst into a flood of tears. All attempts to soothe
and pacify her were in vain: in a strain of passionate eloquence,
which was not without its effect, she pleaded her affection for Duke
William, the sacred nature of the engagement by which she was pledged
to become his wife, pointed to the ring on her finger, and reminded an
aged prelate who had accompanied her from Hungary that he had himself
witnessed their being laid in the same cradle at the ceremony of their
betrothal. It was impossible to behold unmoved the anguish of so
gentle a creature; not a few of the younger chieftains espoused the
cause of their sovereign; and, at the urgent solicitation of Hedwige,
it was finally determined that the Lithuanian ambassadors, accompanied
by three Polish nobles, should repair to Buda for the purpose of
consulting her mother, the Queen of Hungary.

  [Footnote  41: The territories of many of the Russian or Ruthenian
  dukes which were conquered by the Lithuanian pagans.]

But Elizabeth, though inaccessible to the temptations of worldly
ambition, was too pious, too self-denying, to allow maternal affection
to preponderate over the interests of religion. Aware that the
betrothal of her daughter to the Duke of Austria had never been
renewed from the time of their infancy, she, without a moment's
hesitation, replied that, for her own part, she desired nothing, but
that the queen ought to sacrifice every human feeling for the glory of
Christianity and the welfare of Poland. To Hedwige herself she wrote
affectionately, though firmly, bidding her lay every natural
inclination at the foot of the cross, and desiring her to praise that
God who had chosen so unworthy an instrument as the means by which the
pure splendor of Catholicity should penetrate the darkness of
Lithuania and the other pagan nations. Elizabeth was aware {148} of
the real power of religion over the mind of her child, and doubted not
but that, after the first paroxysm of grief had subsided, she should
be able to overcome by its means the violence of her daughter's
repugnance to the proposed measure. In order to give a color of
impartiality to their proceedings, a diet was convoked at Cracow,
immediately on the return of the embassy, to deliberate on the
relative claims of Jagello, William of Austria, and the Dukes of
Mazovia and Oppelen, all of whom aspired to the hand of Hedwige and
the crown of Poland. The discussion was long and stormy, for amongst
those nobles more immediately around the queen's person there were
many, including a large body of ecclesiastics, who, although convinced
that no lawful impediment existed to the marriage, yet shrank from the
cruelty of uniting the gentle princess to a barbarian; and these
failed not to insist upon the insult which would be implied by such a
choice to the native Catholic princes. The majority, however, were of
a different opinion, and at the close of the diet it was decided that
an ambassador should be despatched to Jagello, inviting him to Cracow
for the purpose of continuing the negotiations in his own person. But
William of Austria was too secure in the justice of his cause and the
affection of his betrothed to resign his pretensions without an
effort; and his ardor being by no means diminished by a letter which
he received from the queen herself, imploring him to hasten to her
assistance, he placed himself at the head of a numerous retinue, and,
with a treasure by which he hoped to purchase the good-will of the
adverse faction, appeared so suddenly at Cracow as to deprive his
opponents of their self-possession. The determination of Hedwige to
unite herself to the object of her early and deep affection was loudly
expressed, and, as there were many powerful leaders--among others,
Gniewosz, Vice-chamberlain of Cracow--who espoused her cause, and
rallied round Duke William, the Polish nobles, not daring openly to
oppose their sovereign, were on the point of abandoning the cause of
Jagello, when Dobeslas, Castellain of Cracow, one of the staunchest
supporters of the Lithuanian alliance, resolved at any risk to prevent
the meeting of the lovers, and actually went so far as to refuse the
young prince admission into the castle, where the queen at the time
was residing, not only drawing his sword, but dragging the duke with
him over the drawbridge, which he commanded to be immediately lowered.
William, thus repulsed, fixed his quarters at the Franciscan
monastery; and Hedwige, fired by the insult, rode forth accompanied by
a chosen body of knights and her female attendants, determined by the
completion of her marriage to place an insuperable bar between her and

In the refectory of the monastery, the queen and the prince at length
met; and, after several hours spent in considering how best to avert
the separation with which they were threatened, it was arranged that
William should introduce himself privately into the castle of Cracow,
where they were to be united by the queen's confessor. Some time
elapsed before this plan could be carried into execution; for although
even Dobeslas hesitated to confine his sovereign within her own
palace, the castle gates were kept shut against the entrance of the
Duke of Austria. Exasperated at this continued opposition, and her
affection augmented by the presence of its object, from whom the
arrival, daily expected, of Jagello would divide her for ever, Hedwige
determined to admit the prince disguised as one of her household, and
a day was accordingly fixed for the execution of this romantic
project. By some means or other the whole plan came to the knowledge
of the vigilant castellain; the adventurous prince was seized in a
passage leading to the royal apartments, loaded with insult, and
driven from the palace, within the walls of which the queen now found
herself a prisoner. {149} It was in vain she wept, and implored to be
allowed to see her betrothed once more, if only to bid him farewell;
her letters were intercepted, her attendants became spies on her
movements, and, on the young prince presenting himself before the
gates, his life was threatened by the barons who remained within the
fortress. This was too much; alarmed for her lover's safety, indignant
at the restraint to which she was subjected, the passion of the girl
triumphed over the dignity of the sovereign. Quitting her apartment,
she hurried to the great gate, which, as she apprehended, was secured
in such a manner as to baffle all her efforts; trembling with fear,
and eager only to effect her escape, she called for a hatchet, and,
raising it with both hands, repeatedly struck the locks and bolts that
prevented her egress. The childish simplicity of the attempt, the
agony depicted in the beautiful and innocent countenance of their
mistress, so touched the hearts of the rude soldiery, that, but for
their dread of the nobles, Hedwige would through their means have
effected her purpose. As it was, they offered no opposition, but stood
in mournful and respectful silence; when the venerable Demetrius,
grand-treasurer of the kingdom, approached, and falling on his knees,
implored her to be calm, and to sacrifice her own happiness, if not to
the wishes of her subjects and the welfare of her country, at least to
the interests of religion. At the sight of that aged man, whose thin
white hairs and sorrowful countenance inspired both reverence and
affection, the queen paused, and, giving him her hand, burst into an
agony of tears; then, hurrying to her oratory, she threw herself on
the ground before an image of the Blessed Virgin, where, after a sharp
interior conflict, she succeeded in resigning herself to what she now
believed to be the will of God--embracing for his sake the heavy cross
which she was to bear for the remainder of her life.

Meanwhile Duke William, to escape the vengeance of the wrathful
barons, was compelled to quit Poland, leaving his now useless wealth
in the charge of the vice-chamberlain, who still apparently continued
his friend. Not long after his departure, Jagello, at the head of a
numerous army, and attended by his two brothers, crossed the
frontiers, determined, as it seemed, to prosecute his suit. At the
first rumor of his approach, the most powerful and influential among
the nobles repaired to Cracow, where prayers, remonstrances, and even
menaces were employed to induce the queen to accept the hand of the
barbarian prince. But to all their eloquence Hedwige turned a deaf
ear: in vain did agents, despatched for the purpose, represent the
duke as handsome in person, princely and dignified in manner; her
conscience was troubled, duty had enlisted on the same side as
feeling, and the contest again commenced. Setting inclination aside,
how dared she break the solemn compact she had made with the Duke of
Austria? She persisted in regarding her proposed marriage with Jagello
as nothing short of an act of criminal infidelity; and, independently
of the affliction of her heart, her soul became a prey to the most
violent remorse. To obtain the consent of Duke William to their
separation was of course out of the question; and before the puzzled
council could arrive at any decision, Jagello entered Cracow, more in
the style of a conqueror than a suitor, and repaired at once to the
castle, where he found the queen surrounded by a court surpassing in
beauty and magnificence all that his imagination had pictured. Pale as
she was from the intensity of her sufferings, he was dazzled, almost
bewildered, by the childlike innocence and winning loveliness of
Hedwige; and his admiration was expressed the following day by the
revenues of a province being laid at her feet in the shape of jewels
and robes of the most costly description. But the queen was more
obdurate than ever. With her knowledge and consent Duke William had
returned to Cracow, though compelled {150} to resort to a variety of
disguises to escape the fury of the barons, now determined to put an
end to his pretensions and his existence together; and it is said
that, in order to avoid his indefatigable enemy, Dobeslas, he was once
compelled to seek refuge in a large chimney. Forced eventually to quit
the capital without seeing Hedwige, he still loitered in the environs;
nor did he return to Austria until her marriage with Jagello
terminated those hopes which he had cherished from his earliest
infancy. In order to quiet the queen's religious scruples, a letter is
said to have arrived from Rome, in which, after pronouncing that the
early betrothal involved no impediment to the marriage, the Holy
Father placed before her the merits of the offering she was called
upon to make, reminding her of the torments so cheerfully suffered by
the early martyrs for the honor of God, and calling upon her to
imitate their example. This statement, however, is not sufficiently

After the severest interior trials, days spent in tears, fasting, and
the most earnest petitions to the throne of Divine grace, the queen
received strength to consummate the sacrifice demanded from her.
Naturally ardent and impulsive, and at an age when every sentiment is
freshest and most keen, she was called upon to extirpate from her
heart an affection not only deep but legitimate, to inflict a wound on
the object of her tenderest love, and, finally, to transfer her
devotion to one whom she had hitherto regarded with feelings of
unqualified aversion. The path of highest, because self-sacrificing
duty, once clear before her, she determined to act with generosity
toward a God from whom she had received so much: her beauty, talents,
the virtues with which she was adorned, were so many precious gifts to
be placed at the disposal of him by whom they had been bestowed.
Covering herself with a thick black veil, she proceeded on foot to the
cathedral of Cracow, and, repairing to one of the side chapels, threw
herself on her knees, where for three hours, with clasped hands and
streaming eyes, she wrestled with the violent feeling that struggled
in her bosom. At length she rose with a detached heart, having laid at
the foot of the cross her affections, her will, her hopes of earthly
happiness; offering herself, and all that belonged to her, as a
perpetual holocaust to her crucified Redeemer, and esteeming herself
happy so that by this sacrifice she might purchase the salvation of
those precious souls for whom he had shed his blood. Before leaving
the chapel she cast her veil over the crucifix, hoping under that pall
to bury all of human infirmity that might still linger round her
heart, and then hastened to establish a foundation for the perpetual
renewal of this type of her "soul's sorrow." This foundation yet
exists: within the same chapel the crucifix still stands, covered by
its sable drapery, being commonly known as _the Crucifix of Hedwige_.

The queen's consent to the Lithuanian alliance endeared her still more
to the hearts of her subjects, who regarded her as a martyr to the
peace of Poland. On the 14th of February, 1386, her marriage was
celebrated with becoming solemnity, Jagello having previously received
the sacrament of baptism; shortly afterward he was crowned, in the
presence of Hedwige, under his Christian name of Wladislas, which he
had taken in deference to the wishes of the Poles. The unassuming
piety, gentle disposition, and great learning of the young queen
commanded at once the respect and admiration of her husband. So great,
indeed, was his opinion of her prudence, that, being obliged to march
into Upper Poland to crush the rebellion of the Palatine of Posnia, he
took her with him in the capacity of mediatrix between himself and the
disaffected leaders who had for months desolated that province. This
mission of mercy was most acceptable to Hedwige; after the example of
the sainted {151} Elizabeth of Hungary, her generosity toward the
widows, orphans, and those who had lost their substance in this
devastating war, was boundless; whilst ministering to their wants, she
failed not, at the same time, to sympathize with their distress; and,
like an angel of peace, she would stand between her husband and the
objects of his indignation. On one occasion, to supply the necessities
of the court, so heavy a contribution had been laid upon the peasants
that their cattle did not escape; watching their opportunity, they,
with their wives and children, threw themselves in the queen's path,
filling the air with their cries, and conjuring her to prevent their
utter ruin. Hedwige, deeply affected, dismounted from her palfrey,
and, kneeling by their side, besought her husband not to sanction so
flagrant an act of oppression; and when the satisfied peasants retired
fully indemnified for their loss, she is said to have exclaimed,
"Their cattle are restored, but who will recompense them for their
tears?" Having reduced the country to obedience, it was time for
Wladislas to turn his attention to his Lithuanian territories, more
especially Russia Nigra, which, although governed by its own princes,
was compelled to do homage to the house of Jagello. Pomerania, which
by his marriage articles he was pledged to recover for Poland, had
been usurped by the Teutonic Knights, who, sensible with how
formidable an opponent they had to contend, endeavored to frustrate
his intentions, first by carrying fire and sword into Lithuania, and
then by exciting a revolution in favor of Duke Andrew, to whom, as
well as to the heathen nobles, the alliance (by which their country
was rendered dependent on Poland) was displeasing. Olgerd, the father
of Wladislas, was a fierce pagan, and his thirteen sons, if we except
the elder, inherited his cruelty, treachery, and rapacity. The
promised revolution in religion was offensive to the majority of the
people; and, to their shame be it spoken, the Teutonic Knights (whose
order was first established to defend the Christian faith against the
assaults of infidels) scrupled not to adopt a crooked policy, and, by
inciting the Lithuanians against their sovereign, threw every
impediment in the way of their conversion. Before the king had any
suspicion of his intentions, the grand-master had crossed the
frontiers, the duchy was laid waste, and many important fortresses
were already in the hands of the order.

Wladislas, then absent in Upper Poland, despatched Skirgello into
Lithuania, who, though haughty, licentious, and revengeful, was a
brave and skilful general. Duke Andrew fled before the forces of his
brother, and the latter attacked the Knights with an impetuosity that
compelled them speedily to evacuate their conquests. The arrival of
the king, with a number of learned prelates, and a large body of
clergy, proved he was quite in earnest regarding the conversion of his
subjects, hitherto immersed in the grossest and most degrading
idolatry. Trees, serpents, vipers, were the inferior objects of their
adoration; gloomy forests and damp caverns their temples; and the most
disgusting and venomous reptiles were cherished in every family as
household gods. But, as with the eastern Magi, fire was the principal
object of the Lithuanian worship; priests were appointed whose office
it was to tend the sacred flame, their lives paying the penalty if it
were allowed to expire. At Wilna, the capital of the duchy, was a
temple of the sun; and should that luminary chance to be eclipsed, or
even clouded, the people fled thither in the utmost terror, eager to
appease the deity by rivers of human blood, which poured forth at the
command of the Ziutz, or high priest, the victims vying with each
other in the severity of their self-inflicted torments.

As the most effectual method of at once removing the errors of this
infatuated people, Wladislas ordered the forests to be cut down, the
serpents to {152} be crushed under the feet of his soldiers, and,
after extinguishing with his own hand the sacred fires, he caused the
temples to be demolished; thus demonstrating to the Lithuanians the
impotency of their gods. With the cowardice ever attendant on
ignorance and superstition, the pagans cast themselves with their
faces to the earth, expecting to see the sacrilegious strangers
blasted by the power of the profaned element; but, no such results
following, they gradually lost confidence in their deities, and of
their own free will desired to be instructed in the doctrines of
Christ. Their theological knowledge was necessarily confined to the
Lord's Prayer and the Creed, and a day was fixed for the commencement
of the ceremony of baptism. As, on account of the number of
catechumens, it was impossible to administer the sacrament to each
individual separately, the nobles and their families, after leaving
the sacred font, prepared to act as sponsors to the people, who, being
divided into groups of either sex, were sprinkled by the bishops and
priests, every division receiving the same name.

Hedwige had accompanied her husband to Lithuania, and was gratified by
witnessing the zeal with which he assisted the priests in their
arduous undertaking; whilst Wladislas, aware of the value of his young
auxiliary, was not disappointed by the degree of enthusiastic
veneration with which the new Christians regarded the sovereign who,
at the age of sixteen, had conferred upon them peace and the light of
the true faith. Hedwige was admirably adapted for this task: in her
character there was no alloy of passion, pride, or frivolity; an enemy
to the luxury and pomp which her sex and rank might have seemed to
warrant, her fasts were rigid and her bodily mortifications severe.
Neither did her fervor abate during her sojourn in the duchy. By her
profuse liberality the cathedral of St. Stanislas of Wilna was
completed. Nor did she neglect the other churches and religious
foundations which, by her advice, her husband commenced in the
principal cities of his kingdom. Before quitting Lithuania, the
queen's heart was wrung by the intelligence she received of a domestic
tragedy of the deepest dye. Her mother, the holy and virtuous
Elizabeth of Hungary, had during a popular insurrection been put to a
cruel death; whilst her sister Maria, who had fallen into the power of
the rebel nobles, having narrowly escaped the same fate, was confined
in an isolated fortress, subject to the most rigorous and ignominious

Paganism being at length thoroughly rooted out of Lithuania, a
bishopric firmly established at Wilna, and the seven parishes in its
vicinity amply supplied with ecclesiastics, Wladislas, preparatory to
his return to Poland, appointed his brother Skirgello viceroy of the
duchy. This was a fatal error. The proud barbarians, little disposed
to dependence on a country they had been accustomed to despoil at
pleasure, writhed under the yoke of the fierce tyrant, whose rule soon
became odious, and whose vices were rendered more apparent by the
contrast which his character presented to that of his cousin Vitowda,
whom, as a check upon his well-known ferocity, Wladislas had
designated as his colleague. Scarcely had the court returned to
Poland, when the young prince, amiable, brave, and generous, by
opposing his cousin's unjust and cruel actions, drew upon himself the
vengeance of the latter, and, in order to save his life, was obliged
to seek refuge in Pomerania, from whence, as his honor and patriotism
alike forbade his assisting the Teutonic Knights in their designs upon
his country, he applied to the king for protection.

Wladislas, of a weak and jealous disposition, was, however, at the
time too much occupied in attending to foul calumnies uttered against
the spotless virtue of his queen to give heed to the application.
Notwithstanding the prudence of her general conduct, and {153} the
tender devotion evinced by Hedwige toward her husband, the admiration
which her beauty and sweetness of disposition commanded from all who
approached her was a continual thorn in his side. Her former love for
the Duke of Austria and repugnance to himself haunted him night and
day, until he actually conceived suspicions injurious to her fidelity.
In the polluted atmosphere of a court there were not wanting those
who, for their own aggrandizement, were base enough to resort to
falsehood in order to destroy an influence at which the wicked alone
had cause to tremble. It was whispered in the ear of the unfortunate
monarch that his queen had held frequent, and of course clandestine,
interviews with Duke William, until, half frantic, he one day publicly
reproached her, and, turning to the assembled bishops, wildly demanded
a divorce. The proud nobles indignantly interposed, many a blade
rattled in its sheath, eager to vindicate the innocence of one who, in
their eyes, was purity itself; but Hedwige calmly arose, and with
matronly dignity demanded the name of her accuser, and a solemn trial,
according to the custom of her country. There was a dead silence, a
pause; and then, trembling and abashed before the virtue he had
maligned, the Vice-chamberlain Gniewosz, before mentioned as the
friend of Duke William (whose wealth he had not failed to
appropriate), stepped reluctantly forward. A murmur of surprise and
wrath resounded through the council-chamber: many a sword was drawn,
as though eager for the blood of the offender; but the ecclesiastics
having at length calmed the tumult, the case was appointed to be
judged at the diet of Wislica.

The queen's innocence was affirmed on oath by herself and her whole
household, after which the castellain, John Tenczynski, with twelve
knights of noble blood and unsullied honor, solemnly swore to the
falsehood of the accusation, and, throwing down their gauntlets,
defied to mortal combat all who should gainsay their assertion. None,
however, appeared to do battle in so bad a cause; and the convicted
traitor, silenced and confounded, sank on his knees, confessed his
guilt, and implored the mercy of her he had so foully aspersed. The
senate, in deference to the wishes of Hedwige, spared his life; but he
was compelled to crouch under a bench, imitate the barking of a dog,
and declare that, like that animal, he had dared to snarl against his
chaste and virtuous sovereign.  [Footnote 42] This done, he was
deprived of his office, and banished the court; and Wladislas hastened
to beg the forgiveness of his injured wife.

  [Footnote 42: This was a portion of the punishment specially awarded
  by the penal code of Poland to the crime of calumny. Like many other
  punishments of those ages, it was symbolical in its character. (See
  the valuable work of Albert du Boys, _Histoire du Droit Criminel des
  Peuples Modernes_, liv. ii.; chap. vii.) Similar penalties had been
  common in Poland from early times. Thus we find Boloslas the Great
  inviting to a banquet and vapor bath nobles who had been guilty of
  some transgression; after the bath he administered a paternal
  reproof and castigation. Hence the Polish proverb, "to give a person
  a bath."]

Meanwhile Prince Vitowda, despairing of assistance and pressed on all
sides, after much hesitation joined the Teutonic Knights in an
incursion against Lithuania. The country was invaded by a numerous
army, the capital taken by storm, abandoned to pillage, and finally
destroyed by fire; no less than fourteen thousand of the inhabitants
perishing in the flames, beside numbers who were massacred without
distinction of sex or age. Fortunately the upper city was garrisoned
by Poles, who determined to hold out to the last. The slight
fortifications were speedily destroyed; but, being immediately
repaired, the siege continued so long that Skirgello had time to
assemble an army before which the besiegers were eventually obliged to
retreat. Vitowda, now too deeply compromised to draw back, though
thwarted in his designs on Upper Wilna, gained possession of many of
the frontier towns, and, encouraged by success, aimed at nothing less
than the independent sovereignty of Lithuania. He was, however,
opposed during {154} two or three campaigns by Wladislas person,
until, wearied of the war, the king had the weakness not only to sue
for peace, but to invest Vitowda with the government of the duchy.
This, as might be expected, gave great umbrage to Skirgello, and to
another brother, Swidrigal, so that Lithuania, owing to the ambition
of the rival princes, became for some time the theatre of civil

Among her other titles to admiration, we must not omit to mention that
Hedwige was a munificent patroness of learning. She hastened to
re-establish the college built by Casimir II., founded and endowed a
magnificent university at Prague for the education of the Lithuanian
youth, and superintended the translation of the Holy Scriptures into
Polish, writing with her own hands the greater part of the New
Testament. Her work was interrupted during her husband's absence by
the attack of the Hungarians on the frontiers of Poland; and it was
then that, laying aside the weakness of her sex, she felt herself
called upon to supply his place. A powerful army was levied, of which
this youthful heroine assumed the command, directing the councils of
the generals, and sharing the privations of the meanest soldier. When
she appeared on horseback in the midst of the troops, nothing could
exceed the enthusiasm of these hardy warriors; and the simplicity with
which they obeyed the slightest order of their queen was touching in
the extreme. Hedwige led her forces into Russia Nigra, and, partly by
force of arms, partly by skilful negotiations, succeeded in
reconquering the whole of that vast province, which her father Lewis
had detached from the Polish crown in order to unite it to that of his
beloved Hungary. This act of injustice was repaired by his daughter,
who thus endeared her name to the memory of succeeding generations.
The conquering army proceeded to Silesia, then usurped by the Duke of
Oppelen, where they were equally successful; so that Wladislas was
indebted for the brightest trophies of his reign to the heroism of his

Encouraged by her past success, he determined to reconduct her into
Lithuania, in hopes by her means to settle the dissensions of the
rival princes. Accordingly, in the spring of 1393, they proceeded
thither, when the disputants, subdued by the irresistible charm of her
manners, agreed to refer their claims to her arbitration. Of a solid
and mature judgment, Hedwige succeeded in pacifying them; and then, by
mutual consent, they entered into a solemn compact that in their
future differences, instead of resorting to arms, they would submit
their cause unreservedly to the arbitration of the young Queen of

Notwithstanding its restoration to internal tranquillity, this
unfortunate duchy was continually laid waste by the Teutonic Knights;
and Wladislas, determined to hazard all on one decisive battle,
commanded forces to be levied not only in Lithuania, but in Poland.
Before the preparations were completed, an interview was arranged to
take place between the king and the grand-master, Conrad de Jungen;
but the nobility, fearing lest the irritable temper of Wladislas would
prove an insurmountable obstacle to all accommodation, implored him to
allow the queen to supply his place. On his consent, Hedwige,
accompanied by the ecclesiastics, the barons, and a magnificent
retinue, proceeded to the place of rendezvous, where she was met by
Conrad and the principal knight-commanders of the order. The terms she
proposed were equitable, and more lenient than the Teutonic Knights
had any reason to expect; but, under one trifling pretext or another,
they refused the restitution of the usurped territories on which the
king naturally insisted, and the queen was at length obliged to
return, prophesying, says the chronicler, that, after her death, their
perversity would receive its deserved punishment at the hands of her
husband. Her prediction was fulfilled. Some years afterward, on the
plains {155} between Grunnervaldt and Tannenberg, the grand-master,
with fifty thousand knights, was slain, and by this decisive victory
the order was placed at the mercy of Poland, though, from the usual
indecision of its king, the fruits of this splendid action were less
than might have been expected.

Until her early death, Hedwige continued the guardian angel of that
beloved country for which she had made her first and greatest
sacrifice; and it is likely that but for her watchfulness, its
interests would have been frequently compromised by the Lithuanian
union. Acting on this principle, she refused to recognize the
investiture of her husband's favorite, the Palatine of Cracow, with
the perpetual fief of Podolia; and, undazzled by the apparent
advantages offered by an expedition against the Tartars headed by the
great Tamerlane, she forbade the Polish generals to take part in a
campaign which, owing to the rashness of Vitowda, terminated so

It was shortly after her unsuccessful interview with the Teutonic
Knights that, by the death of her sister Maria, the crown of Hungary
(which ought to have devolved on her husband Sigismund) became again
an object of contention. The Hungarians, attracted by the report of
her moderation, wisdom, and even military skill--not an uncommon
accomplishment in females of those times--determined to offer it to
Hedwige; but her brother-in-law, trusting to her sense of justice,
hastened to Cracow, praying her not to accept the proposal, and
earnestly soliciting her alliance. The queen, whom ambition had no
power to dazzle, consented, and a treaty advantageous to Poland was at
once concluded.

Hedwige was a good theologian, and well read in the fathers and
doctors of the Church; the works of St. Bernard and St. Ambrose, the
revelations of St. Bridget, and the sermons of holy men, being the
works in which she most delighted. In Church music she was an
enthusiast; and not long after the completion of the convent of the
Visitation, which she had caused to be erected near the gates of
Cracow, she founded the Benedictine abbey of the Holy Cross, where
office was daily recited in the Selavonian language, after the custom
of the order at Prague. She also instituted a college in honor of the
Blessed Virgin, where the Psalms were daily chanted, after an improved
method, by sixteen canons.

It was toward the close of the year 1398 that, to the great delight of
her subjects, it became evident that the union of Wladislas and
Hedwige would at length be blessed with offspring. To see the throne
filled by a descendant of their beloved sovereign had been the dearest
wish of the Polish people, and fervent had been the prayers offered
for this inestimable blessing. The enraptured Wladislas hastened to
impart his expected happiness to most of the Christian kings and
princes, not forgetting the Supreme Pontiff, Boniface IX., by whom the
merits of the young queen were so well appreciated that, six years
after her accession, he had addressed to her a letter, written with
his own hand, in which he thanked her for her affectionate devotion to
the Catholic Church, and informed her that, although it was impossible
he could accede to all the applications which might be transmitted to
the Holy See on behalf of her subjects, yet, by her adopting a
confidential sign-manual, those requests to which she individually
attached importance should be immediately granted. The Holy Father
hastened to reply in the warmest terms to the king's communication,
promising to act as sponsor to the child, who, if a boy, he desired
might be named after himself.

Unfortunately, some time before the queen's delivery, it became
necessary for her husband to quit Cracow, in order to direct an
expedition against his old enemies the Teutonic Knights. During his
absence, he wrote a long letter, in which, after desiring that the
happy event might be attended with all possible magnificence, he
entered {156} into a minute detail of the devices and embroidery to be
used in the adornment of the bed and chamber, particularly requesting
that the draperies and hangings might not lack gold, pearls, or
precious stones. This ostentatious display, though excusable in a fond
husband and a powerful monarch about to behold the completion of his
dearest wishes, was by no means in consonance with Hedwige's intense
love of Christian simplicity and poverty. We find her addressing to
her husband these few touching words, expressing, as the result
proved, that presentiment of her approaching end which has often been
accorded to saintly souls: "Seeing that I have so long renounced the
pomps of this world, it is not on that treacherous couch--to so many
the bed of death--that I would willingly be surrounded by their
glitter. It is not by the help of gold or gems that I hope to render
myself acceptable to that Almighty Father who has mercifully removed
from me the reproach of barrenness, but rather by resignation to his
will, and a sense of my own nothingness." It was remarked after this
that the queen became more recollected than ever, spending whole hours
in meditation, bestowing large alms, not only on the distressed of her
own country, but on such pilgrims as presented themselves, and
increasing her exterior mortifications; wearing a hair shirt during
Lent, and using the discipline in a manner which, considering her
condition, might have been deemed injudicious. She had ever made a
point of spending the vigil of the anniversary of her early sacrifice
at the foot of the veiled crucifix, but on this occasion, not
returning at her usual hour, one of her Hungarian attendants sought
her in the cathedral, then but dimly lighted by the massy silver lamp
suspended before the tabernacle. It was bitterly cold, the wind was
moaning through the long aisles, but there, on the marble pavement, in
an ecstacy which rendered her insensible to bodily sufferings, lay
Hedwige, she having continued in this state of abstraction from the
termination of complin, at which she invariably assisted.

At length, on the 12th of June, 1399, this holy queen gave birth to a
daughter, who was immediately baptized in the cathedral of Cracow,
receiving from the Pope's legate, at the sacred font, the name of
Elizabeth Bonifacia. The babe was weak and sickly, and the condition
of the mother so precarious that a messenger was despatched to the
army urging the immediate return of Wladislas. He arrived in time to
witness the last sigh of his so ardently desired child, though his
disappointment was completely merged in his anxiety for his wife. By
the advice of the physicians it had been determined to conceal the
death of the infant, but their precautions were vain. At the very
moment it occurred, Hedwige herself announced it to her astonished
attendants, and then humbly asked for the last sacraments of the
Church, which she received with the greatest fervor. She, however,
lingered until the 17th of July, when, the measure of her merits and
good works being full, she went to appear before the tribunal of that
God whom she had sought to glorify on earth. She died before
completing her twenty-ninth year.

A few days previously she had taken a tender leave of her distracted
husband; and, mindful to the last of the interests of Poland, she
begged him to espouse her cousin Anne, by whose claim to the throne of
the Piasts his own would be strengthened. She then drew off her
nuptial ring, as if to detach herself from all human ties, and placed
it upon his finger, and although, from motives of policy, Wladislas
successively espoused three wives, he religiously preserved this
memorial of her he had valued the most; bequeathing it as a precious
relic (and a memento to be faithful to the land which Hedwige had so
truly loved) to the Bishop of Cracow, who had saved his life in
battle. Immediately after her funeral, he retired to his Russian {157}
province, nor could he for some time be prevailed upon to return and
assume the duties of sovereignty.

There was another mourner for her loss, William of Austria, who,
notwithstanding the entreaties of his subjects, had remained single
for her sake. He was at length prevailed upon to espouse the Princess
Jane of Naples, but did not long survive the union.

The obsequies of Hedwige were celebrated by the Pope's legate with
becoming magnificence. All that honor and respect from which she had
sensitively shrunk during life was lavished on her remains; she was
interred in the cathedral of Cracow on the left of the high altar; her
memory was embalmed by her people's love, and was sanctified in their
eyes. Numerous miracles are said to have been performed at her tomb:
thither the afflicted in mind and body flocked to obtain through her
intercession that consolation which during her life she had so
cheerfully bestowed. Contrary to the general expectation, she was
never canonized;   [Footnote 43] her name, however, continued to be
fondly cherished by the Poles, and by the people who under God were
indebted to her for their first knowledge of Christianity, and of whom
she might justly be styled the apostle. On her monument was graven a
Latin inscription styling her the "Star of Poland," enumerating her
virtues, lamenting her loss, and imploring the King of Glory to
receive her into his heavenly kingdom.

  [Footnote 43: Polish writers give her the title of saint, though her
  name is not inserted in the Martyrologies.--_Butler's Lives of the
  Saints_, October 17th.]

The life of Hedwige is her best eulogium. As it has been seen, she
combined all the qualities not only of her own, but of a more advanced
age. The leisure which she could snatch from the affairs of government
she employed in study, devotion, and works of charity. True to her
principles, she at her death bequeathed her jewels and other personal
property in trust to the bishop and castellain of Cracow, for the
foundation of a college in that city. Two years afterward her wishes
were carried into effect, and the first stone was laid of the since
celebrated university.

Wladislas survived his wife thirty-five years. In his old age he was
troubled by a return of his former jealousy, thereby continually
embittering the life of his queen, a Lithuanian princess, who,
although exculpated by oath, as Hedwige had formerly been, was less
fortunate, inasmuch as she was the continual victim of fresh
suspicions. The latter years of his reign were much disturbed by the
hostilities of the Emperor Sigismund, and by the troubles occasioned
in Lithuania by the rebels, who had again combined with the Teutonic

Wladislas died in 1434, at the age of eighty years. It is said that he
contracted his mortal sickness by being tempted to remain exposed too
long to the night air, captivated by the sweet notes of a nightingale.
Notwithstanding his faults, this monarch had many virtues; his piety
was great, and he practised severe abstinences; and although he at
times gave way to a suspicious temper, his general character was
trusting, frank, and generous even to imprudence. His suspicions, in
fact, did not originate with himself. They sprang, in the case of both
his wives, from the tongues of calumniators, to whom he listened with
a hasty credulity. He raised the glory and extended and consolidated
the dominion of Poland. He was succeeded by his son, a child of eleven
years, who had previously been, elected to the throne, but not until
Jagello had confirmed and even enlarged the privileges of the nobles.
His tardy consent, at the diet of Jedlin, roused their pride, so that
it was not until four years later that they solemnly gave their

It has not been our purpose to give more than a page out of the Polish
annals illustrative of the patriotic and Christian spirit of sacrifice
for which Poland's daughters have, down to the {158} present day, been
no less noted than her sons. The mind naturally reverts to the late
cruel struggle in which this generous people has once more succumbed
to the overwhelming power of Russia, and her unscrupulous employment
of the gigantic forces at her command. Europe has looked on
apathetically, and, after a few feeble diplomatic remonstrances, has
allowed the sacrifice to be completed. But the cause of Poland is
essentially the cause of Catholicism and of the Church; and this,
perhaps, may account for the small degree of sympathy it has awakened
in European governments. Russia's repression of her insurgent subjects
became from the first a religious persecution. Her aim is not to
Russify, but to decatholicize Poland. The insurrection, quenched in
blood, has been followed by a wholesale deportation of Poles into the
eastern Russian provinces, where, with their country, it is hoped they
will, ere long, lose also their faith. These are replaced by Russian
colonists transplanted into Poland. To crush, extirpate, and deport
the nobility--to leave the lower class alone upon the soil, who,
deprived of their clergy--martyred, exiled, or in bonds--may become
an easy conquest to the dominant schism--such is the plan of the
autocrat, as we have beheld it actively carried out with all its
accompanying horrors of sacrilege and ruthless barbarity. One voice
alone--that of the Father of Christendom--has been raised to
stigmatize these revolting excesses, and to reprove the iniquity of
"persecuting Catholicism in order to put down rebellion."  [Footnote
44] The same voice has exhorted us to pray for our Polish brethren,
and has encouraged that suffering people to seek their deliverance
from the just and compassionate Lord of all.

  [Footnote 44: The terms of the Holy Father's address have been
  strangely exaggerated in many continental journals, where he is made
  to refer to the subject politically, and loudly to proclaim the
  justice of the Polish insurrection in that regard. The Pope entirely
  restricted his animadversions on the Czar to his persecution of the
  faith of his subjects.]


From The Lamp.


In tracing the progress of the various branches of science during the
Middle Ages, there is nothing more striking than the slow stages by
which a knowledge of the truth was reached on the subject of the
earth's form, and the relative positions of the various countries
which compose it. Though from the very earliest period the subject
necessarily occupied a considerable amount of attention, and though
facts began to be observed bearing upon it in the first ages after the
diffusion of mankind, and were largely multiplied in proportion as the
formation of colonies and intercommunication for purposes of commerce
or war became more frequent, yet we find very little advance made in
geographical knowledge from the days of Ptolemy, when the observations
of the ancients were most systematically collected and arranged, till
some centuries after, when the maritime enterprise of the Portuguese
impelled them to the series of discoveries which led to the doubling
of the Cape of Good Hope, and incited the genius of Columbus to the
discovery of a new world.

The cause of this slow advance of geographical, in comparison with
other branches of knowledge, was owing in some measure to the absence
of any exact records of the discoveries made, by which they might have
been communicated to others, and become the {159} starting-point for
further investigations; but still more to the imperfect means of
navigation in existence, and to those barbarian uprisings and
migrations which for centuries, at least, were perpetually changing
the state of Europe and Asia, and, by removing the landmarks of
nations, obliging geography to begin as it were anew. During the whole
of this period, however, we find evidences of the patient cultivation
of this, as of all other branches of human knowledge, within the walls
of those monastic institutions which ignorant prejudice still regards
as the haunts of idleness, but to which the learned of all creeds and
countries acknowledge their deep debt of obligation. Formal accounts
of some distant land, either written by the traveller himself or
recorded from the oral information he communicated; historical
chronicles, in which not alone the events, but all that was known of
the country is recorded, and maps in which the position of various
places is attempted to be laid down, were to be found in every
monastery both on the continent and in our own island. The holy men,
too, who preached the gospel to pagan nations were usually careful
also to enlarge their contemporaries' knowledge concerning the places
and the people among whom they labored. Thus the great St. Boniface
not only converted the Sclavonic nations to Catholic truth, but, at
the special injunction of the Pope, wrote an account of them and of
their country. St. Otho, bishop of Bamberg, did the same for the
countries upon the shores of the Baltic; the holy monk Anscaire for
Scandinavia, where he carried on his apostolic labors; and many others
might be mentioned.

Among the most valuable of the contributions to the geography of the
Middle Ages were those furnished by some monks of the order of St.
Francis, who in the middle of the thirteenth century penetrated into
the remote east, on special missions to the barbarian hordes that then
threatened the very existence of religion and civilization, and whose
enterprises, embarked in at the call of duty, are in many respects

History, whether ancient or modern, has few chapters so remarkable as
that which records the rise of the Mongol power. A great chief, who
had ruled over an immense horde of this hitherto pastoral people,
died, leaving his eldest son an infant, and unable to command the
adhesion of his rude subjects. The young chief, as he grew to man's
estate, found his horde dispersed, and only a few families willing to
acknowledge his sway. Determined, however, to regain his power and
carry out the ambitious design which he had formed of conquering the
world, he caused an assembly of the whole people to be summoned on the
banks of the Selinga. At this assembly one of the wise men of the
tribes announced that he had had a vision, in which he saw the great
God, the disposer of kingdoms, sitting upon his throne in council, and
heard him decree that the young chief should be "Zingis Khan," or
"Greatest Chief" of the earth. The shouts of the Mongols testified
their readiness to accept the decree; Zingis Khan was raised to
supreme power over the whole Mongol race. He soon subdued the petty
opposition of his neighbors, and, establishing the seat of his empire
at Karakorum, spread his conquests in every direction with
extraordinary rapidity, and died the ruler of many nations,
bequeathing his power to sons and grandsons as warlike and ambitious
as himself. One of these, Batoo Khan, invaded Europe with an immense
army. He overran Russia, taking Moscow and its other principal places;
subdued Poland and burnt Cracow; defeated the king of Hungary in a
great battle; penetrated to Breslau, which he burned; and defeated,
near Liegnitz, an army composed of Christian volunteers from all
lands;--one of the bloodiest battles ever fought against the eastern

It was four years after this great battle, namely, in 1246, and when
all {160} Europe was trembling at the expectation of another invasion
of the Mongols (who, having devastated the country with fire and
sword, had retired loaded with spoils), that two embassies were
despatched by the Pope, Innocent IV., to endeavor to induce them to
stop their progress into Europe, and to embrace Christianity. These
important missions were intrusted to monks of the Franciscan order;
Jean du Plan Carpini being despatched toward the north-east, where the
camp of Batoo was fixed, and Nicholas Ascelin, the year after, sent
into Syria and Persia.

Ascelin's mission, which comprised three other monks of the same order
beside himself, was the most rapidly terminated. Following the south
of the Caspian Sea, the party traversed Syria, Mesopotamia, and
Persia, and at length reached the Mongol or Tatar encampment of
Baiothnoy Khan. Being asked their object as they approached, the holy
men boldly but undiplomatically declared that they were ambassadors
from the head of the Christian world, and that their mission was to
exhort the Tatars to repent of their wicked and barbarous attacks upon
God's people. Being asked what presents they brought to the khan,
according to eastern custom, they further replied that the Pope, as
the vicar of God, was not accustomed to purchase a hearing or favor by
such means, especially from infidels. The Mongols were astonished at
this bold language used toward a race accustomed to strike terror into
all who came into contact with them. They were still more astonished
when the holy men refused, as a reprehensible act of idolatry, to make
the usual genuflexions on being admitted to the presence of the khan,
unless he first became a Catholic and acknowledged the Pope's
supremacy, when they offered to do so for the honor of God and the
Church. Hitherto the barbarians had borne patiently the display of
what they doubtless regarded as the idiosyncrasies of the good friars,
but this last refusal incited their rage; the ambassadors and their
master the Pope were insulted and threatened, and it was debated in
council whether they should not be flayed alive, their skins stuffed
with hay, and sent back to the Pope. The interposition of the khan's
mother saved their lives, however; but the Mongols could never
understand how the Holy Father, who they found from Ascelin kept no
army and had gained no battles, could have dared to send such a
message to their victorious master, whom they styled the Son of
Heaven. Ascelin and his companions were treated during their stay with
scant courtesy, and were dismissed with a letter to the Pope from
Baiothnoy Khan, commanding him, if he wished to remain in possession
of his land and heritage, to come in his own person and do homage to
him who held just sway over the whole earth. They reached as speedily
as possible the nearest Syrian port, and embarked for France. They
brought back to Europe some valuable information respecting the
country of the Mongols, though small compared with that of the other
ambassadors whom we have to mention.

Carpini was a man better fitted the office of ambassador, and able,
without sacrificing his principles or his dignity, to become "all
things to all men." He travelled with a numerous suite through Bohemia
and Poland to Kiow, then the Russian capital. A quantity of skins and
furs was given him in the northern capitals, as presents to the Tatar
chiefs, and all Europe watched with interest the result of the
embassy. On the banks of the Dnieper they first encountered the
barbarians. The purpose of their journey being demanded, they replied
that they were messengers from the Pope to the chief of the Tatar
people, to desire peace and friendship between them, and request that
they would embrace the faith of Christ, and desist from the slaughter
of the Pope's subjects, who had never injured or attempted to injure
them. Their {161} bearing made a very favorable impression. They were
conducted to the tent of the chief, where they did not hesitate to
make the usual salutations; and by his command post-horses and a
Mongol escort were given them to conduct them to Batoo Khan. They
found him at a place on the borders of the Black Sea; and, before
being admitted to an audience, had to pass between two fires, as a
charm to nullify any witchcraft or evil intention on their parts. They
found Batoo seated on a raised throne with one of his wives, and
surrounded by his court. They again made the usual genuflexions, and
then delivered their letters, which Batoo Khan read attentively, but
without giving them any reply. For some months they were "trotted
about," with a view to show them the wealth, power, and magnificence
of the people they were among; and in order that they might
communicate at home what they saw. The holy men passed Lent among the
Mongols; and, notwithstanding the fatigues they had passed through,
observed a strict fast, taking, as their only food for the forty days,
millet boiled in water, and drinking only melted snow. They witnessed
the imposing ceremony of the investiture of a Tatar chief, at which a
large number of feudatory princes were present, with no less than four
thousand messengers bearing tribute or presents from subdued or
submitted states. After the investiture, they also were ushered into
the presence; but, alas, the gifts intrusted to them and their whole
substance were already consumed. The Tatars, however, considerately
dispensed with this usual part of the proceedings; for the coarse garb
of the monks, contrasting as it did with the rich silks and garments
of gold and silver which they describe as being worn generally during
the ceremonies, must have marked them as men who possessed little of
this world's goods.

The ceremonials of investiture over, Carpini was at length called upon
to deliver his message to the newly-appointed khan; and a reply was
given, which he was desired to translate into Latin, and convey to the
Pope. It contained only meaningless expressions of good-will; but the
fact was, that the khan intended to carry the war into Europe, though
he did not desire to give notice of his intent. He offered to send
with them an ambassador to the Pope; but Carpini seems to have
surmised his purpose, and that this ambassador would really be only a
spy; and he therefore found means to evade the offer. They returned
homeward through the rigors of a Siberian winter, accompanied by
several Genoese, Pisan, and Venetian traders, who, following the papal
envoys, had found their way, in pursuit of commerce, to the Tatar
encampment. The hardships the good men endured on the return journey
were of the most fearful kind. Often, in crossing the extensive
steppes of that country, they were forced to sleep all night upon the
snow, and found themselves almost buried in snow-drifts in the
morning. Kiow was at length reached; and its people, who had given up
the adventurous travellers as lost, turned out to welcome them, as men
returned from the grave. The rest of Carpini's life was spent in
similar hardships, while preaching the gospel to the savage peoples of
Bohemia, Hungary, Denmark, and Norway; and death came to him with his
reward, at an advanced age, in the midst of his apostolic labors.

A few years after the missions of Ascelin and Carpini, another
Franciscan, named William Van Ruysbroeck, better known as Rubriquis, a
native of Brabant, was sent by Saint Louis of France on a similar
errand to the Mongols, one of whose khans, it was reported, had
embraced Christianity. He found the rumor void of foundation; and,
though received courteously, as Carpini had been, could perceive not
the slightest disposition among the barbarians to receive or even hear
the truth. At the camp of Sartach Khan, Rubriquis was commanded to
appear before the chief in his priestly vestments, and did so,
carrying a missal {162} and crucifix in his hands, an attendant
preceding him with a censer, and singing the _Salve Regina_. Everything
he had with him was examined very attentively by the khan and his
wives, especially the crucifix; but nothing came of this curiosity.
Like Carpini, the party were frequently exposed to great privations,
both at the encampments and on their journeys; and on one occasion
Rubriquis piously records: "If it had not been for the grace of God,
and the biscuit which we had brought with us, we had surely perished."
On one journey from camp to camp, they travelled for five weeks along
the banks of the Volga, nearly always on foot, and often without food.
Rubriquis' companion Barthelemi broke down under the fatigues of the
return journey; but Rubriquis persevered alone, and traversed an
immense extent of country, passing through the Caucasus, Armenia, and
Syria, before he took ship for France, to report the failure of his
mission to the pious king.

Bootless as these journeys proved, so far as their main object was
concerned, there is no doubt that in many ways they effected a large
amount of good. The religious creed of the Mongols appears to have
been confined to a belief in one God, and in a place of future rewards
and punishments. For other doctrines, or for ceremonies of religion,
they appear to have cared little. They trampled the Caliph of Bagdad,
the "successor of the Prophet," beneath their horses' hoofs at the
capture of that city; and they tolerated at their camps our Christian
monks, as well as a number of professors of the Nestorian heresy. It
was only on becoming Mohammedans that they, and the kindred but rival
race of Ottomans, became intolerant. But it is to be observed that
Islamism, which allowed polygamy, and avoided interference with their
other national habits and customs, would be likely to attract them, in
consequence of their religious indifference, as naturally as
Christianity, which sought to impose restraints upon their ferocity
and sensualism, would repel them. It is no wonder, therefore, that the
efforts of the zealous Franciscans were unsuccessful. But their zeal
and disinterestedness, their irreproachable lives and simple manners,
were not without producing an effect upon the savage men with whom
their embassies brought them into contact; and by their intercourse,
and that mercantile communication for which their travels pioneered
the way, the conduct of the Mongols toward the Christian races was
sensibly affected beneficially, while on the other side they taught
Europe to regard the Mongols as a people to be feared indeed, and
guarded against, but not as the demons incarnate they had been
pictured by the popular imagination. The benefit these devoted monks
conferred upon the progress of science and civilization is scarcely to
be over-estimated; as not only did they acquaint Europe with a number
of minute, and in the main accurate, details respecting a vast tract
of country previously unknown, and the peoples by whom it was
inhabited, but they opened up new realms to commerce, in the exploring
of which Marco Polo, Clavijo, and subsequent travellers, pushed onward
to China, Japan, and India, and prepared the way for the great
maritime discoveries of the succeeding century.



From The Month.





As I entered the library, which my father used for purposes of
business as well as of study, I saw a gentleman who had often been at
our house before, and whom I knew to be a priest, though he was
dressed as a working-man of the better sort and had on a riding coat
of coarse materials. He beckoned me to him, and I, kneeling, received
his blessing.

"What, up yet, little one?" he said; "and yet thou must bestir thyself
betimes to-morrow for prayers. These are not days in which priests may
play the sluggard and be found abed when the sun rises."

"At what hour must you be on foot, reverend father?" my mother asked,
as sitting down at a table by his side she filled his plate with
whatever might tempt him to eat, the which he seemed little inclined

"Before dawn, good Mrs. Sherwood," he answered; "and across the fields
into the forest before ever the laboring men are astir; and you know
best when that is."

"An if it be so, which I fear it must," my father said, "we must e'en
have the chapel ready by two o'clock. And, goodwife, you should
presently get that wench to bed."

"Nay, good mother," I cried, and threw my arms round her waist,
"prithee let me sit up to-night; I can lie abed all to-morrow." So
wistfully and urgently did I plead, that she, who had grown of late
somewhat loth to deny any request of mine, yielded to my entreaties,
and only willed that I should lie down on a settle betwixt her chair
and the chimney, in which a fagot was blazing, though it was
summer-time, but the weather was chilly. I gazed by turns on my
mother's pale face and my father's, which was thoughtful, and on the
good priest's, who was in an easy-chair, wherein they had compelled
him to sit, opposite to me on the other side of the chimney. He
looked, as I remember him then, as if in body and in mind he had
suffered more than he could almost bear.

After some discourse had been ministered betwixt him and my father of
the journey he had been taking, and the friends he had seen since last
he had visited our house, my mother said, in a tremulous voice, "And
now, good Mr. Mush, an if it would not pain you too sorely, tell us if
it be true that your dear daughter in Christ, Mrs. Clitherow, as
indeed won the martyr's crown, as some letters from York reported to
us a short time back?"

Upon this Mr. Mush raised his head, which had sunk on his breast, and
said, "She that was my spiritual daughter in times past, and now, as I
humbly hope, my glorious mother in heaven, the gracious martyr Mrs.
Clitherow, has overcome all her enemies, and passed from this mortal
life with rare and marvellous triumph into the peaceable city of God,
there to receive a worthy crown of endless immortality and joy." His
eye, that had been before heavy and dim, now shone with sudden light,
and it seemed as if the cord about his heart was loosed, and his
spirit found vent at last in words after a long and painful silence.
More eloquent still was his countenance than his words as he
exclaimed, "Torments overcame her not, nor the sweetness of life, nor
her vehement affection for {164} husband and children, nor the
flattering allurements and deceitful promises of the persecutors.
Finally, the world, the flesh, and the devil overcame her not. She, a
woman, with invincible courage entered combat against them all, to
defend the ancient faith, wherein both she and her enemies were
baptized and gave their promise to God to keep the same until death. O
sacred martyr!" and, with clasped hands and streaming eyes, the good
father went on, "remember me, I beseech thee humbly, in thy perfect
charity, whom thou hast left miserable behind thee, in time past thy
unworthy father and now most unworthy servant, made ever joyful by thy
virtuous life, and now lamenting thy death and thy absence, and yet
rejoicing in thy glory."

A sob burst from my mother's breast, and she hid her face against my
father's shoulder. There was a brief silence, during which many
quickly-rising thoughts passed through my mind. Of Daniel in the
lions' den, and the Machabees and the early Christians; and of the
great store of blood which had been shed of late in this our country,
and of which amongst the slain were truly martyrs, and which were not;
of the vision in the sky which had been seen at Lichfield; and chiefly
of that blessed woman Mrs. Clitherow, whose virtue and good works I
had often before heard of, such as serving the poor and harboring
priests, and loving God's Church with a wonderful affection greater
than can be thought of. Then I heard my father say, "How was it at the
last, good Mr. Mush?" I oped my eyes, and hung on the lips of the good
priest even as if to devour his words as he gave utterance to them.

"She refused to be tried by the country," he answered, in a tremulous
voice; "and so they murthered her."

"How so?" my mother asked, shading her eyes with her hand, as if to
exclude the mental sight of that which she yet sought to know.

"They pressed her to death," he slowly uttered; "and the last words
she was heard to say were 'Jesu, Jesu, Jesu! have mercy on me!' She
was in dying about a quarter of an hour, and then her blessed spirit
was released and took its flight to heaven. May we die the death of
the righteous, and may our last end be like hers!"

Again my mother hid her face in my father's bosom, and methought she
said not "Amen" to that prayer; but turning to Mr. Mush with a flushed
cheek and troubled eye, she asked, "And why did the blessed Mrs.
Clitherow refuse to be tried by the country, reverend father, and
thereby subject herself to that lingering death?"

"These were her words when questioned and urged on that point," he
answered, "which sufficiently clear her from all accusation of
obstinacy or desperation, and combine the rare discretion and charity
which were in her at all times: 'Alas!' quoth she, 'if I should have
put myself on the country, evidence must needs have come against me
touching my harboring of priests and the holy sacrifice of the mass in
my house, which I know none could give but only my children and
servants; and it would have been to me more grievous than a thousand
deaths if I should have seen any of them brought forth before me, to
give evidence against me in so good a cause and be guilty of my blood;
and, secondly,' quoth she, 'I know well the country must needs have
found me guilty to please the council, who so earnestly seek my blood,
and then all they had been accessory to my death and damnably offended
God. I therefore think, in the way of charity, for my part to hinder
the country from such a sin; and seeing it must needs be done, to
cause as few to do it as might be; and that was the judge himself.' So
she thought, and thereupon she acted, with that single view to God's
glory and the good of men's souls that was ever the passion of her
fervent spirit."

"Her children?" my mother murmured in a faint voice, still hiding her
face from him. "That little Agnes {165} you used to tell us of, that
was so dear to her poor mother, how has it fared with her?"

Mr. Mush answered, "Her _happy_ mother sent her hose and shoes to her
daughter at the last, signifying that she should serve God and follow
her steps of virtue. She was committed to ward because she would not
betray her mother, and there whipped and extremely used for that she
would not go to the church and hear a sermon. When her mother was
murthered, the heretics came to her and said that unless she would go
to the church, her mother should be put to death. The child, thinking
to save the life of her who had given her birth, went to a sermon, and
thus they deceived her."

"God forgive them!" my father ejaculated; and I, creeping to my
mother's side, threw my arms about her neck, upon which she, caressing
me, said:

"Now thou wilt be up to their deceits, Conny, if they should practice
the same arts on thee."

"Mother," I cried, clinging to her, "I will go with thee to prison and
to death; but to their church I will not go who love not our Blessed

"So help thee God!" my father cried, and laid his hand on my head.

"Take heart, good Mrs. Sherwood," Mr. Mush said to my mother, who was
weeping; "God may spare you such trials as those which that sweet
saint rejoiced in, or he can give you a like strength to hers. We have
need in these times to bear in mind that comfortable saying of holy
writ, 'As your day shall your strength be.'"

"'Tis strange," my father observed, "how these present troubles seem
to awake the readiness, nay the wish, to suffer for truth's sake. It
is like a new sense in a soul heretofore but too prone to eschew
suffering of any sort: 'tis even as the keen breezes of our own
Cannock Chase stimulate the frame to exertions which it would shrink
from in the duller air of the Trent Valley."

"Ah! and is it even so with you, my friend?" exclaimed Mr. Mush. "From
my heart I rejoice at it: such thoughts are oftentimes forerunners of
God's call to a soul marked out for his special service."

My mother, against whom I was leaning since mention had been made of
Mrs. Clitherow's daughter, began to tremble; and rising said she would
go to the chapel to prepare for confession. Taking me by the hand, she
mounted the stairs to the room which was used as such since the
ancient faith had been proscribed. One by one that night we knelt at
the feet of the good shepherd, who, like his Lord, was ready to lay
down his life for his sheep, and were shriven. Then, at two of the
clock, mass was said, and my parents and most of our servants
received, and likewise some neighbors to whom notice had been sent in
secret of Mr. Mush's coming. When my mother returned from the altar to
her seat, I marvelled at the change in her countenance. She who had
been so troubled before the coming of the Heavenly Guest into her
breast, wore now so serene and joyful an aspect, that the looking upon
her at that time wrought in me a new and comfortable sense of the
greatness of that divine sacrament. I found not the thought of death
frighten me then; for albeit on that night I for the first time fully
arrived at the knowledge of the peril and jeopardy in which the
Catholics of this land do live; nevertheless this knowledge awoke in
me more exultation than fear. I had seen precautions used, and
reserves maintained, of which I now perceived the cause. For some time
past my parents had prepared the way for this no-longer-to-be-deferred
enlightenment. The small account they had taught me to make of the
wealth and comforts of this perishable world, and the histories they
had recounted to me of the sufferings of Christians in the early times
of the Church, had been directed unto this end. They had, as it were,
laid the wood on the altar of my heart, which they prayed might one
day burn into {166} a flame. And now when, by reason of the discourse
I had heard touching Mrs. Clitherow's blessed but painful end for
harboring of priests in her house, and the presence of one under our
roof, I took heed that the danger had come nigh unto our own doors, my
heart seemed to beat with a singular joy. Childhood sets no great
store on life: the passage from this world to the next is not terrible
to such as have had no shadows cast on their paths by their own or
others' sins. Heaven is not a far-off region to the pure in heart; but
rather a home, where God, as St. Thomas sings,

    "Vitam sine termino
  Nobis donet in patria."

But, ah me! how transient are the lights and shades which flit across
the childish mind! and how mutable the temper of youth, never long
impressed by any event, however grave! Not many days after Mr. Mush's
visit to our house, another letter from the Countess of Surrey came
into my hand, and drove from my thoughts for the time all but the
matters therein disclosed.

  (my lady wrote),--"In my last letter I made mention, in an obscure
  fashion, of a secret which my lord had told me touching a matter of
  great weight which Higford, his grace's steward, had let out to him;
  and now that the whole world is speaking of what was then in hand,
  and that troubles have come of it, I must needs relieve my mind by
  writing thereof to her who is the best friend I have in the world,
  if I may judge by the virtuous counsel and loving words her letters
  do contain. 'Tis like you have heard somewhat of that same matter,
  Mistress Constance; for much talk has been ministered anent it since
  I wrote, amongst people of all sorts, and with various intents to
  the hindering or the promoting thereof. I mean touching the marriage
  of his grace the Duke of Norfolk with the Queen of Scots, which is
  much desired by some, and very little wished for by others. My lord,
  as is reasonable in one of his years and of so noble a spirit, and
  his sister, who is in all things the counterpart of her brother,
  have set their hearts thereon since the first inkling they had of
  it; for this queen had so noted a fame for her excellent beauty and
  sweet disposition that it has wrought in them an extraordinary
  passionate desire to title her mother, and to see their father so
  nobly mated, though not more than he deserves; for, as my lord says,
  his grace's estate in England is worth little less than the whole
  realm of Scotland, in the ill state to which the wars have reduced
  it; and when he is in his own tennis-court at Norwich, he thinks
  himself as great as a king.

  "As a good wife, I should wish as my lord does; and indeed this
  marriage, Mistress Constance, would please me well; for the Queen of
  Scots is Catholic, and methinks if his grace were to wed her, there
  might arise some good out of it to such as are dependent on his
  grace touching matters of religion; and since Mr. Martin has gone
  beyond seas, 'tis very little I hear in this house but what is
  contrary to the teaching I had at my grandmother's. My lord saith
  this queen's troubles will be ended if she doth marry his grace, for
  so Higford has told him; but when I spoke thereof to my Lady Lumley,
  she prayed God his grace's might not then begin, but charged me to
  be silent thereon before my Lord Arundel, who has greatly set his
  heart on this match. She said words were in every one's mouth
  concerning this marriage which should never have been spoken of but
  amongst a few. 'Nan,' quoth she, 'if Phil and thou do let your
  children's tongues wag anent a matter which may well be one of life
  and death, more harm may come of it than can well be thought of.' So
  prithee, Mistress Constance, do you be silent as the grave on what I
  have herein written, if so be you have not heard {167} of it but
  from me. My lord had a quarrel with my Lord Essex, who is about his
  own age, anent the Queen of Scots, a few days since, when he came to
  spend his birthday with him; for my lord was twelve years old last
  week, and I gave him a fair jewel to set in his cap, for a
  love-token and for remembrance. My lord said that the Queen of Scots
  was a lady of so great virtue and beauty that none else could be
  compared with her; upon which my lord of Essex cried it was high
  treason to the queen's majesty to say so, and that if her grace held
  so long a time in prison one who was her near kinswoman, it was by
  reason of her having murthered her husband and fomented rebellion in
  this kingdom of England, for the which she did deserve to be
  extremely used. My lord was very wroth at this, and swore he was no
  traitor, and that the Queen of Scots was no murtheress, and he would
  lay down his head on the block rather than suffer any should style
  her such; upon which my lord of Essex asked, 'Prithee, my Lord
  Surrey, were you at Thornham last week when the queen's majesty was
  on a visit to your grandfather, my Lord Arundel?' 'No,' cried my
  lord, 'your lordship being there yourself in my Lord Leicester's
  suite, must needs have noticed I was absent; for if I had been
  present, methinks 'tis I and not your lordship would have waited
  behind her majesty's chair at table and held a napkin to her.' 'And
  if you had, my lord,' quoth my Lord Essex, waxing hot in his speech,
  'you would have noticed how her grace's majesty gave a nip to his
  grace your father, who was sitting by her side, and said she would
  have him take heed on what pillow he rested his head.' 'And I would
  have you take heed,' cries my lord, 'how you suffer your tongue to
  wag in an unseemly manner anent her grace's majesty and his grace my
  father and the Queen of Scots, who is kinswoman to both, and even
  now a prisoner, which should make men careful how they speak of her
  who cannot speak in her own cause; for it is a very inhuman part, my
  lord, to tread on such as misfortune has cast down.' There was a
  nobleness in these words such as I have often taken note of in my
  lord, though so young, and which his playmate yielded to; so that
  nothing more was said at that time anent those matters, which indeed
  do seem too weighty to be discoursed upon by young folks. But I have
  thought since on the lines which 'tis said the queen's majesty wrote
  when she was herself a prisoner, which begin,

    'O Fortune! how thy restless, wavering state
    Hath fraught with cares my troubled wit;
    Witness this present prison, whither fate
    Could bear me, and the joys I quit'--

  and wondered she should have no greater pity on those in the same
  plight, as so many be at this time. Ah me! I would not keep a bird
  in a cage an I could help it, and 'tis sad men are not more tender
  of such as are of a like nature with themselves!

  "My lord was away some days after this at Oxford, whither he had
  been carried to be present at the queen's visit, and at the play of
  _Palamon and Arcite_, which her majesty heard in the common hall of
  Christ's Church. One evening, as my lady Margaret and I (like two
  twin cherries on one stalk, my lord would say, for he is mightily
  taken with the stage-plays he doth hear, and hath a trick of framing
  his speech from them) were sitting at the window near unto the
  garden practising our lutes and singing madrigals, he surprised us
  with his sweet company, in which I find an ever increasing content,
  and cried out as he approached, 'Ladies, I hold this sentence of the
  poet as a canon of my creed, that whom God loveth not, they love not
  music.' And then he said that albeit Italian was a very harmonious
  and sweet language which pleasantly tickleth the ear, he for his
  part loved English best, even in singing. Upon which, finding him in
  the humor for discreet {168} and sensible conversation, which,
  albeit he hath good parts and a ready wit, is not always the case,
  by reason of his being, as boys mostly are, prone to wagging, I took
  occasion to relate what I had heard my Lord of Arundel say touching
  his visit to the court of Brussels, when the Duchess of Parma
  invited him to a banquet to meet the Prince of Orange and most of
  the chief courtiers. The discourse was carried on in French; but my
  lord, albeit he could speak well in that language, nevertheless made
  use of an interpreter. At the which the Prince of Orange expressed
  his surprise to Sir John Wilson, who was present, that an English
  nobleman of so great birth and breeding should be ignorant of the
  French tongue, which the earl presently hearing, said, 'Tell the
  prince that I like to speak in that language in which I can best
  utter my mind and not mistake.' And I perceive, my lord,' I said,
  'that you are of a like mind with his lordship, and no lover of
  new-fangled and curious terms.'

  "Upon which my dear earl laughed, and related unto us how the queen
  had been pleased to take notice of him at Oxford, and spoke merrily
  to him of his marriage. 'And prithee, Phil, what were her highness's
  words?' quoth his prying sister, like a true daughter of Eve. At
  which my lord stroked his chin, as if to smooth his beard which is
  still to come, and said her majesty had cried, 'God's pity, child,
  thou wilt tire of thy wife afore you have both left the nursery.'
  'Alack,' cried Meg, 'if any but her highness had said it, thy hand
  would have been on thy sword, brother, and I'll warrant thou didst
  turn as red as a turkey-cock, when her majesty thus titled thee a
  baby. Nay, do not frown, but be a good lord to us, and tell Nan and
  me if the queen said aught else.' Then my lord cleared his brow, and
  related how in the hunting scene in the play, when the cry of the
  hounds was heard outside the stage, which was excellently well
  imitated, some scholars who were seated near him, and he must
  confess himself also, did shout, 'There, there--he's caught, he's
  caught!' upon which her grace's majesty laughed, and merrily cried
  out from her box, 'Those boys in very troth are ready to leap out of
  the windows!' 'And had you such pleasant sports each day, brother?'
  quoth our Meg. 'No, by my troth,' my lord answered; 'the more's the
  pity; for the next day there was a disputation held in physic and
  divinity from two to seven; and Dr. Westphaling held forth at so
  great length that her majesty sent word to him to end his discourse
  without delay, to the great relief and comfort of all present. But
  he would not give over, lest, having committed all to memory, he
  should forget the rest if he omitted any part of it, and be brought
  to shame before the university and the court.' 'What said her
  highness when she saw he heeded not her commands?' Meg asked. 'She
  was angered at first,' quoth my lord, 'that he durst go on with his
  discourse when she had sent him word presently to stop, whereby she
  had herself been prevented from speaking, which the Spanish
  Ambassador had asked her to do; but when she heard the reason it
  moved her to laughter, and she titled him a parrot.'

  "'And spoke not her majesty at all?' I asked; and my lord said, 'She
  would not have been a woman, Nan, an she had held her tongue after
  being once resolved to use it. She made the next day an oration in
  Latin, and stopped in the midst to bid my Lord Burleigh be seated,
  and not to stand painfully on his gouty feet. Beshrew me, but I
  think she did it to show the poor dean how much better her memory
  served her than his had done, for she looked round to where he was
  standing ere she resumed her discourse. And now, Meg, clear thy
  throat and tune thy pipe, for not another word will I speak till
  thou hast sung that ditty good Mr. Martin set to music for thee.' I
  have set it down here, Mistress Constance, with the notes as {169}
  she sung it, that you may sing it also; and not like it the less that
  my quaint fancy pictures the maiden the poet sings of, in her 'frock
  of frolic green,' like unto my sweet friend who dwells not far from
  one of the fair rivers therein named.

    A knight, as antique stories tell,
    A daughter had named Dawsabel,
        A maiden fair and free;
    She wore a frock of frolic green,
    Might well become a maiden queen,
        Which seemly was to see.

    The silk well could she twist and twine,
    And make the fine March pine,
    And with the needle work;
    And she could help the priest to say
    His matins on a holy day,
    And sing a psalm in kirk.

    Her features all as fresh above
    As is the grass that grows by Dove,
    And lythe as lass of Kent;
    Her skin as soft as Leinster wool,
    And white as snow on Penhisk Hull,
    Or swan that swims on Trent.

    This maiden on a morn betime
    Goes forth when May is in its prime,
    To get sweet setywall,
    The honeysuckle, the hurlock,
    The lily and the lady-smock,
    To deck her father's hall.

  "'Ah,' cried my lord, when Meg had ended her song, beshrew me, if
  Monsieur Sebastian's madrigals are one-half so dainty as this
  English piece of harmony.' And then,--for his lordship's head is at
  present running on pageants such as he witnessed at Nonsuch and at
  Oxford,--he would have me call into the garden Madge and Bess,
  whilst he fetched his brothers to take part in a May game, not
  indeed in season now, but which, he says, is too good sport not to
  be followed all the year round. So he must needs dress himself as
  Robin Hood, with a wreath on his head and a sheaf of arrows in his
  girdle, and me as Maid Marian; and Meg, for that she is taller by an
  inch than any of us, though younger than him and me, he said should
  play Little John, and Bess Friar Tuck, for that she looks so
  gleesome and has a face so red and round. 'And Tom,' he cried, 'thou
  needst not be at pains to change thy name, for we will dub thee Tom
  the piper.' 'And what is Will to be?' asked my Lady Bess, who, since
  I be titled Countess of Surrey, must needs be styled My Lady William
  Howard.' 'Why, there's only the fool left,' quoth my lord, 'for thy
  sweetheart to play, Bess.' At the which her ladyship and his
  lordship too began to stamp and cry, and would have sobbed outright,
  but sweet Madge, whose face waxes so white and her eyes so large and
  blue that methinks she is more like to an angel than a child, put
  out her little thin hands with a pretty gesture, and said, 'I'll be
  the fool, brother Surrey, and Will shall be the dragon, and Bess
  ride the hobby-horse, an it will please her.' 'Nay, but she is Friar
  Tuck,' quoth my lord, 'and should not ride.' 'And prithee wherefore
  no?' cried the forward imp, who, now she no more fears her grandam's
  rod, has grown very saucy and bold; 'why should not the good friar
  ride, an it doth pleasure him?'

  "At the which we laughed and fell to acting our parts with no little
  merriment and noise, and sundry reprehensions from my lord when we
  mistook our postures or the lines he would have us to recite. And at
  the end he set up a pole on the grass-plat for the Maying, and we
  danced and sung around it to a merry tune, which set our feet flying
  in time with the music:

    Now in the month of maying,
    When the merry lads are playing,
        Fa, la, la.

    Each with his bonny lasse,
    Upon the greeny grasse,
        Fa, la, la.

  Madge was not strong enough to dance, but she stole away to gather
  white and blue violets, and made a fair garland to set on my head,
  to my lord's great content, and would have me unloose my hair on my
  shoulders, which fell nearly to my feet, and waved in the wind in a
  wild fashion; which he said was beseeming for a bold outlaw's bride,
  and what he had seen in the Maid Marian, who had played in the
  pageant at Nonsuch. Mrs. Fawcett misdoubted that this sport of ours
  should be approved by Mr. Charke, who calls all {170} stage-playing
  Satan's recreations, and a sure road unto hell; and that we shall
  hear on it in his next preachment; for he has held forth to her at
  length on that same point, and upbraided her for that she did suffer
  such foolish and profane pastimes to be carried on in his grace's
  house. Ah me! I see no harm in it; and if, when my lord visits me, I
  play not with him as he chooses, 'tis not a thing to be expected
  that he will come only to sing psalms or play chess, which Mr.
  Charke holds to be the only game it befits Christians to entertain
  themselves with. 'Tis hard to know what is right and wrong when
  persons be of such different minds, and no ghostly adviser to be
  had, such as I was used to at my grandmother's house.

  "All, Mistress Constance! when I last wrote unto you I said troubles
  was the word in every one's mouth, and ere I had finished this
  letter--which I was then writing, and have kept by me ever
  since--what, think you, has befallen us? 'Tis anent the marriage of
  his grace with the Queen of Scots; which I now do wish it had
  pleased God none had ever thought of. Some weeks since my lord had
  told me, with great glee, that the Spanish ambassador was about to
  petition her majesty the queen for the release of her highness's
  cousin; and Higford and Bannister, and the rest of his grace's
  household--whom, since Mr. Martin went beyond seas, my lord spends
  much of his time with, and more of it methinks than is beseeming or
  to the profit of his manners and advancement of his behavior--have
  told him that this would prepare the way for the
  greatly-to-be-desired end of his grace's marriage with that queen;
  and my lord was reckoning up all the fine sports and pageants and
  noble entertainments would be enacted at Kenninghall and Thetford
  when that right princely wedding should take place; and how he
  should himself carry the train of the queen-duchess when she went
  into church; who was the fairest woman, he said, in the whole world,
  and none ever seen to be compared with her since the days of Grecian
  Helen. But when, some days ago, I questioned my lord touching the
  success of the ambassador's suits, and the queen's answer thereto,
  he said: 'By my troth, Nan, I understand that her highness sent away
  the gooseman, for so she entitled Senor Guzman, with a flea in his
  ear; for she said he had come on a fool's errand, and gave him for
  her answer that she would advise the Queen of Scots to bear her
  condition with less impatience, or she might chance to find some of
  those on whom she relied shorter by a head.' Oh, my lord,' I cried;
  'my dear Phil! God send she was not speaking of his grace your
  father!' 'Nan,' quoth he, 'she looked at his grace the next day with
  looks of so great anger and disdain, that my lord of Leicester--that
  false and villainous knave--gave signs of so great triumph as if his
  grace was even on his way to the Tower. Beshrew me, if I would not
  run my rapier through his body if I could!' 'And where is his grace
  at present?' I asked. 'He came to town night,' quoth my lord, 'with
  my Arundel, and this morning went Kenninghall.' After this for some
  days I heard no more, for a new tutor came to my lord, who suffers
  him not to stay in the waiting-room with his grace's gentlemen, and
  keeps so strict a hand over him touching his studies, that in his
  brief hours of recreation he would rather play at quoits, and other
  active pastimes, than converse with his lady. Alack! I wish he were
  a few years older, and I should have more comfort of him than now,
  when I must needs put up with his humors, which be as changeful, by
  reason of his great youth, as the lights and shades on the grass
  'neath an aspen-tree. I must be throwing a ball for hours, or
  learning a stage-part, when I would fain speak of the weighty
  matters which be on hand, such as I have told you of. Howsoever, as
  good luck would have it, my Lady Lumley sent for me to spend {171}
  the day with her; and from her ladyship I learnt that his grace had
  written to the queen that he had withdrawn from the court because of
  the pain he felt at her displeasure, and his mortification at the
  treatment he had been subjected to by the insolence of his foes, by
  whom he has been made a common table talk; and that her majesty had
  laid upon him her commands straightway to return to court. That was
  all was known that day; but at the very time that I was writing the
  first of these woeful tidings to you, Mistress Constance, his grace--
  whom I now know that I do love dearly, and with a true daughter's
  heart, by the dreadful fear and pain I am in--was arrested at
  Burnham, where he had stopped on his road to Windsor, and committed
  to the Tower. Alack! alack! what will follow? I will leave this my
  letter open until I have further news to send.

  "His grace was examined this day before my Lord-keeper Bacon, and my
  Lords Northampton, Sadler, Bedford, and Cecil; and they have
  reported to her majesty that the duke had not put himself under
  penalty of the law by any overt act of treason, and that it would be
  difficult to convict him without this. My Lord of Arundel, at whose
  house I was when these tidings came, said her majesty was so angered
  at this judgment, that she cried out in a passion, 'Away! what the
  law fails to do my authority shall effect;' and straightway fell
  into a fit, her passion was so great; and they were forced to apply
  vinegar to restore her. I had a wicked thought come into my mind,
  Mistress Constance, that I should not have been concerned if the
  queen's majesty had died in that fit, which I befear me was high
  treason, and a mortal sin, to wish for one to die in a state of sin.
  But, alack! since I have left going to shrift I find it hard to
  fight against bad thoughts and naughty tempers; and when I say my
  prayers, and the old words come to my lips, which the preachments I
  hear do contradict, I am sometimes well-nigh tempted to give over
  praying at all. But I pray to God I may never be so wicked; and
  though I may not have my beads (which were taken from me), that the
  good Bishop of Durham gave me when I was confirmed, I use my fingers
  in their stead; and whilst his grace was at the Tower I did say as
  many 'Hail Maries' in one day as I ever did in my life before; and
  promised him, who is God's own dear Son and hers, if his grace came
  out of prison, never to be a day of my life without saying a prayer,
  or giving an alms, or doing a good turn to those which be in the
  same case, near at hand or throughout the world; and I ween there
  are many such of all sorts at this time.

  "Your loving servant to command, whose heart is at present heavier
  than her pen,
            "ANN SURREY."

  "P. S. My Lord of Westmoreland has left London, and his lady is in a
  sad plight. I hear such things said on all sides touching Papists as
  I can scarce credit, and I pray to God they be not true. But an if
  they be so bad as some do say, why does his grace run his head into
  danger for the sake of the Popish queen, as men do style her? They
  have arrested Higford and Bannister last night, and they are to
  taste of the rack to-day, to satisfy the queen, who is so urgent on
  it. My lord is greatly concerned thereat, and cried when he spoke of
  it, albeit he tried to hide his tears. I asked him to show me what
  sort of pain it was; whereupon he twisted my arm till I cried out
  and bade him desist. God help me! I could not have endured the pain
  an instant longer; and if they have naught to tell anent these plots
  and against his grace, they needs must speak what is false when
  under the rack. Oh, 'tis terrible to think what men do suffer and
  cause others to suffer!"

This letter came into my hand on a day when my father had gone into
Lichfield touching some business; and {172} he brought with it the
news of a rising in the north, and that his Grace of Northumberland
and my Lord of Westmoreland had taken arms on hearing of the Duke of
Norfolk's arrest; and the Catholics, under Mr. Richard Norton and Lord
Latimer, had joined their standard, and were bearing the cross before
the insurgents. My father was sore cast down at these tidings; for he
looked for no good from what was rebellion against a lawful sovereign,
and a consorting with troublesome spirits, swayed by no love of our
holy religion but rather contrary to it, as my Lord of Westmoreland
and some others of those leading lords. And he hence foreboded fresh
trials to all such as were of the ancient faith all over England;
which was not long in accruing even in our own case; for a short time
after, we were for the first time visited by pursuivants, on a day and
in such a manner as I will now briefly relate.


On the Sunday morning which followed the day on which the news had
reached us of the rising in Northumberland, I went, as was my wont,
into my mother's dressing-room, to crave her blessing, and I asked of
her if the priest who came to say mass for us most Sundays had
arrived. She said he had been, and had gone away again, and that she
greatly feared we should have no prayers that day, saving such as we
might offer up for ourselves; "together," she added after a pause,
"with a bitter sacrifice of tears and of such sufferings as we have
heard of, but as yet not known the taste of ourselves."

Again I felt in my heart a throbbing feeling, which had in it an
admixture of pain and joy--made up, I ween, of conflicting
passions--such as curiosity feeding on the presentment of an
approaching change; of the motions of grace in a soul which faintly
discerns the happiness of suffering for conscience sake; and the fear
of suffering natural to the human heart.

"Why are we to have no mass, sweet mother?" I asked, encircling her
waist in my arms; "and wherefore has good Mr. Bryan gone away?"

"We received advice late last evening," she answered, "that the
queen's pursuivants have orders to search this day the houses of the
most noted recusants in this neighborhood; and 'tis likely they may
begin with us, who have never made a secret of our faith, and never

"And will they kill us if they come?" I asked, with that same
trembling eagerness I have so often known since when danger was at

"Not now, not to-day, Conny," she answered; "but I pray to God they do
not carry us away to prison; for since this rising in the north, to be
a Catholic and a traitor is one and the same in their eyes who have to
judge us. We must needs hide our books and church furniture; so give
me thy beads, sweet one, and the cross from thy neck."

I waxed red when my mother bade me unloose the string, and tightly
clasped the cross in both my hands "Let them kill me, mother," I
cried; "but take not off my cross."

"Maybe," she said, "the queen's officers would trample on it, and
injure their own souls in dishonoring a holy symbol." And as she spoke
she took it from me, and hid it in a recess behind the chimney; which
no sooner was done, than we heard a sound of horses' feet in the
approach; and going to the window, I cried out, "Here is a store of
armed men on horseback!" Ere I had uttered the words, one of them had
dismounted and loudly knocked at the door with his truncheon; upon
which my mother, taking me by the hand, went down stairs into the
parlor where my father was. It seemed as if those knocks had struck on
her heart, so great a trembling came over her. My father bade the
servants throw {173} open the door; and the sheriff came in, with two
pursuivants and some more men with him, and produced a warrant to
search the house; which my father having read, he bowed his head, and
gave orders not to hinder them in their duty. He stood himself the
while in the hall, his face as white as a smock, and his teeth almost
running through his lips.

One of the men came into the library,  and pulling down the books,
scattered them on the floor, and cried:

"Look ye here, sirs, what Popish stuff is this, fit for the hangman's
burning!" At the which another answered:

"By my troth, Sam, I misdoubt that thou canst read. Methinks thou dost
hunt Popery as dogs do game, by the scent. Prithee spell me the title
of this volume."

"I will have none of thy gibing, Master Sevenoaks," returned the
other. "Whether I be a scholar or not, I'll warrant no honest
gospeller wrote on those yellow musty leaves, which be two hundred
years old, if they be a day."

"And I'll warrant thee in that credence, Master Samuel, by the same
token that the volume in thy hand is a treatise on field-sports, writ
in the days of Master Caxton; a code of the laws to be observed in the
hunting and killing of deer, which I take to be no Popish sport, for
our most gracious queen--God save her majesty!--slew a fat buck not
long ago in Windsor Forest with her own hand, and remembered his grace
of Canterbury with half her prey;" and so saying, he drew his comrade
from the room; I ween with the intent to save the books from his rough
handling, for he seemed of a more gentle nature than the rest and of a
more moderate disposition.

When they had ransacked all the rooms below, they went upstairs, and
my father followed. Breaking from my mother's side, who sat pale and
still as a statute, unable to move from her seat, I ran after him, and
on the landing-place I heard the sheriff say somewhat touching the
harboring of priests; to the which he made answer that he was ready to
swear there was no priest in the house. "Nor has been?" quoth the
sheriff; upon which my father said:

"Good sir, this house was built in the days of Her majesty's
grandfather, King Henry VII.; and on one occasion his majesty was
pleased to rest under my grandfather's roof, and to hear mass in that
room," he said, pointing to what was now the chapel, "the church being
too distant for his majesty's convenience: so priests have been within
these walls many times ere I was born."

The sheriff said no more at that time, but went into the room, where
there were only a few chairs, for that in the night the altar and all
that appertained to it had been removed. He and his men were going out
again, when a loud knocking was heard against the wall on one side of
the chamber; at the sound of which my father's face, which was white
before, became of an ashy paleness.

"Ah!" cried one of the pursuivants, "the lying Papist! The egregious
Roman! an oath is in his mouth that he has no priest in his house, and
here is one hidden in his cupboard."

"Mr. Sherwood!" the sheriff shouted, greatly moved, "lead the way to
the hiding-place wherein a traitor is concealed, or I order the house
to be pulled down about your ears."

My father was standing like one stunned by a sudden blow, and I heard
him murmur, "'Tis the devil's own doing, or else I am stark, staring

The men ran to the wall, and knocked against it with their sticks,
crying out in an outrageous manner to the priest to come out of his
hole. "We'll unearth the Jesuit fox," cried one; "we'll give him a
better lodging in Lichfield gaol," shouted another; and the sheriff
kept threatening to set fire to the house. Still the knocking from
within went on, as if {174} answering that outside, and then a voice
cried out, "I cannot open: I am shut in."

"'Tis Edmund!" I exclaimed; "'tis Edmund is in the hiding-place." And
then the words were distinctly heard, "'Tis I; 'tis Edmund Genings.
For God's sake, open; I am shut in." Upon which my father drew a deep
breath, and hastening forward, pressed his finger on a place in the
wall, the panel slipped, and Edmund came out of the recess, looking
scared and confused. The pursuivants seized him; but the sheriff cried
out, surprised, "God's death, sirs! but 'tis the son of the worshipful
Mr. Genings, whose lady is a mother in Israel, and M. Jean de Luc's
first cousin! And how came ye, Mr. Edmund, to be concealed in this
Popish den? Have these recusants imprisoned you with some foul intent,
or perverted you by their vile cunning?" Edmund was addressing my
father in an agitated voice.

"I fear me, sir," he cried, clasping his hands, "I befear me much I
have affrighted you, and I have been myself sorely affrighted. I was
passing through this room, which I have never before seen, and the
door of which was open this morn. By chance I drew my hand along the
wall, where there was no apparent mark, when the panel slipped and
disclosed this recess, into which I stepped, and straightway the
opening closed and I remained in darkness. I was afraid no one might
hear me, and I should die of hunger."

My father tried to smile, but could not. "Thank God," he said, "'tis
no worse;" and sinking down on a chair he remained silent, whilst the
sheriff and the pursuivants examined the recess, which was deep and
narrow, and in which they brandished their swords in all directions.
Then they went round the room, feeling the walls; but though there was
another recess with a similar mode of aperture, they hit not on it,
doubtless through God's mercy; for in it were concealed the altar
furniture and our books, with many other things besides, which they
would have seized on.

Before going away, the sheriff questioned Edmund concerning his faith,
and for what reason he abode in a Popish house and consorted with
recusants. Edmund answered he was no Papist, but a kinsman of Mrs.
Sherwood, unto whose house his father had oftentimes sent him. Upon
which he was counselled to take heed unto himself and to eschew evil
company, which leads to horrible defections, and into the straight
road to perdition. Whereupon they departed; and the officer who had
enticed his companion from the library smiled as he passed me, and

"And wherefore not at prayers, little mistress, on the Lord's day, as
all Christian folks should be?"

I ween he was curious to see how I should answer, albeit not moved
thereunto by any malicious intent. But at the time I did not bethink
myself that he spoke of Protestant service; and being angered at what
passed, I said:

"Because we be kept from prayers by the least welcome visit ever made
to Christian folks on a Lord's morning." He laughed and cried:

"Thou hast a ready tongue, young mistress; and when tried for
recusancy I warrant thou'lt give the judge a piece of thy mind."

"And if I ever be in such a presence, and for such a cause," I
answered, "I pray to God I may say to my lord on the bench what the
blessed apostle St. Peter spoke to his judges: 'If it be just in the
sight of God to hear you rather than God, judge ye.'" At which he

"Why, here is a marvel indeed--a Papist to quote Scripture!" And
laughing again, he went his way; and the house was for that time rid
of these troublesome guests.

Then Edmund again sued for pardon to my father, that through his rash
conduct he had been the occasion of so great fear and trouble to him.


"I warrant thee, my good boy," quoth my father, "thou didst cause me
the most keen anguish, and the most sudden relief from it, which can
well be thought of; and so no more need be said thereon. And as thou
must needs be going to the public church, 'tis time that thou bestir
thyself; for 'tis a long walk there and back, and the sun waxing hot."

When Edmund was gone, and I alone with him, my father clasped me in
his arms, and cried:

"God send, my wench, thou mayest justify thy sponsors who gave thee
thy name in baptism; for 'tis a rare constancy these times do call
for, and such as is not often seen, saving in such as be of a noble
and religious spirit; which I pray to God may be the case with thee."

My mother did not speak, but went away with her hand pressed against
her heart; which was what of late I had often seen her to do, as if
the pain was more than she could bear.

One hour later, as I was crossing the court, a man met me suited as a
farmer; who, when I passed him, laid his hand on my shoulder; at the
which I started, and turning round saw it was Father Bryan; who,
smiling as I caught his hand, cried out:

"Dost know the shepherd in his wolf's clothing, little mistress?" and
hastening on to the chapel he said mass, at the which only a few
assisted, as my parents durst not send to the Catholics so late in the
day. As soon as mass was over, Mr. Bryan said he must leave, for there
was a warrant issued for his apprehension; and our house famed for
recusancy, so as he might not stay in it but with great peril to
himself and to its owners. We stood at the door as he was mounting his
horse, and my father said, patting its neck:

"Tis a faithful servant this, reverend father; many a mile he has
carried thee to the homes of the sick and dying since our troubles

"Ah! good Mr. Sherwood," Mr. Bryan replied, as he gathered up the
bridle, "thou hast indeed warrant to style the poor beast faithful. If
I were to shut my eyes and let him go, no doubt but he would find his
way to the doors of such as cleave to the ancient faith, in city or in
hamlet, across moor or through thick wood. If a pursuivant bestrode
him, he might discover through his means who be recusants a hundred
miles around. But I bethink me he would not budge with such a burthen
on his back; and that he who made the prophet's ass to speak, would,
give the good beast more sense than to turn informer, and to carry the
wolf to the folds of the lambs. And prithee, Mistress Constance," said
the good priest, turning to me, "canst keep a secret and be silent,
when men's lives are in jeopardy?"

"Aye," cried my father quickly, "'tis as much as worthy Mr. Bryan's
life is worth that none should know he was here to-day."

"More than my poor life is worth," he rejoined; "that were little to
think of, my good friends. For five years I have made it my prayer
that the day may soon come--and I care not how soon--when I may lay it
down for his sake who gave it. But we must e'en have a care for those
who are so rash as to harbor priests in these evil times. So Mistress
Constance must e'en study the virtue of silence, and con the meaning
of the proverb which teacheth discretion to be the best part of

"If Edmund Genings asketh me, reverend father, if I have heard mass
to-day, what must I answer?"

"Say the queen's majesty has forbidden mass to be said in this her
kingdom; and if he presseth thee more closely thereon, why then tell
him the last news from the poultry-yard, and that the hares have eat
thy mignonette; which they be doing even now, if my eyes deceive me
not," said the good father, pointing with his whip to the

So, smiling, he gave us a last blessing, and rode on toward the Chase,
and I went to drive the hares away {176} from the flower-beds, and
then to set the chapel in fair order. And ever and anon, that day and
the next, I took out of my pocket my sweet Lady Surrey's last letter,
and pictured to myself all the scenes therein related; so that I
seemed to live one-half of my life with her in thought, so greatly was
my fancy set upon her, and my heart concerned in her troubles.


Not many days after the sheriff and the pursuivants had been at our
house, and Mr. Bryan, by reason of the bloody laws which had been
enacted against Papists and such as harbor priests, had left us,--
though intending to return at such times as might serve our commodity,
and yet not affect our safety,--I was one morning assisting my mother
in the store-room, wherein she was setting aside such provisions as
were to be distributed to the poor that week, together with salves,
medicines, and the like, which she also gave out of charity, when a
spasm came over her, so vehement and painful, that for the moment she
lost the use of speech, and made signs to me to call for help. I ran
affrighted into the library for my father, and brought him to her,
upon which, in a little time, she did somewhat recover, but desired he
would assist her to her own chamber, whither she went leaning on his
arm. When laid on her bed she seemed easier; and smiling, bade me
leave them for awhile, for that she desired to have speech with my
father alone.

For the space of an hour I walked in the garden, with so oppressive a
grief at my heart as I had never before experienced. Methinks the
great stillness in the air added thereunto some sort of physical
disorder; for the weather was very close and heavy; and if a leaf did
but stir, I started as if danger was at hand; and the noise of the
chattering pies over my head worked in me an apprehensive melancholy,
foreboding, I doubt not, what was to follow. At about eleven o'clock,
hearing the sound of a horse's feet in the avenue, I turned round, and
saw Edmund riding from the house; upon which I ran across the grass to
a turning of the road where he would pass, and called to him to stop,
which he did; and told me he was going to Lichfield for his father,
whom my mother desired presently to see. "Then thou shouldst not
tarry," I said; and he pushed on and left me standing where I was; but
the bell then ringing for dinner, I went back to the house, and, in so
doing, took notice of a bay-tree on the lawn which was withered and
dried-up, though the gardener had been at pains to preserve it by
sundry appliances and frequent watering of it. Then it came to my
remembrance what my nurse used to say, that the dying of that sort of
tree is a sure omen of a death in a family; which thought sorely
disturbed me at that time. I sat down with my father to a brief and
silent meal; and soon after the physician he had sent for came, whom
he conducted to my mother's chamber, whereunto I did follow, and
slipped in unperceived. Sitting on one side of the bed, behind the
curtains, I heard her say, in a voice which sounded hollow and weak,
"Good Master Lawrenson, my dear husband was fain to send for you, and
I cared not to withstand him, albeit persuaded that I am hastening to
my journey's end, and that naught that you or any other man may
prescribe may stay what is God's will. And if this be visible to you
as it is to me, I pray you keep it not from me, for it will be to my
much comfort to be assured of it."

When she had done speaking, he did feel her pulse; and the while my
heart beat so quick and, as it seemed to me, so loud as if it must
needs impede my hearing; but in a moment I heard him say: "God defend,
good madam, I should deceive you. While there is life, there is hope.
Greater {177} comfort I dare not urge. If there be any temporal matter
on your mind, 'twere better settled now, and likewise of your soul's
health, by such pious exercises as are used by those of your way of

At the hearing of these his words, my father fetched a deep sigh; but
she, as one greatly relieved, clasped her hands together, and cried,
"My God, I thank thee!"

Then, stealing from behind the curtain, I laid my head on the pillow
nigh unto hers, and whispered, "Sweet mother, prithee do not die, or
else take me with thee."

But she, as one not heeding, exclaimed, with her hands uplifted, "O
faithless heart! O selfish heart! to be so glad of death!"

The physician was directing the maids what they should do for her
relief when the pain came on, and he himself stood compounding some
medicine for her to take. My father asked of him when he next would
come; and he answered, "On the morrow;" but methinks 'twas even then
his belief that there would be no morrow for her who was dying before
her time, like the bay-tree in our garden. She bade him farewell in a
kindly fashion; and when we were alone, I lying on the bed by her
side, and my father sitting at its head, she said, in a low voice,
"How wonderful be God's dealings with us, and how fatherly his care;
in that he takes the weak unto himself, and leaves behind the strong
to fight the battle now at hand! My dear master, I had a dream
yesternight which had somewhat of horror in it, but more methinks of
comfort." My father breaking out then in sighs and tears as if his
heart would break, she said, "Oh, but thou must hear and acknowledge,
my loved master, how gracious is God's providence to thy poor wife.
When thou knowest what I have suffered--not in body, though that has
been sharp too, but in my soul--it will reconcile thine own to a
parting which has in it so much of mercy. Thou dost remember the night
when Mr. Mush was here, and what his discourse did run on?"

"Surely do I, sweet wife," he answered; "for it was such as the mind
doth not easily lose the memory of; the sufferings and glorious end of
the blessed martyr Mrs. Clitherow. I perceived what sorrowful heed
thou didst lend to his recital; but has it painfully dwelt in thy mind

"By day and by night it hath not left me; ever recurring to my
thoughts, ever haunting my dreams, and working in me a fearful
apprehension lest in a like trial I should be found wanting, and prove
a traitor to God and his Church, and a disgrace and heartbreak to thee
who hast so truly loved me far beyond my deserts. I have bragged of
the dangers of the times, even as cowards are wont to speak loud in
the dark to still by the sound of their own voices the terrors they do
feel. I have had before my eyes the picture of that cruel death, and
of the children extremely used for answering as their mother had
taught them, till cold drops of sweat have stood on my brow, and I
have knelt in my chamber wringing my hands and praying to be spared a
like trial. And then, maybe an hour later, sitting at the table, I
spake merrily of the gallows, mocking my own fears, as when Mr. Bryan
was last here; and I said that priests should be more welcome to me
than ever they were, now that virtue and the Catholic cause were made
felony; and the same would be in God's sight more meritorious than
ever before: upon which, 'Then you must prepare your neck for the
rope,' quoth he, in a pleasant but withal serious manner; at the which
a cold chill overcame me, and I very well-nigh faulted, though
constraining my tongue to say, 'God's will be done; but I am far
unworthy of so great an honor.' The cowardly heart belied the
confident tongue, and fear of my own weakness affrighted me, by the
which I must needs have offended God, who helps such as trust {178} in
him. But I hope to be forgiven, inasmuch as it has ever been the wont
of my poor thoughts to picture evils beforehand in such a form as to
scare the soul, which, when it came to meet with them, was not shaken
from its constancy. When Conny was an infant I have stood nigh unto a
window with her in my arms, and of a sudden a terror would seize me
lest I should let her fall out of my hands, which yet clasped her; and
methinks 'twas somewhat of alike feeling which worked in me touching
the denying of my faith, which, God is my witness, is dearer to me
than aught upon earth."

"'Tis even so, sweet wife," quoth my father; "the edge of a too keen
conscience and a sensitive apprehension of defects visible to thine
own eyes and God's--never to mine, who was ever made happy by thy love
and virtue--have worn out the frame which enclosed them, and will rob
me of the dearest comfort of my life, if I must lose thee."

She looked upon him with so much sweetness, as if the approach of
death had brought her greater peace and joy than life had ever done,
and she replied: "Death comes to me as a compassionate angel, and I
fain would have thee welcome with me the kindly messenger who brings
so great relief to the poor heart thou hast so long cherished. Now,
thou art called to another task; and when the bruised, broken reed is
removed from thy side, thou wilt follow the summons which even now
sounds in thine ears."

"Ah," cried my father, clasping her hand, "art thou then already a
saint, sweet wife, that thou hast read the vow slowly registered as
yet in the depths of a riven heart?" Then his eyes turned on me; and
she, who seemed to know his thoughts, that sweet soul who had been so
silent in life, but was now spending her last breath in
never-to-be-forgotten words, answered the question contained in that
glance as if it had been framed in a set speech.

"Fear not for her," she said, laying her cheek close unto mine. "As
her days, so shall her strength be. Methinks Almighty God has given
her a spirit meet for the age in which her lot is cast. The early
training thou hast had, my wench; the lack of such memories as make
the present twofold bitter; the familiar mention round thy cradle of
such trials as do beset Catholics in these days, have nurtured thee a
stoutness of heart which will stand thee in good stead amidst the
rough waves of this troublesome world. The iron will not enter into
thy soul as it hath done into mine." Upon which she fell back
exhausted and for a while no sound was heard in or about the house
save the barking of our great dog.

My father had sent a messenger to a house where we had had notice days
before Father Ford was staying but with no certain knowledge he still
there, or any other priest in neighborhood, which occasioned him no
small disquietude, for my mother's strength seemed to be visibly
sinking which was what the doctor's words had led him to expect. The
man he sent returned not till the evening; in the afternoon Mr.
Genings and son came from Lichfield, which, when my mother heard, she
said God was gracious to permit her once more to see John, which was
Mr. Genings' name. They had been reared in the same house; and a
kindness had always continued betwixt them. For some time past he had
conformed to the times; and since his marriage with the daughter of a
French Huguenot who lived in London, and who was a lady of very
commendable character and manners, and strenuous in her own way of
thinking, he had left off practising his own religion in secret, which
for a while he used to do. When he came in, and saw death plainly writ
in his cousin's face, he was greatly moved, and knelt down by her side
with a very sorrowful countenance; upon which she straightly looked at
him, and said: "Cousin John, my {179} breath is very short, as my time
is also like to be. But one word I would fain say to thee before I
die. I was always well pleased with my religion, which was once thine
and that of all Christian people one hundred years ago; but I have
never been so well pleased with it as now, when I be about to meet my

Mr. Genings' features worked with a strange passion, in which was more
of grief than displeasure, and grasping his son's shoulder, who was
likewise kneeling and weeping, he said: "You have wrought with this
boy, cousin, to make him a Catholic."

"As heaven is my witness," she answered, "not otherwise but by my

"Hast thou seen a priest, cousin Constance?" he then asked: upon which
my mother not answering, the poor man burst into tears, and cried:
"Oh, cousin--cousin Constance, dost count me a spy, and at thy

He seemed cut to the heart; whereupon she gave him her hand, and said
she hoped God would send her such ghostly assistance as she stood in
need of; and praying God to bless him and his wife and children, and
make them his faithful servants, so she might meet them all in
perpetual happiness, she spoke with such good cheer, and then bade him
and Edmund farewell with so pleasant a smile, as deceived them into
thinking her end not so near. And so, after a while, they took their
leave; upon which she composed herself for a while in silence,
occupying her thoughts in prayer; and toward evening, through God's
mercy, albeit the messenger had returned with the heavy news that
Father Ford had left the county some days back, it happened that Mr.
Watson, a secular priest who had lately arrived in England, and was on
his way to Chester, stopped at our house, whereunto Mr. Orton, whom he
had seen in prison at London, had directed him for his own convenience
on the road, and likewise our commodity, albeit little thinking how
great our need would be at that time of so opportune a guest, through
whose means that dear departing soul had the benefit of the last
sacraments with none to trouble or molest her, and such ghostly aid as
served to smooth her passage to what has proved, I doubt not, the
beginning of a happy eternity, if we may judge by such tokens as the
fervent acts of contrition she made both before and after shrift, such
as might have served to wash away ten thousand sins through his blood
who cleansed her, and her great and peaceable joy at receiving him
into her heart whom she soon trusted to behold. Her last words were
expressions of wonder and gratitude at God's singular mercy shown unto
her in the quiet manner of her death in the midst of such troublesome
times. And methinks, when the silver cord was loosed, and naught was
left of her on earth save the fair corpse which retained in death the
semblance it had had in life, that together with the natural grief
which found vent in tears, there remained in the hearts of such as
loved her a comfortable sense of the Divine goodness manifested in
this her peaceable removal.

How great the change which that day wrought in me may be judged of by
such who, at the age I had then reached to, have met with a like
affliction, coupled with a sense of duties to be fulfilled, such as
then fell to my lot, both as touching household cares, and in respect
to the cheering of my father in his solitary hours during the time we
did yet continue at Sherwood Hall, which was about a year. It waxed
very hard then for priests to make their way to the houses of
Catholics, as many now found it to their interest to inform against
them and such as harbored them; and mostly in our neighborhood,
wherein there were at that time no recusants of so great rank and note
that the sheriff would not be lief to meddle with them. We had
oftentimes had secret advices to beware of such and such of our
servants who might betray our hidden conveyances of safety; and my
father scarcely durst {180} be sharp with them when they offended by
slacking their duties, lest they might bring us into danger if they
revealed, upon any displeasure, priests having abided with us. Edmund
we saw no more since my mother's death; and after a while the news did
reach us that Mr. Genings had died of the small-pox, and left his wife
in so distressed a condition, against all expectation, owing to debts
he had incurred, that she had been constrained to sell her house and
furniture, and was living in a small lodging near unto the school
where Edmund continued his studies.

I noticed, as time went by, how heavily it weighed on my father's
heart to see so many Catholics die without the sacraments, or fall
away from their faith, for lack of priests to instruct them, like so
many sheep without a shepherd; and I guessed by words he let fall on
divers occasions, that the intent obscurely shadowed forth in his
discourse to my mother on her deathbed was ripening to a settled
purpose, and tending to a change in his state of life, which only his
love and care for me caused him to defer. What I did apprehend must
one day needs occur, was hastened about this time by a warning he did
receive that on an approaching day he would be apprehended and carried
by the sheriff before the council at Lichfield, to be examined
touching recusancy and harboring of priests; which was what he had
long expected. This message was, as it were, the signal he had been
waiting for, and an indication of God's will in his regard. He made
instant provision for the placing of his estate in the hands of a
friend of such singular honesty and so faithful a friendship toward
himself, though a Protestant, that he could wholly trust him. And next
he set himself to dispose of her whom he did term his most dear
earthly treasure, and his sole tie to this perishable world, which he
resolved to do by straightway sending her to London, unto his sister
Mistress Congleton, who had oftentimes offered, since his wife's
death, to take charge of this daughter, and to whom he now despatched
a messenger with a letter, wherein he wrote that the times were now so
troublesome, he must needs leave his home, and take advantage of the
sisterly favor she had willed to show him in the care of his sole
child, whom he now would forthwith send to London, commending her to
her good keeping, touching her safety and religious and virtuous
training, and that he should be more beholden to her than ever brother
was to sister, and, as long as he lived, as he was bound to do, pray
for her and her good husband. When this letter was gone, and order had
been taken for my journey, which was to be on horseback, and in the
charge of a maiden gentlewoman who had been staying some months in our
neighborhood, and was now about in two days to travel to London, it
seemed to me as if that which I had long expected and pictured unto
myself had now come upon me of a sudden, and in such wise as for the
first time to taste its bitterness. For I saw, without a doubt, that
this parting was but the forerunner of a change in my father's
condition as great and weighty as could well be thought of. But of
this howbeit our thoughts were full of it, no talk was ministered
between us. He said I should hear from him in London; and that he
should now travel into Lancashire and Cheshire, changing his name, and
often shifting his quarters whilst the present danger lasted. The day
which was to be the last to see us in the house wherein himself and
his fathers for many centuries back, and I his unworthy child, had
been born, was spent in such fashion as becometh those who suffer for
conscience sake, and that is with so much sorrow as must needs be felt
by a loving father and a dutiful child in a first and doubtful
parting, with so much regret as is natural in the abandonment of a
peaceful earthly home, wherein God had been served in a Catholic
manner for many generations and up to that time without
discontinuance, only of late years as it were by {181} night and
stealth, which was linked in their memories with sundry innocent joys
and pleasures, and such griefs as do hallow and endear the visible
scenes wherewith they be connected, but withal with a stoutness of
heart in him, and a youthful steadiness in her whom he had infected
with a like courage unto his own, which wrought in them so as to be of
good cheer and shed no more tears on so moving an occasion than the
debility of her nature and the tenderness of his paternal care
extorted from their eyes when he placed her on her horse, and the
bridle in the hand of the servant who was to accompany her to London.
Their last parting was a brief one, and such as I care not to be
minute in describing; for thinking upon it even now 'tis like to make
me weep; which I would not do whilst writing this history, in the
recital of which there should be more of constancy and thankful
rejoicing in God's great mercies, than of womanish softness in looking
back to past trials. So I will even break off at this point; and in
the next chapter relate the course of the journey which was begun on
that day.



Abridged from Le Correspondant.


In the bleak region of Upper Burgundy, not far from the domain of
Vauban, stands the old manor of Chastellux, famous since the fifteenth
century as the birth-place of two brothers, one of whom became an
admiral, the other a marshal of France. From this feudal stronghold
came forth one of the most amiable of the courtiers of Louis XVI.--a
disciple of Voltaire and Hume, a rival of Turgot and Adam Smith, a
friend of Washington and Jefferson, a forerunner of the revolutionists
of 1789, a philosopher, an historian, a political economist, something
of a poet, something of a naturalist, something of an artist, a man of
taste, an enthusiastic student, a brilliant talker, and an elegant
writer. The rude Sieurs de Chastellux would have been not a little
astonished could they have foreseen what character of man was destined
to inherit their title.

François Jean de Beauvoir, first known as Chevalier and afterward
Marquis de Chastellux, was born at Paris in 1734. He was a son of the
Count de Chastellux, lieutenant-general of the armies of the king, by
Mlle. d'Aguesseau, daughter of the chancellor. His mother, being left
a widow at an early period, withdrew thereupon into the privacy of
domestic life, and the young marquis had the good fortune to be
brought up under the eyes of the Chancellor d'Aguesseau himself. He
entered the army at sixteen, and was hardly twenty-one before he had
risen to be colonel. He distinguished himself highly during the
campaigns of the Seven Years' War, and it was as a reward of his
gallantry no less than out of compliment to his hereditary rank that
he was selected on one occasion to present to the king the flags of a
conquered city. It is hard to understand how, in the midst of such an
active life, he could find time for study; but for all that he knew
Greek, Latin, English, and Italian, and had some acquaintance with
every branch of science cultivated in his time. From boyhood he showed
a zealous interest in every sort of invention or discovery which
promised to be of practical use {182} to mankind. When the principle
of inoculation for small-pox was first broached in Europe, everybody
shrank in alarm from the experiment. The young marquis had himself
inoculated without his mother's knowledge, and then, running to
Buffon, who knew his family, exclaimed joyfully, "I am saved, and my
example will be the means of saving many others."

When peace was declared in 1763, he was not yet thirty. With his
eminent gifts of mind and person, a brilliant career in society lay
open to him, but he aimed to be something more than a mere man of
fashion. His first literary productions were biographical sketches of
two of his brother officers, MM. de Closen and de. Belsunce, which
appeared in the _Mercure_, in 1765. He wrote a lively and graceful
little essay on the "Union of Poetry and Music,"--the same subject
which Marmontel afterward treated in his poem of _Polymnie_. The great
quarrel between the schools of Gluck and Piccini did not break out
until ten years later; but mutterings of the coming tempest were heard
already. Italian music had its enthusiastic admirers and its
implacable foes, and in the midst of their disputes Monsigny and
Grétry had just given to France a lyric school of her own by creating
the comic opera. M. de Chastellux, like everybody else in those days,
was passionately fond of the theatre, and he espoused the cause of
Italian music with the ardor that characterized everything he did.
About the same time he fell into the society of the Encyclopoedists,
and allied himself with Helvétius, d'Alembert, Turgot, and the rest of
the philosophical party, who received the illustrious recruit with
open arms.

About the same time that M. de Chastellux left the army, and made his
debut in civil life, the Scottish historian and philosopher, David
Hume, arrived in Paris, with the British ambassador, Lord Hertford. He
became the lion of the day. Courtiers and philosophers fell down and
worshipped him; his skeptical opinions were eagerly imbibed, and the
three years that he spent in the French capital became, owing to his
extraordinary influence, one of the most important epochs in the
literary history of the eighteenth century. M. de Chastellux shared in
the general enthusiasm; and the "Essays" and "Political Discourses" of
Hume, together with the _Essai sur les moeurs et l'esprit des nations_
of Voltaire, which had appeared a few years before, wrought upon his
mind a deep and lasting impression. The united influence of these two
authors led him to a course of study which resulted in a work upon
which his reputation was finally established. This was his celebrated
treatise, "On Public Felicity; or, Considerations on the Condition of
Man at different Periods of his History," in two volumes. It bears a
resemblance to both its parents. It is historical, like the _Essai sur
les moeurs_, and dogmatic, like the "Essays" and "Discourses." And
that is one of its defects. The "Considerations" on the condition of
man at various periods serve by way of introduction to the author's
theory of public felicity; but the second part is inferior to the
first. The body of the book is sacrificed to the introduction.

This was four years before the appearance of Adam Smith's "Wealth of
Nations." The Marquis de Mirabeau and others of his school had begun
to write; but their notions of political economy were still unfamiliar
to the public. M. de Chastellux may therefore be regarded as one of
the first supporters of that doctrine of human perfectibility which
lies at the bottom of all the prevailing opinions of the eighteenth
century. To this he added another theory, that the only end of
government ought to be "the greatest happiness of the greatest
possible number." Nearly one hundred years ago, therefore, he
discovered and developed the principle which is now one of the most
popular epitomes of social science. His style is good, {183} but
neither very concise nor very brilliant. It is now and then obscure,
sometimes digressive, sometimes declamatory; but for the most part
clear, lively, and abounding in those happy touches which show the
writer to be a man of the world as well as an author.

It is said that the immediate occasion of his writing the book was a
conversation with Mably, the author of "Observations on the History of
France," who maintained that the world was constantly degenerating,
and that the men of to-day were not half so good as their
grandfathers. The young philosopher, his head full of the new ideas,
resolved to demonstrate the superiority of the present over the past.
The first edition of his work appeared in 1772, two years before the
death of Louis XV. It was printed anonymously in Holland. Everywhere
it was read with avidity, abroad as well as in France. It was
translated into English, German, and Italian. Voltaire read it at
Ferney, and was so much struck by it that he covered his copy with
marginal notes--not always of approbation--which were reproduced in a
new edition of the work by the author's son, in 1822.

Despite great merits, which cannot be denied it, the essay "On Public
Felicity" is now almost forgotten. In the historical portion, M. de
Chastellux passes in review all the nations of ancient and modern
times, for the purpose of showing that the general condition of man
has never before been so good as it is now. The fundamental principle
of his work is disclosed in the following profession of faith: "To say
that man is born to be free, that his first care is to preserve his
liberty when he enjoys it, and to recover it when he has lost it, is
to attribute to him a sentiment which he shares with the whole animal
kingdom, and which cannot be called in question. And if we add that
this liberty is by its very nature indefinite, and that the liberty of
one individual can only be limited by that of another, we do but
express a truth which few in this enlightened age will be found to
contradict. Look at society from this point of view, and you will see
nothing but a series of encroachments and resistances; and if you want
to form a just idea of government, you must consider it as the
equilibrium which ought to result from these opposing struggles....
Government and legislation are only secondary and subordinate objects.
They ought to be regarded merely as means through which men may
preserve in the social state the greatest possible portion of natural

It is melancholy to see how, in a work that has so much to recommend
it, the chapter which treats of the establishment of Christianity is
disfigured by the skeptical philosophy of the age. Our regret at this
is perhaps the more keen because the fault was altogether without
excuse. Turgot had argued before the Sorbonne, only a few years
previously, that a belief in the progress of the human race, so far
from being incompatible with the doctrine of redemption, is its
necessary consequence. De Chastellux might have shown that, if the
coming of our Lord did not immediately effect a sensible reformation
throughout the civilized world, it was because the vices and bad
passions of the old pagan society long survived the overthrow of the
old pagan gods. But there is this to be said for him: if he does not
evince an adequate appreciation of the great moral revolution effected
by Christianity, he at least does not speak of it in the same insolent
tone that was fashionable in his day. When he comes down to modern
times, and treats of density of population in its relation to national
prosperity, he repeats the popular fallacy that the multiplication of
religious orders exerts a pernicious influence upon the progress of
population. But when from general views he descends to statistics, he
refutes his own arguments. "The number of monks in France," he says,
"according to a careful enumeration {184} made by order of government,
a few years ago, was 26,674, and it certainly is not less now." In
point of fact, the real number when the property of the clergy was
confiscated in 1790 was only 17,000; and what is that in a population
of 24,000,000 or 26,000,000? The army withdraws from the marriage
state twenty times that number of men, in the vigor of their age;
whereas the greater part of the monks are men in the decline of life.

It is a matter of astonishment that a work which professes to treat of
"public felicity" should devote itself entirely to the material
well-being of society, and have nothing to say of the moral condition
of mankind, which is the more important element of the two in making
up the sum of human happiness. Every author, of course, has a right to
fix the limits of his subject; but then he must not promise on the
title-page more than he means to perform.

The authorship of the essay on "Public Felicity" was not long a
secret; but de Chastellux received perhaps as much annoyance as glory
from the discovery. His ideas did not please everybody, and among
those who fell foul of him for his philosophical errors were some of
his own family. He made little account of their opposition, and in
1774 came out boldly with an eulogy on Helvétius, with whom he had
lived for a long time on the most intimate terms. Two years later, he
published a second edition of his previous treatise, with the addition
of a chapter of "Ulterior Views," in which he points out the danger of
some of the revolutionary opinions which were then coming more and
more into vogue, and the futility of trying to realize in actual life
that form of government which might be theoretically the best. If he
had been alive in 1789, he would have belonged to the monarchical
party in the Constituent Assembly; and, after having done his part in
paving the way for the revolution, he would have perished as one of
its victims. Among political and social reformers, he must be classed
with the school of Montesquieu rather than with that of Rousseau.

The attention of France, however, was now fixed more and more firmly
upon the contest going on in America between Great Britain and her
rebellious colonies. Louis XVI., after some resistance, yielded to the
demand of public opinion, and, in 1778, not only recognized the
independence of the United States, but sent a fleet under Count
d'Estaing to help them. A second expedition was despatched under Count
de Rochambeau. M. de Chastellux, who then held the grade of maréchal
de camp [equivalent to something between brigadier and major-general
in the present United States army--ED.], obtained permission to join
it, and was appointed major-general. The expeditionary corps arrived
at Newport, capital of the state of Rhode Island, July 10, 1780. It
consisted of eight ships of the line, two frigates, two gunboats, and
over 5,000 troops. The next year came a reenforcement of 3,000 men.
Lord Cornwallis, who commanded the English force was shut up in
Yorktown, Va., and, being closely besieged by the allies and invested
by land and sea, was compelled to surrender in October, 1781. This
forced England to conclude a peace, and the auxiliary corps
re-embarked at Boston on their return to France at the close of 1782.
It had been two years and a half in America, and during this time the
republic had achieved its independence.

During his visit to America, M. de Chastellux employed the brief
periods of leisure left him from military occupations in making three
tours through the interior. He wrote down as he travelled a journal of
his observations, and printed at a little press on board the fleet
some twenty copies of it, ten or twelve of which found their way to
Europe. So great was the eagerness {185} with which people there
seized upon every book relating to America, that a number of copies
were surreptitiously printed, and a publisher at Cassel brought out an
imperfect edition. The author then published the book himself in 1786
(2 vols., 12mo, Paris), under the title, _Voyages de M. le Marquis de
Chastellux dans l'Amérique septentrionale en_ 1780, 1781, _et_ 1782.
Though written originally only for his friends, it has a general
interest, and presents a curious picture of the condition of North
America at the period of which it treats.

The author set out from Newport, where the troops had landed and gone
into winter-quarters, in order to visit Pennsylvania. Accompanied by
two aides-de-camp, one of whom was the Baron de Montesquieu, grandson
of the author of the _Esprit des lois_, and by five mounted servants,
he started, November 11, 1780, on horseback, for that was the only
means of travelling that the country afforded. The ground was frozen
hard, and already covered with snow. The little party directed their
steps first toward Windham, where Lauzun's hussars, forming the
advance-guard of the army, were encamped. They found the Duke de
Lauzun at the head of his troops, and this meeting between the
grandsons of d'Aguesseau and Montesquieu, and a descendant of the
Lauzuns and Birons, all three fighting for the cause of liberty in the
wilds of America, was a curious beginning of their adventures. It was
this same Duke de Lauzun, a friend of Mirabeau and Talleyrand, who
became Duke de Biron after the death of his uncle, was chosen a member
of the States General in 1789, commanded the republican army of La
Vendée, and finished his career on the scaffold.

The travellers crossed the mountains which separated them from the
Hudson, and, after passing through a wild and almost desert country,
arrived at West Point, a place celebrated at that time for the most
dramatic incidents of the war of independence (the treason of General
Arnold and the execution of Major André), and now famous as the seat
of the great military school of the United States. The American army
occupying the forts of West Point, which Arnold's treachery had so
nearly given over to the enemy, saluted the French major-general with
thirteen guns--one for each state in the confederation. "Never," says
he, "was honor more imposing or majestic. Every gun was, after a long
interval, echoed back from the opposite bank with a noise nearly equal
to that of the discharge itself. Two years ago, West Point was an
almost inaccessible desert. This desert has been covered with
fortresses and artillery by a people who, six years before, had never
seen a cannon. The well-filled magazines, and the great number of guns
in the different forts, the prodigious labor which must have been
expended in transporting and piling up on the steep rocks such huge
trunks of trees and blocks of hewn stone, give one a very different
idea of the Americans from that which the English ministry have
labored to convey to Parliament. A Frenchman might well be surprised
that a nation hardly born should have spent in two years more than
12,000,000 francs in this wilderness; but how much greater must be his
surprise when he learns that these fortifications have cost the state
nothing, having been constructed by the soldiers, who not only
received no extra allowance for the labor, but have not even touched
their regular pay! It will be gratifying for him to know that these
magnificent works were planned by two French engineers, M. du Portail
and M. Gouvion,  [Footnote 45] who have been no better paid than their

  [Footnote 45: MM. du Portail and Gouvion went to America with
  Lafayette, and returned with him. Each rose afterward to the rank of
  lieutenant-general in the French army. The former, through the
  influence of Lafayette, was appointed minister-of-war in 1790; he
  fled to the United States during the Reign of Terror. The other was
  created major-general of the National Guard of Paris in 1769; he
  fell in battle in 1792.]

West Point stands on the bank of {186} the Hudson, in a situation
which may well be compared with the most beautiful scenery of the
Rhine. M. de Chastellux describes it with the liveliest admiration;
but he remained there only a short time, because he was in haste to
reach the head-quarters of Washington.

"After passing thick woods, I found myself in a small plain, where I
saw a handsome farm. A small camp which seemed to cover it, a large
tent pitched in the yard, and several wagons around it, convinced me
that I was at the head-quarters of _His Excellency_, for so Mr.
Washington is called, in the army and throughout America. M. de
Lafayette was conversing in the yard with a tall man about five feet
nine inches high, of a noble and mild aspect: it was the general
himself. I was soon off my horse and in his presence. The compliments
were short; the sentiments which animated me and the good-will which
he testified for me were not equivocal. He led me into his house,
where I found the company still at table, although dinner had long
been over. He presented me to the generals and the aides-de-camp,
adjutants, and other officers attached to his person, who form what is
called in England and America the _family_ of the general. A few glasses
of claret and madeira accelerated the acquaintances I had to make, and
I soon felt at my ease in the presence of the greatest and best of
men. The goodness and benevolence which characterize him are evident
from everything about him; but the confidence he inspires never gives
occasion to familiarity, for it originates in a profound esteem for
his virtues and a high opinion of his talents."

The next day Washington offered to conduct his guest to the camp of
_the marquis:_ this was the appellation universally bestowed in
America upon Lafayette, who commanded the advance of the army.

"We found his troops in order of battle, and himself at their head,
expressing by his air and countenance that he was better pleased to
receive me there than he would be at his estate in Auvergne.
[Footnote 46] The confidence and attachment of his troops are
invaluable possessions for him, well-earned riches of which nobody can
deprive him; but what, in my opinion, is still more flattering for a
young man of his age (he was not more than twenty-three) is the
influence and consideration he has acquired in political as well as
military matters. I do not exaggerate when I say that private letters
from him have often produced more effect upon some of the states than
the most urgent recommendations of the Congress. On seeing him, one is
at a loss to decide which is the stranger circumstance--that a man so
young should have given such extraordinary proofs of ability, or that
one who has been so much tried should still give promise of such a
long career of glory. Happy his country, should she know how to make
use of his talents! happier still, should she never stand in need of

  [Footnote 46: M. de Chastellux was cousin-german by the mother's
  side to the Duchess of Ayen, the mother of Madame de Lafayette.]

This last remark shows that M. de Chastellux, with all his enthusiasm
for the present, was not without anxiety for the future. He spent
three days at head-quarters, nearly all the while at table, after the
American fashion. At the end of each meal nuts were served, and
General Washington sat for several hours, eating them, "toasting," and
conversing. These long conversations only increased his companion's

"The most striking characteristic of this respected man is the perfect
accord which exists between his physical and moral qualities. This
idea of a perfect whole cannot be produced by enthusiasm, which would
rather reject it, since the effect of proportion is to diminish the
idea of greatness. Brave without rashness, laborious without ambition,
generous without prodigality, noble without pride, virtuous without
severity, he seems always to have {187} confined himself within those
limits where the virtues, by clothing themselves in more lively but
more changeable and doubtful colors, may be mistaken for faults."

The city of Philadelphia was the capital of the confederation and the
seat of the Congress. M. de Chastellux did not fail to visit it. He
enjoyed there the hospitality of the Chevalier de la Luzerne, French
minister to the United States, and had the pleasure of meeting several
young French officers, some in the service of the United States,
others belonging to the expeditionary corps, whom the interruption of
military operations had left at liberty, like himself. Among them were
M. de Lafayette, the Viscount de Noailles, the Count de Damas, the
Count de Custine, the Chevalier de Mauduit, and the Marquis de la
Rouérie. Let us give a few particulars about these "Gallo-Americans,"
as our author calls them. The Viscount de Noailles, brother-in-law of
Lafayette, and colonel of the chasseurs of Alsace, was afterward a
member of the States General, and principal author of the famous
deliberations of the 4th of August. The Count Charles de Damas, an
aide-de-camp of Rochambeau, in after years took part, on the contrary,
against the revolutionists, and, attempting to rescue Louis XVI. at
Varennes, was arrested with him. The Count de Custine, colonel of the
regiment of Saintonge infantry, is the same who was general-in-chief
of the republican armies in 1792, and who died by the guillotine the
next year, like Lauzun. The Chevalier de Mauduit commanded the
American artillery. At the age of fifteen, with his head full of
dreams of classical antiquity, he ran away from college, walked to
Marseilles, and shipped as cabin-boy on board a vessel bound for
Greece, in order to visit the battle-fields of Plataea and
Thermopylae. The same spirit of enthusiasm carried him, at the age of
twenty, to America. Appointed, after the war, commandant at Port au
Prince, he was assassinated there by his own soldiers in 1791. The
history of the Marquis de la Rouérie, or Rouarie, is still more
romantic. In his youth he fell violently in love with an actress, and
wanted to marry her. Compelled by his family to break off this
attachment, he determined to become a Trappist; but he soon threw
aside the monastic habit and went to America, where he commanded a
legion armed and equipped at his own cost. He abandoned his surname
and title, and would only be known as Colonel Armand. After his return
to France, he was concerned, with others of the nobility of Brittany,
in the troubles which preceded the revolution. He was one of the
twelve deputies sent in 1787 to demand of the king the restoration of
the privileges of that province, and as such was committed to the
Bastile. The next year he had occasion to claim the same privileges,
not from the king, but from the Third Estate. In 1791 he placed
himself at the head of the disaffected, and organized the royalist
insurrection in the west. Denounced and pursued, he saved himself by
taking to the forest, lay hid in one chateau after another, fell sick
in the middle of winter, and died in a fit of despair on hearing of
the execution of Louis XVI.

The Chevalier de la Luzerne, brother of the Bishop of Langres,
afterward cardinal, so distinguished for his noble conduct in 1789,
was a man of more coolness and deliberation, but not less devoted to
the cause of the United States. He had given abundant proof of his
friendship by contracting a loan on his own responsibility for the
payment of the American troops.

"M. de la Luzerne," says de Chastellux, "is so formed for the station
he occupies, that one would be tempted to imagine no other could fill
it but himself. Noble in his expenditure, like the minister of a great
monarchy, but plain in his manners, like a republican, he is equally
fit to represent the king with the Congress, or the Congress with the
king. He loves the {188} Americans, and his own inclination attaches
him to the duties of his administration. He has accordingly obtained
their confidence, both as a private and a public man; but in both
these respects he is inaccessible to the spirit of party which reigns
but too much around him. He is anxiously courted by all parties, and,
espousing none, he manages all." In acknowledgment of his services in
America, the Chevalier was appointed, after the peace, minister at
London;--rather an audacious action on the part of the government of
Louis XVI. to choose as their representative in England the very man
who had contributed most of all to the independence of the United
States. The state of Pennsylvania, in gratitude for his acts of
good-will, gave the name of Luzerne to one of her counties.

The principal occupation of these officers, during their stay at
Philadelphia, was to visit, notwithstanding the inclemency of the
weather, the scenes of the recent conflicts near that city, or to
discuss the causes which had turned the fortune of war, now in favor
of the Americans, and now against them. Our author here shows himself
in a new light, as a tactician who, with a thorough knowledge of the
art of war, points out the circumstances which have led to the success
or failure of this or that manoeuvre. Those affairs in which the
French figured especially attracted his attention. Bravery,
generosity, disinterestedness, all the national virtues were
conspicuous in these volunteers who had crossed the ocean to make war
at their own expense, and who softened the asperity of military
operations by the charm of their elegant manners and chivalric

Among the battle-fields which these young enthusiasts, while a waiting
something better to do, loved to trace out was that of Brandywine,
where M. de Lafayette, almost immediately after his landing in
America, received the wound in the leg of which he speaks so gaily in
a letter to his wife. Lafayette himself acted as their guide, and
recounted to his friends, on the very scene of action, the incidents
of this day, which was not a fortunate one for the Americans. He did
the honors of another expedition to the heights of Barren Hill, where
he had gained an advantage under rather curious circumstances. He had
with him there about two thousand infantry with fifty dragoons and an
equal number of Indians, when the English, who occupied Philadelphia,
endeavored to surround and capture him.

"General Howe [Sir Henry Clinton--ED.] thought he had now fairly
caught the marquis, and even carried his gasconade so far as to invite
ladies to meet Lafayette at supper the next day; and, whilst the
principal part of the officers were at the play, he put in motion the
main body of his forces, which he marched in three columns. The first
was not long in reaching the advanced posts of M. de Lafayette, which
gave rise to a laughable adventure. The fifty savages he had with him
were placed in ambuscade in the woods, after their own manner; that is
to say, lying as close as rabbits. Fifty English dragoons, who had
never seen any Indians, entered the wood where they were hid. The
Indians on their part, had never seen dragoon. Up they start, raising
a horrible cry, throw down their arms, and escape by swimming across
the Schuylkill. The dragoons, on the other hand, as much terrified as
they were, turned tail, and fled in such a panic that they did not
stop until they reached Philadelphia. M. de Lafayette, finding himself
in danger of being surrounded, made such skilful dispositions that he
effected his retreat, as if by enchantment, and crossed the river
without losing a man. The English army, finding the bird flown,
returned to Philadelphia, spent with fatigue, and ashamed of having
done nothing. The ladies did not see M. de Lafayette, and General Howe
[Clinton] himself arrived too late for supper." By the side of these
admirable military sketches, we have an account of a ball at the
Chevalier de la Luzerne's. "There were near twenty women, {189} twelve
or fifteen of whom danced, each having her 'partner,' as the custom is
in America. Dancing is said to be at once the emblem of gaiety and of
love; here it seems to be the emblem of legislation and of marriage:
of legislation, inasmuch as places are marked out, the country-dances
named, and every proceeding provided for, calculated, and submitted to
regulation; of marriage, as it furnishes each lady with a partner,
with whom she must dance the whole evening, without being permitted to
take another. Strangers have generally the privilege of being
complimented with the handsomest women; that is to say, out of
politeness, the prettiest partners are given to them. The Count de
Damas led forth Mrs. Bingham, and the Viscount de Noailles, Miss
Shippen. Both of them, like true philosophers, testified a great
respect for the custom of the country by not quitting their partners
the whole evening; in other respects they were the admiration of the
whole assembly from the grace and dignity with which they danced. To
the honor of my country, I can affirm that they surpassed that evening
a chief justice of Carolina, and two members of Congress, one of whom
(Mr. Duane) passed for being by ten per cent. more lively than all the
other dancers."

At Philadelphia, as in camp, a great part of the day was passed at
table. The Congress having met, M. de Chastellux was invited to dinner
successively by the representatives from the North and the
representatives from the South; for the political body was even then
divided by a geographical line, each side having separate reunions at
a certain tavern which they used to frequent: so we see the
differences between North and South are as old as the confederation
itself. He made the acquaintance of all the leading members, and
especially of Samuel Adams, one of the framers of the Declaration of
Independence.  [Footnote 47] He saw also the celebrated pamphleteer,
Thomas Paine, who ten years afterward came to France, and was chosen a
member of the National Convention. Together with Lafayette, our author
was elected a member of the Academy of Philadelphia. Despite so many
circumstances to prepossess him in favor of the Americans, he appears
not a very ardent admirer of what he witnesses about him. He shows but
little sympathy with the Quakers, whose "smooth and wheedling tone"
disgusts him, and whom he represents as wholly given up to making
money. Philadelphia he calls "the great sink in which all the
speculations of the United States meet and mingle." The city then had
40,000 inhabitants; it now contains 600,000.

  [Footnote 47: A mistake of the reviewer's. Samuel Adams had no hand
  in writing the Declaration, nor does de Chastellux say that he
  had.--ED. C. W. ]

We can easily conceive that, in contrasting the appearance of this
republican government with the great French monarchy, he should have
found abundant food for study and reflection. He speaks with great
reserve, but what little he says is enough to show that he was not so
much enamored of republican ideas as Lafayette and most of his
friends. The disciple of Montesquieu loses much of his admiration for
the American constitutions when he sees them in operation, and seems
especially loath to introduce them into his own country. The
constitution of Pennsylvania strikes him as particularly defective.

"The state of Pennsylvania is far from being one of the best governed
of the members of the confederation. The government is without force;
nor can it be otherwise. A popular government can never have any
whilst the people are uncertain and vacillating in their opinions; for
then the leaders seek rather to please than to serve them, and end by
becoming the slaves of the multitude whom they pretended to govern."

This constitution had one capital defect: it provided only for a
single legislative chamber. After a disastrous trial, Pennsylvania was
{190} compelled to change her laws, and adopt the system of two
chambers, like the other states of the Union.

Our author betrays his misgivings most clearly in his narrative of an
interview with Samuel Adams. His report of the conversation is
especially curious, as it shows how entirely the two speakers were
preoccupied by different ideas. Samuel Adams, who has been called "the
American Cato," bent himself to prove the revolution justifiable, by
arguments drawn not only from natural right but from historical
precedent. The thoroughly English character of mind of these
innovators led them to make it a sort of point of honor to find a
sanction for their conduct in tradition. M. de Chastellux, like a true
Frenchman, made no account of such reasonings.

"I am clearly of opinion that the parliament of England had no right
to tax America without her consent; but I am still more clearly
convinced that, when a whole people say, 'We will be free!' it is
difficult to demonstrate that they are in the wrong. Be that as it
may, Mr. Adams very satisfactorily proved to me that New England was
peopled with no view to commerce and aggrandizement, but wholly by
individuals who fled from persecution, and sought an asylum at the
extremity of the world, where they might be free to live and follow
their own opinions; that it was of their own accord that these
colonists placed themselves under the protection of England; that the
mutual relationship springing from this connection was expressed in
their charters, and that the right of imposing or exacting a revenue
of any kind was not comprised in them." There was no question between
the two speakers of the Federal Constitution, for it did not yet
exist. The states at that time formed merely a confederation of
sovereign states, with a general congress, like the German
confederation. They had no president or central administration. The
constitutions spoken of in this conversation were simply the separate
constitutions of the individual states, and Samuel Adams, being from
Massachusetts, referred particularly to that state. M. de Chastellux,
accustomed to the complex social systems of Europe, was surprised that
no property qualification should be required of voters; the Americans,
on the contrary, who had always lived in a democratic community, both
before and since the declaration of independence, could not comprehend
the necessity of such a restriction. Both were doubtless right; for it
is equally difficult to establish political inequality where it does
not already exist, and to suddenly abolish it where it does exist. The
constitution of Massachusetts, superior in this respect to that of
Pennsylvania, provided for a moderating power by creation of a
governor's council, elected by property-holders.

Our author's first journey terminates in the north, near the Canada
frontier. He crosses the frozen rivers in a sleigh, in order to visit
the battle-field of Saratoga, the scene, three years before, the
capitulation of General Burgoyne, the most important success which the
Americans had achieved previous to the arrival of the French.
Returning to Newport in the early part of 1781, after having
travelled, in the course of two months, more than three hundred
leagues, on horseback or in sleighs, he passed the rest of the year
solely occupied in the duties of the glorious campaign which put an
end to the war. He wrote a journal of this campaign, but it has not
been published. He speaks of it in the narrative of his travels. From
the _Memoires_ of Rochambeau, however, we learn something of his
gallant behavior at the siege of Yorktown, where, at the head of the
reserve, he repulsed a sortie of the enemy.

His second journey was made immediately after the surrender of
Cornwallis, and was directed toward Virginia, the most important of
the southern, as Pennsylvania was of the northern, states. It was the
birth-place of Washington, of Jefferson, of Madison, and {191} of
Monroe; the state which shared most actively in the war of
independence, and which is now the principal battle-field of the
bloody struggle between North and South. This second journey did not
partake of the military and political character of the first. Now that
the destiny of America seemed settled, the author gave his attention,
principally, to natural history. In every phrase we recognize the
pupil and admirer of Buffon. His chief purpose was to visit a natural
bridge of rock across one of the affluents of the James river, in the
Appalachian mountains. He describes this stupendous arch with great
care, and illustrates his narrative with several drawings which he
caused to be made by an officer of engineers.

_À propos_ of this subject, he indulges in speculations upon the
geological formation of the New World, quite after the manner of the
author of _Époques de la nature_. On the road he amused himself by
hunting. He describes the animals that he kills, and gives an account
of the mocking-bird, which almost equals Buffon's in vivacity, and
excels it in accuracy. He gives several details respecting the
opossum, that singular animal which almost seems to belong to a
different creation. All natural objects interest him, and he studies
them with the zeal of a first discoverer. His description of the
mocking-bird is well worth reproducing:

"I rose with the sun, and, while breakfast was preparing, took a walk
around the house. The birds were heard on every side, but my attention
was chiefly attracted by a very agreeable song, which appeared to
proceed from a neighboring tree. I approached softly, and perceived it
to be a mocking-bird, saluting the rising sun. At first I was afraid
of frightening it, but my presence, on the contrary, gave it pleasure;
for, apparently delighted at having an auditor, it sang better than
before, and its emulation seemed to increase when it saw a couple of
dogs, which followed me, draw near to the tree on which it was
perched. It kept hopping incessantly from branch to branch, still
continuing its song; for this extraordinary bird is not less
remarkable for its agility than its charming notes. It keeps
perpetually rising and sinking, so as to appear not less the favorite
of Terpsichore than Polyhymnia. This bird cannot certainly be
reproached with fatiguing its auditors, for nothing can be more varied
than its song, of which it is impossible to give an imitation, or even
to furnish any adequate idea. As it had every reason to be satisfied
with my attention, it concealed from me none of its talents; and one
would have thought that, after having delighted me with a concert, it
was desirous of entertaining me with a comedy. It began to counterfeit
different birds; those which it imitated the most naturally, at least
to a stranger, were the jay, the raven, the cardinal, and the lapwing.
It appeared desirous of detaining me near it; for, after I had
listened for a quarter of an hour, it followed me on my return to the
house, flying from tree to tree, always singing, sometimes its natural
song, at others those which it had learned in Virginia and in its
travels; for this bird is one of those which change climate, although
it sometimes appears here during the winter."

Continuing his journey, the traveller visited Jefferson at his
country-home, situated deep in the wilderness, on the skirts of the
Blue Ridge. This visit gives him opportunity for a new historical

"It was Jefferson himself who built his house and chose the situation.
He calls it Monticello ['little mountain'], a modest title, for it is
built upon a very high mountain; but the name indicates the owner's
attachment to the language of Italy, and above all to the fine arts,
of which that country was the cradle. He is a man not yet forty, of
tall stature and a mild and pleasant countenance; but his mind and
understanding are ample substitutes for every external grace. {192} An
American who, without having ever quitted his own country, is skilled
in music and drawing; a geometrician, an astronomer, a natural
philosopher, a jurist and a statesman; a senator who sat for two years
in the congress which brought about the revolution, and which is never
mentioned without respect, though unhappily not without regret;
[Footnote 48] a governor of Virginia, who filled this difficult
station during the invasions of Arnold, of Phillips, and of
Cornwallis; in fine, a philosopher in voluntary retirement from the
world and public affairs, because he only loves the world so long as
he can flatter himself with the conviction that he is of some use to
mankind. A mild and amiable wife, charming children, of whose
education he himself takes charge, a house to embellish, great
possessions to improve, and the arts and sciences to cultivate--these
are what remain to Mr. Jefferson after having played a distinguished
part on the theatre of the New World. Before I had been two hours in
his company, we were as ultimate as if we had passed our whole lives
together. Walking, books, but above all a conversation always varied
and interesting, sustained by that sweet satisfaction experienced by
two persons whose sentiments are always in unison, and who understand
each other at the first hint, made four days seem to me only so many
minutes. No object had escaped Mr. Jefferson's attention; and it
seemed as if from his youth he had placed his mind, as he has done his
house, on an elevation from which he might contemplate the universe."

  [Footnote 48: The United States were then passing through a crisis
  of anarchy, which lasted until the adoption of the Federal
  Constitution in 1788, and the elevation of Washington to the

At the period of this visit, Mr. Jefferson thought only of retirement;
but when M. de Chastellux's _Voyages en Amérique_ appeared, three
years afterward, he was minister-plenipotentiary of the United States
in Paris. The death of his wife had determined him to return to public
life. He formed a solid friendship for M. de Chastellux, of which his
correspondence contains abundant proof. The brilliant French soldier
introduced the solitary of Monticello, the "American wild-man of the
mountains," to the _salons_ of Paris; and the republican statesman, with
the manners of an aristocrat, entered, nothing loath, into the society
of the gay and polished capital, where he received the same welcome
and honors that were accorded to Franklin.

This portion of the _Journal_ closes with some general remarks upon
Virginia, which possess a new interest now that the people of that
state reappear upon the scene in the same bellicose and indomitable
character which they bore of old.

"The Virginians differ essentially from the people of the North, not
only in the nature of their climate, soil, and agriculture, but in
that indelible character which is imprinted on every nation at the
moment of its origin, and which, by perpetuating itself from
generation to generation, justifies the great principle that
'everything which is partakes of that which has been.' The settlement
of Virginia took place at the commencement of the seventeenth century.
The republican and democratic spirit was not then common in England;
that of commerce and navigation was scarcely in its infancy. The long
wars with France and Spain had perpetuated the military spirit, and
the first colonists of Virginia were composed in great part of
gentlemen who had no other profession than that of arms. It was
natural, therefore, for these colonists, who were filled with military
principles and the prejudices of nobility, to carry them even into the
midst of the savages whose lands they came to occupy. Another cause
which operated in forming their character was the institution of
slavery. It may be asked how these prejudices have been brought to
coincide with a revolution founded on such different principles? I
answer {193} that they have perhaps contributed to produce it. While
the insurrection in New England was the result of reason and
calculation, Virginia revolted through pride."

The third and last journey of M. de Chastellux led him through New
Hampshire, Massachusetts, and northern Pennsylvania. This was during
the months of November and December, 1782, on the eve of his return to
France. He started from Hartford, the capital of Connecticut, and,
after visiting several other places, went to Boston, for he could not
leave America without seeing this city, the cradle of the revolution.
He found at this port the French fleet, under command of M. de
Vaudreuil, which was to carry back the expeditionary corps to France.
He closes his _Journal_ with an interesting account of the university
at Cambridge, which Ampère, who was, like him, a member of the French
Academy, visited and described seventy years afterward. In the
appendix to his book he gives a letter written by himself on board the
frigate _l'Émeraude_, just before sailing, to Mr. Madison, professor
of philosophy in William and Mary College. It is upon a subject which
has not yet lost its appropriateness--the future of the arts and
sciences in America. A democratic and commercial society, always in a
ferment, seemed to him hardly compatible with scientific, and still
less with artistic, progress. But, in his solicitude for the welfare
of the country he had been defending, he would not allow that the
difficulty was insuperable. Some of his remarks upon this subject are
extremely delicate and ingenious.

The question which troubled him is not yet fully answered, but it is
in a fair way of being settled. The United States have really made but
little progress in the arts, though they have produced a few pictures
and statues which have elicited admiration even in Europe at recent
industrial exhibitions. They are beginning, however, to have a
literature. Even in the days of the revolution they could boast of the
writings of Franklin, which combined the-most charming originality
with refinement and solid good sense. Now they can show, among
novelists, Fenimore Cooper and the celebrated Mrs. Beecher Stowe,
whose book gave the signal for another revolution; among
story-tellers, Washington Irving and Hawthorne; among critics,
Ticknor; among historians, Prescott and Bancroft; among economists,
Carey; among political writers, Everett; among moralists, Emerson and
Channing; among poets, Bryant and Longfellow. In science they have
done still more. They have adopted and naturalized one of the first of
modern geologists, Agassiz; and the hydrographical labors of Maury,
[late] director of the Washington Observatory, are the admiration of
the whole world. Their immense development in industrial pursuits
implies a corresponding progress in practical science. It was Fulton,
an American, who invented the steamboat, and carried out in his own
country the idea which he could not persuade Europe to listen to; and
only lately the reaping-machine has come to us from the shores of the
great lakes and the vast prairies of the Far West.

When the _Voyages en Amérique_ appeared, the revolutionary party in
France were still more dissatisfied with the book than they had been
with the _Félicité publique_. They were angry at the wise and
unprejudiced judgments which the author passed upon men and things in
the New World; they were angry that he found some things not quite
perfect in republican society, that his praises of democracy were not
louder, his denunciations of the past not more sweeping. Brissot de
Warville, whose caustic pen was already in full exercise, published a
bitter review of the book. Some of the hostile criticisms found their
way to the United States, and M. de Chastellux, in sending a copy of
his work to General Washington, took occasion to {194} defend himself.
He received from the general a long and affectionate reply, written at
Mount Vernon, in April, 1786.

M. de Chastellux also wrote a "Discourse on the Advantages and
Disadvantages which have resulted to Europe from the Discovery of
America," and edited the comedies of the Marchioness de Gléon. This
lady, celebrated for her wit and beauty, was the daughter of a rich
financier. At her house, La Chevrette, near Montmorency, she
entertained all the literary world, and gave representations of her
own plays. Her friend, M. de Chastellux, was himself the author of a
few dramatic pieces, performed either at La Chevrette or at the Prince
de Condé's, at Chantilly; but they have never been published. We shall
respect his reserve, and refrain from giving our readers a taste
either of these compositions or of his "Plan for a general Reform of
the French Infantry," and other unpublished writings.

After his return from America, de Chastellux was appointed governor of
Longwy. He had reached the age of nearly fifty and was still
unmarried, when he met at the baths of Spa, which were still the
resort of all the good company in Europe, a young, beautiful, and
accomplished Irish girl, named Miss Plunkett, with whom he fell over
head and ears in love. He married her in 1787, but did not long enjoy
his happiness, for he died the next year. Like most men who devote
themselves to the public welfare, he had sadly neglected his private
affairs. Being the youngest of five children, his fortune was not
large, and it gave him little trouble to run through it. General
officers in those days took a pride in their profuse expenditures in
the field: he ruined himself by his American campaign. His widow was
attached in the capacity of maid of honor to the person of the
estimable daughter of the Duke de Penthièvre, the Duchess of Orléans,
mother of King Louis Philippe. This princess adopted, after a certain
fashion, his posthumous son, who became one of the _chevaliers
d'honneur_ of Madame Adelaide, the daughter of his patroness. He was
successively a deputy and peer of France after the revolution 1830. He
published a short memoir of his father, prefixed to an edition of the
_Félicité publique_.



From The Month.



  There is a convent on the Alban hill,
      Round whose stone roots the gnarlèd olives grow;
  Above are murmurs of the mountain rill,
      And all the broad Campagna lies below;
  Where faint gray buildings and a shadowy dome
  Suggest the splendor of eternal Rome.

  Hundreds of years ago, these convent-walls
      Were reared by masons of the Gothic age:
  The date is carved upon the lofty halls,
      The story written on the illumined page.
  What pains they took to make it strong and fair
  The tall bell-tower and sculptured porch declare.

  When all the stones were placed, the windows stained,
      And the tall bell-tower finished to the crown,
  Only one want in this fair pile remained,
      Whereat a cunning workman of the town
  (The little town upon the Alban hill)
  Toiled day and night his purpose to fulfil.

  Seven bells he made, of very rare devise,
      With graven lilies twisted up and down;
  Seven bells proportionate in differing size,
      And full of melody from rim to crown;
  So that, when shaken by the wind alone,
  They murmured with a soft AEolian tone.

  These being placed within the great bell-tower,
      And duly rung by pious skilful hand,
  Marked the due prayers of each recurring hour,
      And sweetly mixed persuasion with command.
  Through the gnarled olive-trees the music wound,
  And miles of broad Campagna heard the sound.

  And then the cunning workman put aside
      His forge, his hammer, and the tools he used
  To chase those lilies; his keen furnace died;
      And all who asked for bells were hence refused.
  With these his best, his last were also wrought,
  And refuge in the convent-walls he sought.

  There did he live, and there he hoped to die,
      Hearing the wind among the cypress-trees
  Hint unimagined music, and the sky
      Throb full of chimes borne downward by the breeze;
  Whose undulations, sweeping through the air,
  His art might claim as an embodied prayer.



  But those were stormy days in Italy:
      Down came the spoiler from the uneasy North,
  Swept the Campagna to the bounding sea,
      Sacked pious homes, and drove the inmates forth;
  Whether a Norman or a German foe,
  History is silent, and we do not know.

  Brothers in faith were they; yet did not deem
      The sacred precincts barred destroying hand.
  Through those rich windows poured the whitened beam,
      Forlorn the church and ruined altar stand.
  As the sad monks went forth, that self-same hour
  Saw empty silence in the great bell-tower.

  The outcast brethren scattered far and wide;
      Some by the Danube rested, some in Spain:
  On the green Loire the aged abbot died,
      By whose loved feet one brother did remain
  Faithful in all his wanderings: it was he
  Who cast and chased those bells in Italy.

  He, dwelling at Marmontier, by the tomb
      Of his dear father, where the shining Loire
  Flows down from Tours amidst the purple bloom
      Of meadow-flowers, some years of patience saw.
  Those fringèd isles (where poplars tremble still)
  Swayed like the olives of the Alban hill.

  The man was old, and reverend in his age;
      And the "Great Monastery" held him dear.
  Stalwart and stern, as some old Roman sage
      Subdued to Christ, he lived from year to year,
  Till his beard silvered, and the fiery glow
  Of his dark eye was overhung with snow.

  And being trusted, as of prudent way,
      They chose him for a message of import,
  Which the "Great Monastery" would convey
      To a good patron in an Irish court;
  Who, by the Shannon, sought the means to found
  St. Martin's off-shoot on that distant ground.

  The old Italian took his staff in hand,
      And journeyed slowly from the green Touraine
  Over the heather and salt-shining sand,
      Until he saw the leaping crested main,
  Which, dashing round the Cape of Brittany,
  Sweeps to the confines of the Irish Sea.


  There he took ship, and thence with laboring sail
      He crossed the waters, till a faint gray line
  Rose in the northern sky; so faint, so pale,
      Only the heart that loves her would divine,
  In her dim welcome, all that fancy paints
  Of the green glory of the Isle of Saints.

  Through the low banks, where Shannon meets the sea,
      Up the broad waters of the River King
  (Then populous with a nation), journeyed he,
      Through that old Ireland which her poets sing;
  And the white vessel, breasting up the stream,
  Moved slowly, like a ship within a dream.

  When Limerick towers uprose before his gaze,
      A sound of music floated in the air--
  Music which held him in a fixed amaze,
      Whose silver tenderness was alien there;
  Notes full of murmurs of the southern seas,
  And dusky olives swaying in the breeze.

  His chimes! the children of the great bell-tower,
      Empty and silent now for many a year,
  He hears them ringing out the vesper hour,
      Owned in an instant by his loving ear.
  Kind angels stayed the spoiler's hasty hand,
  And watched their journeying over sea and land.

  The white-sailed boat moved slowly up the stream;
      The old man lay with folded hands at rest;
  The Shannon glistened in the sunset beam;
      The bells rang gently o'er its shining breast,
  Shaking out music from each lilied rim:
  It was a requiem which they rang for him.

  For when the boat was moored beside the quay,
      He lay as children lie when lulled by song;
  But never more to waken. Tenderly
      They buried him wild-flowers and grass among,
  Where on the cross alights the wandering bird,
  And hour by hour the bells he loved are heard.



From London Society.



  There is a tide in the affairs of men,
  Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune--

So says the sage, and it is not to be gainsayed by any man whom forty
winters have chilled into wisdom. Ability and opportunity are fortune.
Opportunity is not fortune; otherwise all were fortunate. Ability is
not fortune, else why does genius slave? Why? But because it missed
_the_ opportunity that fitted it?

What I have--wife, position, independence--I owe to an opportunity for
exercising the very simple and unpretending combination of qualities
that goes by the name of ability. But to my story.

My father was a wealthy country gentleman, of somewhat more than the
average of intelligence, and somewhat more than the average of
generosity and extravagance. His younger brother, a solicitor in large
practice in London, would in vain remonstrate as to the imprudence of
his course. Giving freely, spending freely, must come to an end. It
did; and at twenty I was a well educated, gentlemanly pauper. The
investigation of my father's affairs showed that there was one
shilling and sixpence in the pound for the whole of his creditors, and
of course nothing for me.

The position was painful. I was half engaged--to that is, I had
gloves, flowers, a ringlet, a carte de visite of Alice Morton. That,
of course, must be stopped.

Mr. Silas Morton was not ill-pleased at the prospect of an alliance
with his neighbor Westwood's son while there was an expectation of a
provision for the young couple in the union of estates as well as
persons; but now, when the estate was gone, when I, Guy Westwood, was
shillingless in the world, it would be folly indeed. Nevertheless I
must take my leave.

"Well, Guy, my lad, bad job this; very bad job; thought he was as safe
as the Bank. Would not have believed it from any one--not from any
one. Of course all that nonsense about you and Alice must be stopped
now; I'm not a hard man, but I can't allow Alice to throw away her
life in the poverty she would have to bear as your wife; can't do it;
wouldn't be the part of a father if I did."

I suggested I might in time.

"Time, sir! time! How much? She's nineteen now. You're brought up to
nothing; know nothing that will earn you a sixpence for the next six
months; and you talk about time. Time, indeed! Keep her waiting till
she's thirty, and then break her heart by finding it a folly to marry
at all.'

"Ah! Alice, my dear, Guy's come to say 'Good by:' he sees, with me,
that his altered position compels him, as an honorable man, to give up
any hopes he may have formed as to the future."

He left us alone to say 'Farewell!'--a word too hard to say at our
ages. Of course we consulted what should be done. To give each other
up, to bury the delicious past, that was not to be thought of. We
would be constant, spite of all. I must gain a position, and papa
would then help us.

Two ways were open; a commission in India, a place in my uncle's
office. Which? I was for the commission, Alice for the office. A
respectable influential solicitor; a position not to be despised;
nothing but cleverness wanted; and my uncle's name, and no one to wait
for; no liver {199} complaints; no sepoys; no sea voyages; and no long

"Oh, I'm sure it is the best thing."

I agreed, not unnaturally then, that it was the best.

"Now, you young people, you've had time enough to say 'Good by,' so be
off, Guy. Here, my lad, you'll need something to start with," and the
old gentleman put into my hands a note for fifty pounds.

"I must beg, sir, that you will not insult--"

"God bless the boy! 'Insult!' Why I've danced you on my knee hundreds
of times. Look you, Guy,"--and the old fellow came and put his hand on
my shoulder,--"it gives me pain to do what I am doing. I believe, for
both your sakes, it is best you should part. Let us part friends. Come
now, Guy, you'll need this; and if you need a little more, let me

"But, sir, you cut me off from all hope; you render my life a burden
to me. Give me some definite task; say how much you think we ought to
have; I mean how much I ought to have to keep Alice--I mean Miss
Morton--in such a position as you would wish."

Alice added her entreaties, and the result of the conference was an
understanding that if, within five years from that date, I could show
I was worth £500 a year, the old gentleman would add another £500; and
on that he thought we might live for a few years comfortably.

There was to be no correspondence whatever; no meetings, no messages.
We protested and pleaded, and finally he said--

"Well, well, Guy; I always liked you, and liked your father before
you. Come to us on Christmas day, and you shall find a vacant chair
beside Alice. There, now; say 'Good by,' and be off."

I went off. I came to London to one of the little lanes leading out of
Cannon street. Five hundred a year in five years! I must work hard.

My uncle took little notice of me; I fancied worked me harder than the
rest, and paid me the same. Seventy-five pounds a year is not a large
sum. I had spent it in a month before now, after the fashion of my
father: now, I hoarded; made clothes last; ate in musty, cheap, little
cook-shops; and kept my enjoying faculties from absolute rust by a
weekly half-price to the theatres--the pit.

The year passed. I went down on Christmas, and for twenty-four hours
was alive; came back, and had a rise of twenty pounds in salary for
the next year. I waited for opportunity, and it came not.

This jog-trot routine of office-work continued for two years more, and
at the end of that time I was worth but my salary of £135 per
year--£135! a long way from £500. Oh, for opportunity? I must quit the
desk, and become a merchant; all successful men have been merchants;
money begets money. But, to oppose all these thoughts of change, came
the memory of Alice's last words at Christmas, "Wait and hope, Guy,
dear; wait and hope." Certainly; it's so easy to.

"Governor wants you, Westwood. He's sharp this morning; very sharp; so
look out, my dear nephy."

"You understand a little Italian, I think?" said my uncle.

"A little, sir."

"You will start to-night for Florence, in the mail train. Get there as
rapidly as possible, and find whether a Colonel Wilson is residing
there, and what lady he is residing with. Learn all you can as to his
position and means, and the terms on which he lives with that lady.
Write to me, and wait there for further instructions. Mr. Williams
will give you a cheque for £100; you can get circular notes for £50,
and the rest cash. If you have anything to say, come in here at five
o'clock; if not, good morning. By-the-by, say nothing in the office."

I need not say that hope made me believe my opportunity was come.

I hurried to Florence and discharged my mission; sent home a {200}
careful letter, full of facts without comment or opinion, and in three
weeks' time was summoned to return. I had done little or nothing that
could help me, and in a disappointed state of mind I packed up and
went to the railway station at St. Dominico. A little row with a
peasant as to his demand for carrying my baggage caused me to lose the
last train that night, and so the steamer at Leghorn. The
station-master, seeing my vexation, endeavored to console me:

"There will be a special through train to Leghorn at nine o'clock,
ordered for Count Spezzato: he is good-natured, and will possibly let
you go in that."

It was worth the chance, and I hung about the station till I was
tired, and then walked back toward the village. Passing a small
wine-shop, I entered, and asked for wine in English. I don't know what
whim possessed me when I did it, for they were unable to understand me
without dumb motions. I at length got wine by these means, and sat
down to while away the time over a railway volume.

I had been seated about half an hour, when a courier entered,
accompanied by a railway guard. Two more different examples of the
human race it would be difficult to describe.

The guard was a dark, savage-looking Italian, with 'rascal' and
'bully' written all over him; big, black, burly, with bloodshot eyes,
and thick, heavy, sensual lips, the man was utterly repulsive.

The courier was a little, neatly-dressed man, of no age in particular;
pale, blue-eyed, straight-lipped, his face was a compound of fox and
rabbit that only a fool or a patriot would have trusted out of arm's

This ill-matched pair called for brandy, and the hostess set it before
them. I then heard them ask who and what I was. She replied, I must be
an Englishman, and did not understand the Italian for wine. She then

They evidently wanted to be alone, and my presence was decidedly
disagreeable to them; and muttering that I was an Englishman, they
proceeded to try my powers as a linguist. The courier commenced in
Italian, with a remark on the weather. I immediately handed him the
Newspaper. I didn't speak Italian, that was clear to them.

The guard now struck in with a remark in French as to the fineness of
the neighboring country. I shrugged my shoulders, and produced my
cigar case. French was not very familiar to me, evidently.

"Those beasts of English think their own tongue so fine they are too
proud to learn another," said the guard.

I sat quietly, sipping my wine, and reading.

"Well, my dear Michael Pultuski," began the guard.

"For the love of God, call me by that name. My name is Alexis Alexis
Dzentzol, now."

"Oh! oh!" laughed the guard; "you've changed your name, you fox; it's
like you. Now I am the same that you knew fifteen years ago, Conrad
Ferrate--to-day, yesterday, and for life, Conrad Ferrate. Come, lad,
tell us your story. How did you get out of that little affair at
Warsaw? How they could have trusted you, with your face, with their
secrets, I can't for the life of me tell; you look so like a sly
knave, don't you, lad?"

The courier, so far from resenting this familiarity, smiled, as if he
had been praised.

"My story is soon said. I found, after my betrayal to the police of
the secrets of that little conspiracy which you and I joined, that
Poland was too hot for me, and my name too well known. I went to
France, who values her police, and for a few years was useful to them.
But it was dull work; very dull; native talent was more esteemed. I
was to be sent on a secret service to Warsaw; I declined for obvious

"Good! Michael--Alexis; good, {201} Alexis. This fox is not to be
trapped." And he slapped the courier on the shoulder heartily.

"And," resumed the other, "I resigned. Since then I have travelled as
courier with noble families, and I trust I give satisfaction."

"Good! Alexis; good Mich--good Alexis! To yourself you give
satisfaction. You are a fine rascal!--the prince of rascals! So decent;
so quiet; so like the curé of a convent. Who would believe that you
had sold the lives of thirty men for a few hundred roubles?"

"And who," interrupted the courier, "would believe that you, bluff,
honest Conrad Ferrate, had run away with all the money those thirty
men had collected during ten years of labor, for rescuing their
country from the Russian?"

"That was good, Alexis, was it not? I never was so rich in my life as
then; I loved--I gamed--I drank on the patriots' money."

"For how long? Three years?"

"More--and now have none left. Ah! Times change, Alexis; behold me."
And the guard touched his buttons and belt, the badges of his office.
"Never mind--here's my good friend, the bottle--let us embrace--the
only friend that is always true--if he does not gladden, he makes us
to forget."

"Tell me, my good Alexis, whom do you rob now? Who pays for the best,
and gets the second best? Whose money do you invest, eh! my little
fox? Why are you here? Come, tell me, while I drink to your success."

"I have the honor to serve his Excellency the Count Spezzato."

"Ten thousand devils! My accursed cousin!" broke in the guard. "He who
has robbed me from his birth; whose birth itself was a vile robbery of
me--me, his cousin, child of his father's brother. May he be accursed
for ever!"

I took most particular pains to appear only amused at this genuine
outburst of passion, for I saw the watchful eye of the courier was on
me all the time they were talking.

The guard drank off a tumbler of brandy.

"That master of yours is the man of whom I spoke to you years ago, as
the one who had ruined me; and you serve him! May he be strangled on
his wedding night, and cursed for ever."

"Be calm, my dearest Conrad, calm yourself; that beast of an
Englishman will think you are drunk, like one of his own swinish
people, if you talk so loud as this."

"How can I help it? I must talk. What _he_ is, that _I_ ought to be: I
was brought up to it till I was eighteen; was the heir to all his vast
estate; there was but one life between me and power--my uncle's--and
he, at fifty, married a girl, and had this son, this son of perdition,
my cousin. And after that, I, who had been the pride of my family,
became of no account; it was 'Julian' sweet Julian!'"

"I heard," said the courier, "that some one attempted to strangle the
sweet child, that was----?"

"Me--you fox--me. I wish I had done it; but for that wretched dog that
worried me, I should have been Count Spezzato now. I killed that dog,
killed him, no not suddenly; may his master die like him!"

"And you left after that little affair?"

"Oh yes! I left and became what you know me."

"A clever man, my dear Conrad. I know no man who is more clever with
the ace than yourself, and, as to bullying to cover a mistake, you are
an emperor at that. Is it not so, Conrad? Come, drink good health to
my master, your cousin."

"You miserable viper, I'll crush you if you ask me to do that again.
I'll drink--here, give me the glass--Here's to Count Spezzato: May he
die like a dog! May his carcase bring the birds and the wolves
together! May his name be cursed and hated while the sun lasts! And
may purgatory keep him till I pray for his release!"


The man's passion was something frightful to see, and I was more than
half inclined to leave the place; but something, perhaps a distant
murmur of the rising tide, compelled me to stay. I pretended sleep,
allowing my head to sink, down upon the table.

He sat still for a few moments, and then commenced walking about the
room, and abruptly asked:

"What brought you here, Alexis?"

"My master's horse, Signor Conrad."

"Good, my little fox; but why did you come on your master's horse?"

"Because my master wishes to reach Leghorn to-night, to meet his
bride, Conrad."

"Then his is the special train ordered at nine, that I am to go with?"
exclaimed the guard eagerly.

"That is so, gentle Conrad; and now, having told you all, let me pay
our hostess and go."

"Pay! No one pays for me, little fox; no, no, go; I will pay."

The courier took his departure, and the guard kept walking up and down
the room, muttering to himself:

"To-night, it might be to-night. If he goes to Leghorn, he meets his
future wife; another life, and perhaps a dozen. No, it must be
to-night or never. Does his mother go? Fool that I am not to ask! Yes;
it shall be to-night;" and he left the room.

What should be "to-night?" Some foul play of which the count would be
the victim, no doubt. But how? when? That must be solved. To follow
him, or to wait--which? To wait. It is always best to wait; I had
learned this lesson already.

I waited. It was now rather more than half-past eight, and I had risen
to go to the door when I saw the guard returning to the wine-shop with
a man whose dress indicated the stoker.

"Come in, Guido; come in," said the guard; "and drink with me."

The man came in, and I was again absorbed in my book.

They seated themselves at the same table as before, and drank silently
for a while; presently the guard began a conversation in some patois I
could not understand; but I could see the stoker grow more and more
interested as the name of Beatrix occurred more frequently.

As the talk went on, the stoker seemed pressing the guard on some part
of the story with a most vindictive eagerness, repeatedly asking, "His
name? The accursed! His name?"

At last the guard answered, "The Count Spezzato."

"The Count Spezzato!" said the stoker, now leaving the table, and
speaking in Italian.

"Yes, good Guido; the man who will travel in the train we take
to-night to Leghorn."

"He shall die! The accursed! He shall die to-night!" said the stoker.
"If I lose my life, the betrayer of my sister shall die!"

The guard, returning to the unknown tongue, seemed to be endeavoring
to calm him; and I could only catch a repetition of the word "Empoli"
at intervals. Presently the stoker took from the seats beside him two
tin bottles, such as you may see in the hands of mechanics who dine
out; and I could see that one of them had rudely scratched on it the
name "William Atkinson." I fancied the guard produced from his pocket
a phial, and poured the contents into that bottle; but the action was
so rapid, and the corner so dark, that I could not be positive; then
rising, they stopped at the counter, had both bottles filled with
brandy, and went out.

It was now time to get to the station; and, having paid my modest
score, I went out.

A little in front of me, by the light from a small window, I saw these
two cross themselves, grip each other's hands across right to right,
left to left, and part.

The stoker had set down the bottles, and now taking them up followed
the guard at a slower pace.


Arrived at the station, I found the count, his mother, a female
servant, and the courier.

The count came up to me, and said, in broken English, "You are the
English to go to Leghorn with me? Very well, there is room. I like the
English. You shall pay nothing, because I do not sell tickets; you
shall go free. Is that so?"

I thanked him in the best Italian I could muster.

"Do not speak your Italian to me; I speak the English as a native; I
can know all you shall say to me in your own tongue. See, here is the
train special, as you call it. Enter, as it shall please you."

The train drew up to the platform; and I saw that the stoker was at
his post, and that the engine-driver was an Englishman.

I endeavored in vain to draw his attention to warn him, and was
compelled to take my seat, which I did in the compartment next the
guard's break--the train consisting of only that carriage and another,
in which were the count, his mother, and the servant.

The guard passed along the train, locked the doors, and entered his

"The Florence goods is behind you, and the Sienna goods is due at
Empoli Junction four minutes before you; mind you don't run into it,"
said the station-master, with a laugh.

"No fear; _we_ shall not run into _it_," said the guard, with a marked
emphasis on the "we" and "it" that I recalled afterward.

The whistle sounded, and we were off. It was a drizzling dark night;
and I lay down full length on the seat to sleep.

As I lay down a gleam of light shot across the carriage from a small
chink in the wood-work of the partition between the compartment I was
in and the guard's box.

I was terribly anxious for the manner of the guard; and this seemed to
be a means of hearing something more. I lay down and listened

"How much will you give for your life, my little fox?" said the guard.

"To-day, very little; when I am sixty, all I have, Conrad."

"But you might give something for it, to-night, sweet Alexis, if you
knew it was in danger?"

"I have no fear; Conrad Ferrate has too often conducted a train for me
to fear to-night."

"True, my good Alexis; but this is the last train he will ride with as
guard, for to-morrow he will be the Count Spezzato."

"How? To-morrow? You joke, Conrad. The brandy was strong; but you who
have drunk so much could hardly feel that."

"I neither joke, nor am I drunk; yet I shall be Count Spezzato
to-morrow, good Alexis. Look you, my gentle fox, my sweet fox; if you
do not buy your life of me, you shall die tonight. That is simple,
sweet fox."

"Ay; but, Conrad, I am not in danger."

"Nay, Alexis; see, here is the door" (I heard him turn the handle).
"If you lean against the door, you will fall out and be killed. Is it
not simple?"

"But, good Conrad, I shall not lean against the door."

"Oh, my sweet fox, my cunning fox, my timid fox, but not my strong
fox; you will lean against the door. I know you will, unless I prevent
you; and I will not prevent you, unless you give me all you have in
that bag."

The mocking tone of the guard seemed well understood, for I heard the
click of gold.

"Good, my Alexis; it is good; but it is very little for a life. Come,
what is your life worth, that you buy it with only your master's
money? it has cost you nothing. I see you will lean against that door,
which is so foolish."

"What, in the name of all the devils in hell, will you have?" said the
trembling voice of the courier. "Only a little more; just that belt
{204} that is under your shirt, under everything, next to your skin,
and dearer to you; only a little soft leather belt with pouches in. Is
not life worth a leather belt?"

"Wretch! All the earnings of my life are in that belt, and you know

"Is it possible, sweet fox, that I have found your nest? I shall give
Marie a necklace of diamonds, then. Why do you wait? Why should you
fall from a train, and make a piece of news for the papers? Why?"

"Take it; and be accursed in your life and death!" and I heard the
belt flung on the floor of the carriage.

"Now, good Alexis, I am in funds; there are three pieces of gold for
you; you will need them at Leghorn. Will you drink? No? Then I will
tell you why, without drink. Do you know where we are?"

"Yes; between St. Dominico and Signa."

"And do you know where we are going?"

"Yes; to Leghorn."

"No, sweet Alexis, we are not; we are going to Empoli: the train will
go no further. Look you, little fox; we shall arrive at the junction
one minute before the Sienna goods train, and there the engine will
break down just where the rails cross; for two blows of a hammer will
convert an engine into a log; I shall get out to examine it; that will
take a little time; I shall explain to the count the nature of the
injury; that will take a little time; and then the goods train will
have arrived; and as it does not stop there, this train will go no
further than Empoli, and I shall be Count Spezzato to-morrow. How do
you like my scheme, little fox? Is it not worthy of your pupil? Oh, it
will be a beautiful accident; it will fill the papers. That beast of
an English who begged his place in the train will be fortunate; he
will cease, for goods trains are heavy. Eh! but it's a grand scheme--
the son, the mother, the servant, the stranger, the engine-driver, all
shall tell no tales."

"And the stoker?" said the courier.

"Oh, you and he and I shall escape. We shall be pointed at in the
street as the fortunate. It is good, is it not, Alexis, my fox? I have
told him that the count is the man who betrayed his sister. He
believes it, and is my creature. But, little fox, it was not my
cousin, it was myself, that took his Beatrix from her home. Is it not
good, Alexis? Is it not genius? And Atkinson--he, the driver--is now
stupid: he has drunk from his can the poppy juice that will make him
sleep for ever. I will be a politician. I am worthy of office. I will
become the Minister of a Bourbon when I am count, my dear fox, and you
shall be my comrade again, as of old."

I was, for a time, lost to every sensation save that of hearing. The
fiendish garrulity of the man had all the fascination of the serpent's
rattle. I felt helplessly resigned to a certain fate.

I was aroused by something white slowly passing the closed window of
the carriage. I waited a little, then gently opened it and looked out.
The stoker was crawling along the foot-board of the next carriage,
holding on by its handles, so as not to be seen by the occupants, and
holding the signal lantern that I had noticed at the back of the last
carriage in his hand. The meaning of it struck me in a moment: if by
any chance we missed the goods train from Sienna, we should be run
into from behind by the train from Florence.

The cold air that blew in at the open window refreshed me, and I could
think what was to be done. The train was increasing its pace rapidly.
Evidently the stoker, in sole charge, was striving to reach Empoli
before the other train, which we should follow, was due: he had to
make five minutes in a journey of forty-five, and, at the rate we were
going, we should do it. We stopped nowhere, and the journey was more
than half over. We were now between Segua and {205} Montelupo; another
twenty minutes and I should be a bruised corpse. Something must be

I decided soon. Unfastening my bag, I took out my revolver, without
which I never travel, and looking carefully to the loading and
capping, fastened it to my waist with a handkerchief. I then cut with
my knife the bar across the middle of the window, and carefully looked
out. I could see nothing; the rain was falling fast, and the night as
dark as ever. I cautiously put out first one leg and then the other,
keeping my knees and toes close to the door, and lowered myself till I
felt the step. I walked carefully along the foot-board by side steps,
holding on to the handles of the doors, till I came to the end of the
carriages, and was next the tender. Here was a gulf that seemed
impassable. The stoker must have passed over it; why not I? Mounting
from the foot-board on to the buffer, and holding on to the iron hook
on which the lamps are hung, I stretched my legs to reach the flat
part of the buffer on the tender. My legs swung about with the
vibration, and touched nothing. I must spring. I had to hold with both
hands behind my back, and stood on the case of the buffer-spring, and,
suddenly leaving go, leaped forward, struck violently against the edge
of the tender, and grasped some of the loose lumps of coal on the top.
Another struggle brought me on my knees, bruised and bleeding, on the
top. I stood up, and at that moment the stoker opened the door of the
furnace, and turned toward me, shovel in hand, to put in the coals.
The bright red light from the fire enabled him to see me, while it
blinded me. He rushed at me, and then began a struggle that I shall
remember to my dying day.

He grasped me round the throat with one arm, dragging me close to his
breast, and with the other kept shortening the shovel for an effective
blow. My hands, numbed and bruised, were almost useless to me, and for
some seconds we reeled to and fro on the foot-plate in the blinding
glare. At last he got me against the front of the engine, and, with
horrible ingenuity, pressed me against it till the lower part of my
clothes were burnt to a cinder. The heat, however, restored my hands,
and at last I managed to push him far enough from my body to loosen my
pistol. I did not want to kill him, but I could not be very careful,
and I fired at his shoulder from the back. He dropped the shovel, the
arm that had nearly throttled me relaxed, and he fell. I pushed him
into a corner of the tender, and sat down to recover myself.

My object was to get to Empoli before the Sienna goods train, for I
knew nothing of what might be behind me. It was too late to stop, but
I might, by shortening the journey seven minutes instead of five, get
to Empoli three minutes before the goods train was due.

I had never been on an engine before in my life, but I knew that there
must be a valve somewhere that let the steam from the boiler into the
cylinders, and that, being important, it would be in a conspicuous
position. I therefore turned the large handle in front of me, and had
the satisfaction of finding the speed rapidly increased, and at the
same time felt the guard putting on the break to retard the train.
Spite of this, in ten minutes I could see some dim lights; I could not
tell where, and I still pressed on faster and faster.

In vain, between the intervals of putting on coals, did I try to
arouse the sleeping driver. There I was, with two apparently dead
bodies, on the foot-plate of an engine, going at the rate of forty
miles an hour, or more, amidst a thundering noise and vibration that
nearly maddened me.

At last we reached the lights, and I saw, as I dashed by, that we had
passed the dread point.

As I turned back, I could see the rapidly-dropping cinders from the
train which, had the guard's break been sufficiently powerful to have
made me {206} thirty seconds later, would have utterly destroyed me.

I was still in a difficult position. There was the train half a minute
behind us, which, had we kept our time, would have been four minutes
in front of us. It came on to the same rails, and I could hear its
dull rumble rushing on toward us fast. If I stopped there was no light
to warn them. I must go on, for the Sienna train did not stop at

I put on more fuel, and after some slight scalding, from turning on
the wrong taps, had the pleasure of seeing the water-gauge filling up.
Still I could not go on long; the risk was awful. I tried in vain to
write on a leaf of my note-book, and after searching in the tool-box,
wrote on the iron lid of the tank with a piece of chalk, "Stop
everything behind me. The train will not be stopped till three red
lights are ranged in a line on the ground. Telegraph forward." And
then, as we flew through the Empoli station, I threw it on the
platform. On we went; the same dull thunder behind warning me that I
dare not stop.

We passed through another station at full speed, and at length I saw
the white lights of another station in the distance. The sound behind
had almost ceased, and in a few moments more I saw the line of three
red lamps low down on the ground. I pulled back the handle, and after
an ineffectual effort to pull up at the station, brought up the train
about a hundred yards beyond Pontedera.

The porters and police of the station came up and put the train back,
and then came the explanation.

The guard had been found dead on the rails, just beyond Empoli, and
the telegraph set to work to stop the train. He must have found out
the failure of his scheme, and in trying to reach the engine, have
fallen on the rails.

The driver was only stupefied, and the stoker fortunately only
dangerously, not fatally, wounded.

Another driver was found, and the train was to go on.

The count had listened most attentively to my statements, and then,
taking my grimed hand in his, led me to his mother.

"Madam, my mother, you have from this day one other son: this, my
mother, is my brother."

The countess literally fell on my neck, and kissed me in the sight of
them all; and speaking in Italian said--

"Julian, he is my son; he has saved my life; and more, he has saved
your life. My son, I will not say much; what is your name?"

"Guy Westwood."

"Guy, my child, my son, I am your mother; you shall love me."

"Yes, my mother; he is my brother, I am his. He is English too; I like
English. He has done well. Blanche shall be his sister."

During the whole of this time both mother and son were embracing me
and kissing my cheeks, after the impulsive manner of their passionate
natures, the indulgence of which appears so strange to our cold blood.

The train was delayed, for my wounds and bruises to be dressed, and I
then entered their carriage and went to Leghorn with them.

Arrived there, I was about to say "Farewell."

"What is farewell, now? No; you must see Blanche, your sister. You
will sleep to my hotel: I shall not let you go. Who is she that in
your great book says, 'Where you go, I will go?' That is my spirit.
You must not leave me till--till you are as happy as I am."

He kept me, introduced me to Blanche, and persuaded me to write for
leave to stay another two months, when he would return to England with
me. Little by little he made me talk about Alice, till he knew all my

"Ah! that is it; you shall be unhappy because you want £500 every
year, and I have so much as that. I am a patriot to get rid of my
money. So it is that you will not take money. You have saved my life,
and you will {207} not take money; but I shall make you take money, my
friend, English Guy; you shall have as thus." And he handed me my
appointment as secretary to one of the largest railways in Italy. "Now
you shall take money; now you will not go to your fogland to work like
a slave; you shall take the money. That is not all. I am one of the
practice patriots--no, the practical patriots--of Italy. They come to
me with their conspiracies to join, their secret societies to adhere
to, but I do not. I am director of ever so many railways; I make fresh
directions every day. I say to those who talk to me of politics, 'How
many shares will you take in this or in that?' I am printer of books;
I am builder of museums; I have great share in docks, and I say to
these, 'It is this that I am doing that is wanted.' This is not
conspiracy; it is not plot; it is not society with ribbons; but it is
what Italy, my country, wants. I grow poor; Italy grows rich. I am not
wise in these things; they cheat me, because I am an enthusiast. Now,
Guy, my brother, you are wise; you are deep; long in the head; in
short, you are English! You shall be my guardian in these things--you
shall save me from the cheat, and you shall work hard as you like for
all the money you shall take of me. Come, my Guy, is it so?"

Need I say that it was so? The count and his Blanche made their
honeymoon tour in England. They spent Christmas day with Alice and
myself at Mr. Morton's, and when they left, Alice and I left with
them, for our new home in Florence.


From The Cornhill Magazine.


  O wild raving west winds....
  Oh! where do ye rise from, and where do ye die?

The question which is put in these lines is one which has posed the
ingenuity of all who have ever thought on it; and though theories have
repeatedly been propounded to answer it, yet one and all fail, and we
again recur to the words of him who knew all things and said, "The
wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but
canst not tell whence it cometh or whither it goeth."

However, though we cannot assign exactly the source whence the winds
rise or the goal to which they tend, the labors of meteorologists have
been so far successful as to enable us to understand the causes of the
great currents of air, and even to map out the winds which prevail at
different seasons in the various quarters of the globe. The problem
which has thus been solved is one vastly more simple than that of
saying why the wind changes on any particular day, or at what spot on
the earth's surface a particular current begins or ends. Were these
questions solved, there would be an end to all uncertainty about
weather. There need be no fear that the farmer would lose his crops
owing to the change of weather, if the advent of every shower had been
foretold by an unerring guide, and the precise day of the break in the
weather predicted weeks and months before. This is the point on which
weather-prophets--'astro-meteorologists' they call themselves
now-a-days--still venture their predictions, undismayed by their
reported and glaring failures. {208} It has been well remarked that
not one of these prophets foretold the dry weather which lasted for so
many weeks during the last summer; yet, even at the present day, there
are people who look to the almanacs to see what weather is to be
expected at a given date; and even the prophecies of "Old Moore" find,
or used to find within a very few years, an ample credence. In fact,
if we are to believe the opinions propounded by the positive
philosophers of the present day, we must admit that it is absurd to
place any limits on the possibility of predicting natural phenomena,
inasmuch as all operations of nature obey fixed and unalterable laws,
which are all discoverable by the unaided mind of man.

True science, we may venture to say, is more modest than these
gentlemen would have us to think it; and though in the particular
branch of knowledge of which we are now treating daily prophecies (or
'forecasts,' as Admiral Fitzroy is careful to call them) of weather
appear in the newspapers, yet these are not announced dogmatically,
and no attempt is made in them to foretell weather for more than
forty-eight hours in advance. We are not going to discuss the question
of storms and storm-signals at present, so we shall proceed to the
subject in hand--the ordinary wind-currents of the earth; and in
speaking of these shall confine ourselves as far as possible to
well-known and recorded facts, bringing in each case the best evidence
which we can adduce to support the theories which may be broached.

What, then, our readers will ask, is the cause of the winds? The
simple answer is--the sun. Let us see, now, how this indefatigable
agent, who appears to do almost everything on the surface of the
earth, from painting pictures to driving steam-engines, as George
Stephenson used to maintain that he did, is able to raise the wind.

If you light a fire in a room, and afterward stop up every chink by
which air can gain access to the fire, except the chimney, the fire
will go out in a short time. Again, if a lamp is burning on the table,
and you stop up the chimney at the top, the lamp will go out at once.
The reason of this is that the flame, in each case, attracts the air,
and if either the supply of air is cut off below, or its escape above
is checked, the flame cannot go on burning. This explanation, however,
does not bear to be pushed too far. The reason that the fire goes out
if the supply of air is cut off is, that the flame, so to speak, feeds
on air; while the sun cannot be said, in any sense, to be dependent on
the earth's atmosphere for the fuel for his fire. We have chosen the
illustration of the flame, because the facts are so well known. If,
instead of a lamp in the middle of a room, we were to hang up a large
mass of iron, heated, we should find that currents of air set in from
all sides, rose up above it, and spread out when they reached the
ceiling, descending again along the walls. The existence of these
currents may be easily proved by sprinkling a handful of fine chaff
about in the room. What is the reason of the circulation thus
produced? The iron, unless it be extremely hot, as it is when melted
by Mr. Bessemer's process, does not require the air in order to keep
up its heat; and, in fact, the constant supply of fresh air cools it,
as the metal gives away its own heat to the air as fast as the
particles of the latter come in contact with it. Why, then, do the
currents arise? Because the air, when heated, expands or gets lighter,
and rises, leaving an empty space, or vacuum, where it was before.
Then the surrounding cold air, being elastic, forces itself into the
open space, and gets heated in its turn.

From this we can see that there will be a constant tendency in the air
to flow toward that point on the earth's surface where the temperature
is highest--or, all other things being equal, to that point where the
sun may be at that moment in the zenith. Accordingly, if the earth's
surface were either {209} entirely dry land, or entirely water, and
the sun were continually in the plane of the equator, we should expect
to find the direction of the great wind-currents permanent and
unchanged throughout the year. The true state of the case is, however,
that these conditions are very far from being fulfilled. Every one
knows that the sun is not always immediately over the equator, but
that he is at the tropic of Cancer in June, and at the tropic of
Capricorn in December, passing the equator twice every year at the
equinoxes. Here, then, we have one cause which disturbs the regular
flow of the wind-currents. The effect of this is materially increased
by the extremely arbitrary way in which the dry land has been
distributed over the globe. The northern hemisphere contains the whole
of Europe, Asia, and North America, the greater part of Africa, and a
portion of South America; while in the southern hemisphere we only
find the remaining portions of the two last-named continents, with
Australia and some of the large islands in its vicinity. Accordingly,
during our summer there is a much greater area of dry land exposed to
the nearly vertical rays of the sun than is the case during our

Let us see for a moment how this cause acts in modifying the direction
of the wind-currents. We shall find it easier to make this
intelligible if we take an illustration from observed facts. It takes
about five times as much heat to raise a ton weight of water through a
certain range of temperature, as it does to produce the same effect in
the case of a ton of rock. Again, the tendency of a surface of dry
land to give out heat, and consequently to warm the air above it, and
cause it to rise, is very much greater than that of a surface of water
of equal area. Hence we can at once see the cause of the local winds
which are felt every day in calm weather in islands situated in hot
climates. During the day the island becomes very hot, and thus what
the French call a _courant ascendant_ is set in operation. The air
above the land gets hot and rises, while the colder air which is on
the sea all round it flows in to fill its place, and is felt as a cool
sea-breeze. During the night these conditions are exactly reversed:
the land can no longer get any heat from the sun, as he has set, while
it is still nearly as liberal in parting with its acquired heat as it
was before. Accordingly, it soon becomes cooler than the sea in its
neighborhood; and the air, instead of rising up over it, sinks down
upon it, and flows out to sea, producing a land-wind.

These conditions are, apparently, nearly exactly fulfilled in the
region of the monsoons, with the exception that the change of wind
takes place at intervals of six months, and not every twelve hours. In
this district--which extends over the southern portion of Asia and the
Indian ocean--the wind for half the year blows from one point, and for
the other half from that which is directly opposite. The winds are
north-east and south-west in Hindostan; and in Java, at the other side
of the equator, they are south-east and north-west. The cause of the
winds--monsoons they are called, from an Arabic word, _mausim_,
meaning season--is not quite so easily explained as that of the
ordinary land and sea breezes to which we have just referred. Their
origin is to be sought for in the temperate zone, and not between the
tropics. The reason of this is that the districts toward which the air
is sucked in are not those which are absolutely hottest, but those
where the rarefaction of the air is greatest. When the air becomes
lighter, it is said to be rarefied, and this rarefaction ought
apparently to be greatest where the temperature is highest. This would
be the case if the air were the only constituent of our atmosphere.
There is, however, a very important disturbing agent to be taken into
consideration, viz., aqueous vapor. There is always, when it is not
actually raining, a quantity of water rising from the surface of {210}
the sea and from every exposed water-surface, and mingling with the
air. This water is perfectly invisible: as it is in the form of vapor,
it is true steam, and its presence only becomes visible when it is
condensed so as to form a cloud. The hotter the air is, the more of
this aqueous vapor is it able to hold in the invisible condition.

We shall naturally expect to find a greater amount of this steam in
the air at places situated near the coast, than at those in the
interior of continents, and this is actually the case. The amount of
rarefaction which the dry air on the sea-coast of Hindostan undergoes
in summer, is partially compensated for by the increased tension of
the aqueous vapor, whose presence in the air is due to the action of
the sun's heat on the surface of the Indian ocean. In the interior of
Asia there is no great body of water to be found, and the winds from
the south lose most of the moisture which they contain in passing over
the Himalayas. Accordingly the air is extremely dry, and a
compensation, similar to that which is observed in Hindostan, cannot
take place. It is toward this district that the wind is sucked in, and
the attraction is sufficient to draw a portion of the south-east
trade-wind across the line into the northern hemisphere. In our winter
the region where the rarefaction is greatest is the continent of
Australia; and accordingly, in its turn, it sucks the north-east
trade-wind of the northern hemisphere across the equator. Thus we see
that in the region which extends from the coast of Australia to the
centre of Asia we have monsoons, or winds which change regularly every
six months. As to the directions of the different monsoons, we shall
discuss them when we have disposed of the trade-winds--which ought by
rights, as Professor Dove observes, rather to be considered as an
imperfectly developed monsoon, than the latter to be held as a
modification of the former.

The origin of the trade-winds is to be sought for, as before, in the
heating power of the sun, and their direction is a result of the
figure of the earth, and of its motion on its axis. When the air at
the equator rises, that in higher latitudes on either side flows in,
and would be felt as a north wind or as a south wind respectively, if
the earth's motion on its axis did not affect it. The figure of the
earth is pretty nearly that of a sphere, and, as it revolves round its
axis, it is evident that those points on its surface which are
situated at the greatest distance from the axis, will have to travel
over a greater distance in the same time than those which are near it.
Thus, for instance, London, which is nearly under the parallel of 50,
has only to travel about three-fifths of the distance which a place
like Quito, situated under the equator, has to travel in the same
time. A person situated in London is carried, imperceptibly to
himself, by the motion of the earth, through 15,000 miles toward the
eastward in the twenty-four hours; while another at Quito is carried
through 25,000 miles in the same time. Accordingly, if the Londoner,
preserving his own rate of motion, were suddenly transferred to Quito,
he would be left 10,000 miles behind the other in the course of the
twenty-four hours, or would appear to be moving in the opposite
direction, from east to west, at the rate of about 400 miles an hour.
The case would be just as if a person were to be thrown into a railway
carriage which was moving at full speed; he would appear to his
fellow-passengers to be moving in the opposite direction to them,
while in reality the motion of progression was in the train, not in
the person who was thrown into it. The air is transferred from high to
low latitudes, but this change is gradual, and the earth, accordingly,
by means of the force of friction, is able to retard its relative
velocity before it reaches the tropics so that its actual velocity,
though still considerable, is far below 400 miles an hour.

This wind comes from high latitudes and becomes more and more easterly
{211} reaching us as a nearly true north-east wind; and as it gets
into lower latitudes becoming more and more nearly east, and forming a
belt of north-east wind all round the earth on the northern side of
the equator. In the southern hemisphere, there is a similar belt of
permanent winds, which are, of course, south-easterly instead of
north-easterly. These belts are not always at equal distances at each
side of the equator, as their position is dependent on the situation
of the zone of maximum temperature for the time being. When we reach
the actual district where the air rises, we find the easterly
direction of the wind no longer so remarkable, as has been noticed by
Basil Hall and others. The reason is, that by the time that the air
reaches the district where it rises, it has obtained by means of its
friction with the earth's surface a rate of motion round the earth's
axis nearly equal to that of the earth's surface itself.

The trade-wind zones, called, by the Spaniards, the "Ladies' Sea"--_El
Golfo de las Damas_--because navigation on a sea where the wind never
changed was so easy, shift their position according to the apparent
motion of the sun in the ecliptic. In the Atlantic the north-east
trade begins in summer in the latitude of the Azores; in winter it
commences to the south of the Canaries.

In the actual trade-wind zones rain very seldom falls, any more than
it does in these countries when the east wind has well set in. The
reason of this is, that the air on its passage from high to low
latitudes is continually becoming warmer and warmer. According as its
temperature rises, its power of dissolving (so to speak) water
increases also, and so it is constantly increasing its burden of water
until it reaches the end of its journey, where it rises into the
higher regions of the atmosphere, and there is suddenly cooled. The
chilling process condenses, to a great extent, the aqueous vapor
contained in the trade-wind air, and causes it to fall in constant
discharges of heavy rain. Throughout the tropics the rainy season
coincides with that period at which the sun is in the zenith, and in
this region the heaviest rain-fall on the globe is observed. The
wettest place in the world, Cherrapoonjee, is situated in the Cossya
hills, about 250 miles northeast of Calcutta, just outside the torrid
zone. There the ram-fall is upward of 600 inches in the year, or
twenty times as much as it is on the west coasts of Scotland and
Ireland. However, in such extreme cases as this, there are other
circumstances to be taken into consideration, such as the position of
the locality as regards mountain chains, which may cause the clouds to
drift over one particular spot.

To return to the wind: When the air rises at the equatorial edge of
the trade-wind zone, it flows away above the lower trade-wind current.
The existence of an upper current in the tropics is well known.
Volcanic ashes, which have fallen in several of the West Indian
islands on several occasions, have been traced to volcanoes which lay
to the westward of the locality where the ashes fell, at a time when
there was no west wind blowing at the sea-level. To take a recent
instance: ashes fell at Kingston, Jamaica, in the year 1835, and it is
satisfactorily proved that they had been ejected from the volcano of
Coseguina, on the Pacific shore of Central America, and must
consequently have been borne to the eastward by an upward current
counter to the direction of the easterly winds which were blowing at
the time at the sea-level.

Captain Maury supposes that when the air rises, at either side of the
equator, it crosses over into the opposite hemisphere, so that there
is a constant interchange of air going on between the northern and
southern hemispheres. This he has hardly sufficiently proved, and his
views are not generally accepted. One of the arguments on which he
lays great stress in support of his theory is that on certain
occasions dust has fallen in {212} various parts of western Europe,
and that in it there have been discovered microscopical animals
similar to those which are found in South America. This appears to be
scarcely an incontrovertible proof; as Admiral Fitzroy observes:
"Certainly, such insects may be found in Brazil; but does it follow
that they are not also in Africa, under nearly the same parallel?"

This counter-current, or "anti-trade," as Sir J. Herschel has called
it, is at a high level in the atmosphere between the tropics, far
above the top of the highest mountains; but at the exterior edge of
the trade-wind zone, it descends to the surface of the ground. The
Canary islands are situated close to this edge, and accordingly we
find that there is always a westerly wind at the summit of the Peak of
Teneriffe, while the wind at the sea-level, in the same island, is
easterly throughout the summer months. Professor Piazzi Smyth, who
lived for some time on the top of that mountain, making astronomical
observations, has recorded some very interesting details of the
conflicts between the two currents, which he was able to observe
accurately from his elevated position. In winter the trade-wind zone
is situated to the south of its summer position in latitude, and at
this season the southwest wind is felt at the sea-level in the Canary
islands. Similar facts to these have been observed in other localities
where there are high mountains situated on the edge of the trade-wind
zone, as, for instance, Mouna Loa, in the Sandwich islands. There can,
therefore, be no doubt that the warm, moist west wind, which is felt
so generally in the temperate zones, is really the air returning to
the poles from the equator, which has now assumed a south-west
direction on its return journey, owing to conditions the reverse of
those which imparted to it a north-east motion on its way toward the
equator. This, then, is our south-west wind, which is so prevalent in
the North Atlantic ocean that the voyage from Europe to America is not
unfrequently called the up-hill trip, in contradistinction to the
down-hill passage home. These are the "brave west winds" of Maury,
whose refreshing action on the soil he never tires of recapitulating.

The south-west monsoons of Hindostan, which blow from May to October,
and the north-west monsoons of the Java seas, which are felt between
November and April, owe their westerly motion to a cause similar to
that of the anti-trades which we have just described. To take the case
of the monsoons of Hindostan: we have seen above how the rarefaction
of the air in Central Asia attracts the southeast trade-wind of the
southern hemisphere across the equator. This air, when it moves from
the equator into higher latitudes, brings with it the rate of motion,
to the eastward, of the equatorial regions which it has lately left,
and is felt as a south-west wind. Accordingly, the directions of the
monsoons are thus accounted for. In the winter months the true
north-east trade-wind is felt in Hindostan; while in the summer months
its place is taken by the south-east trade of the southern hemisphere,
making its appearance as the south-west monsoon. In Java, conditions
exactly converse to these are in operation, and the winds are
south-east from April to November, and north-west during the rest of
the year.

The change of one monsoon to the other is always accompanied by rough
weather, called in some places the "breaking out" of the monsoon; just
as with us the equinox, or change of the season from summer to winter,
and _vice versa_, is marked by "windy weather," or "equinoctial

The question may, however, well be asked, why there are no monsoons in
the Atlantic Ocean?

In the first place, the amount of rarefaction which the air in Africa
and in Brazil undergoes, in the respective hot seasons of those
regions, is far less considerable than that which is {213} observed in
Asia and Australia at the corresponding seasons.

Secondly, in the case of the Atlantic ocean, the two districts toward
which the air is attracted are situated within the torrid zone, while
in the Indian ocean they are quite outside the tropics, and in the
temperate zones. Accordingly, even if the suction of the air across
the equator did take place to the same extent in the former case as in
the latter, the extreme contrast in direction between the two monsoons
would not be perceptible to the same extent, owing to the fact that
the same amount of westing could not be imparted to the wind, because
it had not to travel into such high latitudes on either side of the
equator. A tendency to the production of the phenomena of the monsoons
is observable along the coast of Guinea, where winds from the south
and south-west are very generally felt. These winds are not really the
south-east trade-wind, which has been attracted across the line to the
northern hemisphere, They ought rather to be considered as of the same
nature as the land and sea breezes before referred to, since we find
it to be very generally the case, that in warm climates the ordinary
wind-currents undergo a deflection to a greater or less extent along a
coast-line such as that of Guinea, Brazil, or north of Australia.

Our readers may perhaps ask why it is, that when we allege that the
whole of the winds of the globe owe their origin to a regular
circulation of the air from the Polar regions to the equator, and back
again, we do not find more definite traces of such a circulation in
the winds of our own latitudes? The answer to this is, that the traces
of this circulation are easily discoverable if we only know how to
look for them, In the Mediterranean sea, situated near the northern
edge of the trade-wind zone, the contrast between the equatorial and
polar currents of air is very decidedly marked. The two conflicting
winds are known under various names in different parts of the
district. The polar current, on its way to join the trade-wind, is
termed the "tramontane," in other parts the "bora," the "maestral,"
etc.; while the return trade-wind, bringing rain, is well known under
the name of the "sirocco." In Switzerland the same wind is called the
"Fohn," and is a warm wind, which causes the ice and snow to melt
rapidly, and constantly brings with it heavy rain.

In these latitudes the contrast is not so very striking, but even here
every one knows that the only winds which last for more than a day or
two at a time are the north-east and the south-west winds, the former
of which is dry and cold, the latter moist and warm. The difference
between these winds is much more noticeable in winter than in summer,
inasmuch as in the latter season Russia and the northern part of Asia
enjoy, relatively to the British Islands, a much higher temperature
than is the case in winter; so that the air which moves from those
regions during the summer months does not come to us from a climate
which is colder than our own, but from one which is warmer.

So far, then, we have attempted to trace the ordinary wind-currents,
but as yet there are very many questions connected therewith which are
not quite sufficiently explained. To mention one of these, we hear
from many observers on the late Arctic expeditions, that the most
marked characteristic of the winds in the neighborhood of Baffin's
Bay, is the great predominance of north-westerly winds. It is not as
yet, nor can it ever be satisfactorily, decided how far to the
northward and westward this phenomenon is noticeable. The question
then is, Whence does this north-west wind come?

As to the causes of the sudden changes of wind, and of storms, they
are as yet shrouded in mystery, and we cannot have much expectation
that in our lifetime, at least, much will be done to unravel the web.
Meteorology is a very young science--if it deserves {214} the title of
science at all--and until observations for a long series of years
shall have been made at many stations, we shall not be in the
possession of trustworthy facts on which to ground our reasoning. It
is merely shoving the difficulty a step further off to assign these
irregular variations to atmospheric waves. It will be time enough to
reason accurately about the weather and its changes when we ascertain
what these atmospheric waves are, and what causes them. Until the
"astro-meteorologists" will tell us the principles on which their
calculations are based, we must decline to receive their predictions
as worthy of any credence whatever.


From The Month.


The life of Eugénie de Guérin forms a great contrast with those which
are generally brought before the notice of the world. Not only did she
not seek for fame, but the circumstances of her life were the very
ones which generally tend to keep a woman in obscurity. Her life was
passed in the deepest retirement of a country home. The society even
of a provincial town was not within her reach. Poverty placed a bar
between her and the means for study in congenial society. The routine
of her life shut her out from great deeds or unusual achievements. In
fact, her life, so far from being a deviation from the ordinary track
which women have to tread, was a very type of the existence which
seems to be marked out for the majority of women, and at which they
are so often wont to murmur. The want of an aim in life, the necessity
of some fixed, engrossing occupation, and the _ennui_ which follows on
the deprivation of these, forms the staple trial of thousands of
women, especially in England, where there is much intellectual vigor
with so little power for its exercise. That the reaction from this
deprivation is shown by "fastness," or an excessive love of dress and
amusement, is acknowledged by the most keen observers of human nature.
But to the large class of women who, disdaining such means of
distraction, bear their burden patiently, Eugénie de Guérin's _Journal
et Lettres_ possess an intense interest. Her life was so uneventful
that it absolutely affords no materials for a biography, but her
character is so full of interest that her name is now a familiar one
in England and France.

Far away in the heart of sunny Languedoc stands the chateau of Le
Cayla, the home of the de Guérins. They were of noble blood. The old
chateau was full of reminiscences of the deeds of their ancestors. De
Guérin, Bishop of Senlis and Chancellor of France, had gone forth,
with a valor scarcely befitting his episcopal character, to animate
the troops at the battle of Bouvines; and from the walls of Le Cayla
looked down from his portrait de Guérin, Grand Master of the Knights
of Malta in 1206. A cardinal, a troubadour, and countless gallant and
noble soldiers filled up the family rolls--the best blood in France
had mingled with theirs; but now the family were obscure, forgotten,
and poor. But these circumstances were no hindrances to the happiness
of Eugénie's early life.

"My childhood passed away like one long summer-day," said she {215}
afterward. Thirteen happy years fled by. There was the father,
cherished with tender, self-forgetting love; the brother Eranbert; the
sister Marie, the youngest pet of the household; the beautiful and
precocious Maurice; and the mother, the centre of all, loving and
beloved. But a shadow suddenly fell on the sunny landscape, and Madame
de Guérin lay on her death-bed, when, calling to her Eugénie, her
eldest child, she gave to her especial charge Maurice, then aged
seven, and his mother's darling. The dying lips bade Eugénie fill a
mother's place to him, and the sensitive and enthusiastic girl
received the words into her heart, and never forgot them.

From that day her childhood, almost her youth, ended; and it is
without exaggeration we may say that the depth of maternal love passed
into her heart. Henceforth Maurice was the one object and the
absorbing thought of her heart, second only to one other, and that no
love of earth. Sometimes, indeed, that passionate devotion to Maurice
disputed the sway of the true Master, as we shall hereafter see, but
it was never ultimately victorious. It was not likely that their lives
should for long run side by side. The extraordinary brilliancy of
Maurice's gifts made his father determine upon cultivating his mind.
As soon as possible, he was sent first to the _petit séminaire_ at
Toulouse, and then to the college Stanislaus at Paris.

Maurice de Guérin was a singularly endowed being. He possessed that
kind of personal beauty so very rare among men, and which is so hard
to describe--a spiritual beauty, which insensibly draws the hearts of
others to its possessor. Added to this, he had that sweetness of tone
and manner, that instinctive power of sympathy, that sparkling
brilliance which made him idolized by those who knew him, which
rendered him literally the darling of his friends. "_Il était leur
vie_," said those who spoke of him after he was gone from earth.

The early and ardent aspirations of this gifted being were turned
heavenward. His youthful head was devoutly bowed in prayer. The
country people called him "_le jeune saint_;" and his conduct at the
_petit séminaire_ gave such satisfaction that the Archbishop of
Toulouse, and also the Archbishop of Rouen, offered to take the whole
charge of his future education on themselves; but his father refused
both. The temptations of a college life had left him scathless, and
the longing of his soul was for the consecration of the priesthood.
What he might have been, had he fallen into other hands, cannot now be
known. Whether there was an inherent weakness and effeminacy in the
character which would have unfitted him for the awful responsibilities
of the priestly office, we know not. At all events, he was attracted,
as many minds of undoubted superiority were at that time, by the
extraordinary brilliancy and commanding genius of de Lamennais; and
Maurice de Guérin found himself in the solitude of La Chesnaie, a
fellow-student with Hippolyte Lacordaire, Montalembert, Saint-Beuve,
and a group of others. Here some years of his life were spent, divided
between prayer, study, and brilliant conversation, led and sustained
by M. de Lamennais. Maurice, of a shy and diffident disposition, does
not seem to have attached himself to Lamennais, although he admired
and looked up to him, and although the insidious portion of his
teaching was making havoc with his faith.

And now, it may be asked, what of Eugénie? Dwelling in an obscure
province, with no other living guide than a simple parish curé, with a
natural enthusiastic reverence for genius, and a predilection for all
Maurice's friends, was she not dazzled from afar off by this great
teacher of men's minds, this earnest reformer of abuses? The instinct
of the single in heart was hers. Long ere others had discerned the
canker eating away the fruit so fair to look on, Eugénie, with
prophetic voice, was warning Maurice. {216} Lacordaire's noble soul
was yet ensnared. Madam Swetchine's remonstrances had not yet
prevailed; while this young girl in the country, whose name no one
knew, was watching and praying for the issue of the deliberations at
La Chesnaie.

At length the break-up came--the memorable journey to Rome was over.
Submission had been required, and Lacordaire had given it. "Silence is
the second power in the world," he had said to Lamennais; and he had
withdrawn with him to La Chesnaie for a time of retreat, where he was
soon undeceived as to Lamennais' intentions. And these two great men
parted--one to reap the fruits of patient obedience in the success of
one of the greatest works wrought in his century, to gain a mastery
over the men of his age, and to die at last worn out by labors before
his time, the beloved child of the Church, whose borders he had
enlarged, whose honor he had defended; the other, to follow the course
of self-will, and to quench his light in utter darkness.

The students of La Chesnaie went away, and Maurice was thrown on the
world with no definite employment. An unsuccessful attachment deepened
the natural melancholy of his sensitive nature. He went to Paris, and
was soon in the midst of the literary world. He wrote, and obtained
fame; he was admired and sought after; but the beautiful faith of his
youth faded away like a flower, and the innocent pleasures of his
childhood, and the passionate love of his sister, had no attractions
for him compared to the brilliant circles of Parisian society.

And thus was Eugénie's fate marked out. From afar off her heart
followed him; and, partly for his amusement, partly to relieve the
outpourings of her intensely-loving heart, she kept a journal,
intended for Maurice's eye only. A few letters to Maurice and one or
two intimate friends make up the rest of the volume, which was, after
her death, most fortunately given to the world. In these pages her
character stands revealed, and no long description of her mode of life
could have made us more thoroughly acquainted with her than these
words, written sometimes in joy, sometimes in sorrow, in weariness and
depression, in all weathers, and at all times; for, believing that she
pleased her brother, nothing would prevent her from keeping her
promise of a daily record of her life and thoughts. Its chief beauty
lies in that she made so much out of so little. "I have just come away
very happy from the kitchen, where I stood a long time this evening,
to persuade Paul, one of our servants, to go to confession at
Christmas. He has promised me, and he is a good boy and will keep his
word. Thank God, my evening is not lost! What a happiness it would be
if I could thus every day gain a soul for God! Walter Scott has been
neglected this evening; but what book could have been worth to me what
Paul's promise is? . . . _The 20th_.--I am so fond of the snow! Its
perfect whiteness has something celestial about it. To-day I see
nothing but road-tracks, and the marks of the feet of little birds.
Lightly as they rest, they leave their little traces in a thousand
forms upon the snow. It is so pretty to see their little red feet, as
if they were all drawn with pencils of coral. Winter has its beauties
and its enjoyments, and we find them every-where when we know how to
see them. God spreads grace and beauty everywhere. ... I must have
another dish to-day for S.R., who is come to see us. He does not often
taste good things--that is why I wish to treat him well; for it is to
the desolate that, it seems to me, we should pay attentions. No
reading to-day. I have made a cap for a little child, which has taken
up all my time. But, provided one works, be it with the head or the
fingers, it is all the same in the eyes of God, who takes account of
every work done in his name. I hope, then, that my cap has been a
charity--I have given my time, a little material, and a thousand
interesting lines that I could {217} have read. Papa brought me
yesterday _Ivanhoe_, and the _Siècle de Louis XIV_. Here are
provisions for some of our long winter evenings."

Then she had a keen sense of enjoyment, and a wonderful faculty of
making the best of things. Thus a simple pleasure to her was a source
of delight. Here is her description of Christmas night in Languedoc:

"_Dec. 31_. I have written nothing for a fortnight. Do not ask me why.
There are times when we cannot speak, things of which we can say
nothing. Christmas is come--that beautiful fête which I love the most,
which brings me as much joy as the shepherds of Bethlehem. Truly our
whole soul sings at the coming of the Lord, which is announced to us
on all sides by hymns and by the pretty _nadalet_.  [Footnote 49]
Nothing in Paris can give an idea of what Christmas is. You have not
even midnight mass.  [Footnote 50] We all went to it, papa at our
head, on a most charming night. There is no sky more beautiful than
that of midnight: it was such that papa kept putting his head out of
his cloak to look at it. The earth was white with frost, but we were
not cold, and, beside, the air around us was warmed by the lighted
fagots that our servants carried to light us. It was charming, I
assure you, and I wish I could have seen you sliding along with us
toward the church on the road, bordered with little white shrubs, as
if they were flowering. The frost makes such pretty flowers! We saw
one wreath so pretty that we wanted to make it a bouquet for the
Blessed Sacrament, but it melted in our hands; all flowers last so
short a time. I very much regretted my bouquet; it was so sad to see
it melt drop by drop. I slept at the presbytery. The curé's good
sister kept me, and gave me an excellent _réveillon_ of hot milk."
Then, again, the grave part of her nature prevails, and she continues:

  [Footnote 49: A particular way of ringing the bells during the
  fifteen days which precede the feast of Christmas, called in _patois

  [Footnote 50: Since the period at which Mdlle. de Guérin wrote,
  midnight mass has been resumed in Paris.]

"These are, then, my last thoughts; for I shall write nothing more
this year; in a few hours it will be over, and we shall have begun a
new year. Oh, how quickly time passes! Alas, alas, can I say that I
regret it? No, my God, I do not regret time, or anything that it
brings; it is not worth while to throw our affections into its stream.
But empty, useless days, lost for heaven, this causes me regret as I
look back on life. Dearest, where shall I be at this day, at this
hour, at this minute, next year? Will it be here, elsewhere; here
below, or above? God only knows; I am before the door of the future,
resigned to all that can come forth from it. To-morrow I will pray for
your happiness, for papa, Mimi, Eran [her other brother and sister],
and all those whom I love. It is the day for presents; I will take
mine from heaven. I draw all from thence, for truly there are few
things which please me on earth. The longer I live, the less it
pleases me, and I see the years pass by without sorrow, because they
are but steps to the other world. Do not think it is any sorrow or
trouble which makes me think this. I assure you it is not, but a
home-sickness comes over my soul when I think of heaven. The clock
strikes; it is the last I shall hear when writing to you."

The following is an account of what she called "a happy day:" "God be
blessed for a day without sorrow. They are rare in this life, and my
soul, more than others, is soon troubled. A word, a memory, the sound
of a voice, a sad face, nothing, I know not what, often troubles the
serenity of my soul--a little sky, darkened by the smallest cloud.
This day I received a letter from Gabrielle, the cousin whom I love so
for her sweetness and beautiful mind. I was uneasy about her health,
which is so delicate, having heard nothing of her for more than a
month. I was so pleased to see a letter from her, that I read it
before my prayers. I was so eager to read it. To see a letter, and not
to open it, is {218} an impossible thing. Another letter was given to
me at Cahuzac. It was from Lili, another sweet friend, but quite
withdrawn from the world; a pure soul--a soul like snow, from its
purity so white that I am confounded when I look at it--a soul made
for the eyes of God. I was coming from Cahuzac, very pleased with my
letter, when I saw a little boy, weeping as if his heart were broken.
He had broken his jug, and thought his father would beat him. I saw
that with half a franc I could make him happy, so I took him to a
shop, where we got another jug. Charles X. could not be happier if he
regained his crown. Has it not been a beautiful day?"

Here is another instance of the way she had of beautifying the most
simple incidents: "I must notice, in passing, an excellent supper that
we have had--papa, Mimi, and I--at the corner of the kitchen-fire,
with the servants: soup, some boiled potatoes, and a cake that I made
yesterday with the dough from the bread. Our only servants were the
dogs Lion, Wolf, and Tritly, who licked up the fragments. All our
people were in church for the instruction which is given for
confirmation;" and, she adds, "it was a charming meal."

The daily devotions of the month of Mary were very recently
established when Eugénie wrote; she speaks thus of them: on one first
of May when absent from home, she writes: "On this day, at this
moment, my holy Mimi (a pet name for her sister) is on her knees
before the little altar for the month of Mary in my room. Dear sister,
I join myself to her, and find a chapel here also. They have given me
for this purpose a room filled with flowers; in it I have made a
church, and Marie, with her little girls, servants, shepherds, and all
the household, assemble together every evening before the Blessed
Virgin. They came at first only to look on, for they had never kept
the month of Mary before. Some good will result to them of this new
devotion, if it is only one idea, a single idea, of their Christian
duties, which these people know so little of, and which we can teach
them while amusing them. These popular devotions please me so, because
they are so attractive in their form, and thereby offer such an easy
method of instruction. By their means, salutary truths appear most
pleasing, and all hearts are gained in the name of our Lady and of her
sweet virtues. I love the month of Mary, and the other little
devotions which the Church permits; which she blesses; which are born
at the feet of the Faith like flowers at the mountain-foot."

Speaking of St. Teresa, to whom she had a great devotion, she says: "I
am pleased to remember that, when I lost my mother, I went, like St.
Teresa, to throw myself at the feet of the Blessed Virgin, and begged
her to take me for her daughter." At another time she says: "To-day,
very early, I went to Vieux, to visit the relics of the saints, and,
in particular, those of St. Eugénie, my patron. I love pilgrimages,
remnants of the ancient faith; but these are not the days for them; in
the greater number of people the spirit for them is dead. However, if
M. le Curé does not have this procession to Vieux, there will be
discontent. Credulity abounds where faith disappears. We have,
however, many good souls, worthy to please the saints, like Rose
Drouille, who knows how to meditate, who has learnt so much from the
rosary; then Françon de Gaillard and her daughter Jacquette, so
recollected in church. This holy escort did not accompany me; I was
alone with my good angel and Mimi. Mass heard, my prayers finished, I
left with one hope more. I had come to ask something from St. Eugène?
The saints are our brothers. If you were all-powerful, would you not
give me all that I desired? This is what I was thinking of while
invoking St. Eugène, who is also my patron. We have so little in this
world, at least let us hope in the other."

Those who are not of the same faith as Eugénie de Guérin have not
failed {219} to be attracted by the depth and ardor of her faith and
piety. A writer in the _Cornhill Magazine_ observes, "The relation to
the priest, the practice of confession assume, when she speaks of
them, an aspect which is not that under which Exeter Hall knows them."

"In my leisure time I read a work of Leitniz, which delighted me by
its catholicity and the pious things which I found in it--like this on

"'I regard a pious, grave, and prudent confessor as a great instrument
of God for the salvation of souls; for his counsels serve to direct
our affections, to enlighten us about our faults, to make us avoid the
occasions of sin, to dissipate our doubts, to raise up our broken
spirit; finally, to cure or to mitigate all the maladies of the soul;
and, if we can never find on earth anything more excellent than a
faithful friend, what happiness is it not to find one who is obliged,
by the inviolable law of a divine sacrament, to keep faith with us and
to succor souls?'

"This celestial friend I have in M. Bories, and therefore the news of
his departure has deeply affected me. I am sad with a sadness which
makes the soul weep. I should not say this to any one else; they would
not, perhaps, understand me, and would take it ill. In the world they
know not what a confessor is--a man who is a friend of our soul, our
most intimate confidant, our physician, our light, our teacher--a
friend who binds us to him, and is bound to us; who gives us peace,
who opens heaven to us, who speaks to us while we, kneeling, call him,
like God, our father; and faith truly makes him God and father. When I
am at his feet, I see nothing else in him than Jesus listening to
Magdalen, and pardoning much because she has loved much. Confession is
but an expansion of repentance in love."

Again she writes: "I have learnt that M. Bories is about to leave us--
this good and excellent father of my soul. Oh, how I regret him! What
a loss it will be to me to lose this good guide of my conscience, of
my heart, my mind, of my whole self, which God had confided to him,
and which I had trusted to him with such perfect freedom! I am sad
with the sadness which makes the soul weep. My God, in my desert to
whom shall I have recourse? Who will sustain me in my spiritual
weakness? who will lead me on to great sacrifices? It is in this last,
above all, that I regret M. Bories. He knew what God had put into my
heart. I needed his strength to follow it. The new curé cannot replace
him; he is so young; then he appears so inexperienced, so undecided.
It is necessary to be firm to draw a soul from the midst of the world,
and to sustain it against the assaults of flesh and blood.

"It is Saturday--the day of pilgrimage to Cahuzac. I will go there;
perhaps I shall come back more tranquil. God has always given me some
blessing in that chapel, where I have left so many miseries... I was
not mistaken in thinking that I should come back more tranquil. M.
Bories is not going! How happy I am, and how thankful to God for this
favor. It is such a great blessing to me to keep this good father,
this good guide, this choice of God for my soul, as St. Francis de
Sales expresses it.

"Confession is such a blessed thing, such a happiness for the
Christian soul; a great good, and always greater in measure when we
feel it to be so; and when the heart of the priest, into which we pour
our sorrow, resembles that Divine Heart _which has loved us so much_.
This is what attaches me to M. Bories; you will understand it."

Nevertheless, when the trial of parting with this beloved friend did
come, at length, it was borne with gentle submission.

"Our pastor is come to see us. I have not said much to you about him.
He is a simple and good man, knowing his duties well, and speaking
better of God than of the world, which he knows little of. Therefore,
he does not shine in conversation. {220} His conversation is ordinary,
and those who do not know what the true spirit of a priest is would
think little of him. He does good in the parish, for his gentleness
wins souls. He is our father now. I find him young after M. Bories. I
miss that strong and powerful teaching which strengthened me; but it
is God who has taken it from me. Let us submit and walk like children,
without looking at the hand which leads us."

Eugénie's life revolved round that of Maurice. No length of separation
could weaken her affection, nor make her interest in his pursuits less
engrossing. His letters, so few and so scanty, were treasured up and
dwelt upon in many a lonely hour. She suffered with him, wept over his
disappointments, and prayed for his return to the faith of his youth
with all the earnestness of her soul. With exquisite tact she avoided
preaching to him. It was rather by showing him what religion was to
her that she strove to lead him back to its practice.

"_Holy Thursday_.--I have come back all fragrant from the chapel of
moss, in the church where the Blessed Sacrament is reposing. It is a
beautiful day when God wills to rest among the flowers and perfumes of
the springtime. Mimi, Rose, and I made this _reposoir_, aided by M. le
Curé. I thought, as we were doing it, of the supper-room, of that
chamber well furnished, where Jesus willed to keep the pasch with his
disciples, giving himself for the Lamb. Oh, what a gift! What can one
say of the Eucharist? I know nothing to say. We adore; we possess; we
live; we love. The soul is without words, and loses itself in an abyss
of happiness. I thought of you among these ecstasies, and ardently
desired to have you at my side, at the holy table, as I had three
years ago."

Mademoiselle de Guérin occasionally composed; her brother was very
anxious she should publish her productions, but she shrank from the
responsibility. "St. Jean de Damas," she remarks, "was forbidden to
write to any one, and for having composed some verses for a friend he
was expelled from the convent. That seemed to me very severe; but one
sees the wisdom of it, when, after supplication and much humility, the
saint had been forgiven, he was ordered to write and to employ his
talents in conquering the enemies of Jesus Christ. He was found strong
enough to enter the lists when he had been stripped of pride. He wrote
against the iconoclasts. Oh, if many illustrious writers had begun by
a lesson of humility, they would not have made so many errors nor so
many books. Pride has blinded them, and thus see the fruits which they
produce, into how many errors they lead the erring. But this chapter
on the science of evil is too wide for me. I should prefer saying that
I have sewn a sheet. A sheet leads me to reflect, it will cover so
many people, so many different slumbers--perhaps that of the tomb. Who
knows if it will not be my shroud, and if these stitches which I make
will not be unpicked by the worms? While I was sewing, papa told me
that he had sent, without my knowledge, some of my verses to Bayssac,
and I have seen the letter where M. de Bagne speaks of them and says
they are very good. A little vanity came to me and fell into my
sewing. Now I tell myself the thought of death is good to keep us from
sin. It moderates joy, tempers sadness, makes us see that all which
passes by us is transitory."

Again she writes: "Dear one, I would that I could see you pray like a
good child of God. What would it cost you? Your soul is naturally
loving, and prayer is nothing else but love; a love which spreads
itself out into the soul as the water flows from the fountain."


"_Ash-Wednesday_.--Here I am, with ashes on my forehead and serious
thoughts in my mind. This 'Remember thou art dust!' is terrible to me.
I hear it all day long. I cannot banish {221} the thought of death,
particularly in your room, where I no longer find you, where I saw you
so ill, where I have sad memories both of your presence and your
absence. One thing only is bright--the little medal of Our Lady,
suspended over the head of your bed. It is still untarnished and in
the same place where I put it to be your safeguard. I wish you knew,
dearest, the pleasure I have in seeing it--the remembrances, the
hopes, the secret thoughts that are connected with that holy image. I
shall guard it as a relic; and, if ever you return to sleep in that
little bed, you shall sleep again near the medal of the Blessed
Virgin. Take from, me this confidence and love, not to a bit of metal,
but to the image of the Mother of God. I should like to know, if in
your new room I should see St. Teresa, who used to hang in your other
room near the _bénitier:_

      'Où toi, nécessiteux
  Défaillant, tu prenais l'aumône dans ce creux.'

You will no longer, I fear, seek alms there. Where will you seek them?
Who can tell? Is the world in which you live rich enough for all your
necessities? Maurice, if I could but make you understand one of these
thoughts, breathe into you what I believe, and what I learn in pious
books--those beautiful reflections of the Gospel--if I could see you a
Christian, I would give life and all for that."


Maurice's absence was the great trial of Eugénie's life; but there
were minor trials also, concerning the little things that make up the
sum of our happiness. She suffered intensely and constantly from
_ennui_. Her active, enterprising mind had not sufficient food to
sustain it, and bravely did she fight against this constant depression
and weariness.

A duller life than hers could hardly be found; she had literally
"nothing to do." She had no society, for she lived at a distance from
her friends. Sometimes the curé called, sometimes a priest from a
neighboring parish, and then the monotonous days went on without a
single incident. There was no outward sign of the struggle going on.
Speaking of her father, she says: "A grave look makes him think there
is some trouble, so I conceal the passing clouds from him; it is but
right that he should only see and know my calm and serene side. A
daughter should be gentle to her father. We ought to be to them
something like the angels are to God."

Nor would she distract her thoughts by any means which might injure
her soul. "I have scarcely read the author whose work you sent, though
I admired him as I do M. Hugo; but these geniuses have blemishes which
wound a woman's eye. I detest to meet with what I do not wish to see;
and this makes me close so many books. I have had _Notre Dame de
Paris_ under my hands a hundred times to-day; and the style,
_Esméralda_, and so many pretty things in it, tempt me, and say to me,
'Read--look.' I looked; I turned it over; but the stains here and
there stopped me. I read no more, and contented myself with looking at
the pictures." At another time, when she is staying at a "deserted
house," rather duller than her own, she writes: "The devil tempted me
just now in a little room, where I found a number of romances. 'Read a
word,' he said to me; 'let us see that; look at this;' but the titles
of the books displeased me. I am no longer tempted now, and will go
only to change the books in this room, or rather to throw them into
the fire."

There was one sovereign remedy for her ills, and she sought for it
with fidelity, and reaped her reward.

"This morning I was suffering. Well, at present, I am calm; and this I
owe to faith, simply to faith, to an act of faith. I can think of
death and eternity without trouble, without alarm. Over a deep of
sorrow there floats a divine calm, a serenity, which is the work of
God only. In vain have I tried other things at a time like this; {222}
nothing human comforts the soul, nothing human upholds it.

  'A l'enfant il faut sa mère,
  A mon âme il faut mon Dieu.'"

At another time of suffering she writes: "God only can console us when
the heart is sorrowful: human helps are not enough; they sink beneath
it, it is so weighed down by sorrow. The reed must have more than
other reeds to lean on."


"To distract my thoughts, I have been turning over Lamartine, the dear
poet. I love his hymn to the nightingale, and many other of his
'Harmonies' but they are far from having the effect on me that his
'Meditations' used to have. I was ravished and in ecstacy with them. I
was but sixteen, and time changes many things. The great poet no
longer makes my heart vibrate; to-day he has not even power to
distract my thoughts. I must try something else, for I must not
cherish _ennui_, which injures the soul. What can I do? It is not good
for me to write, to communicate trouble to others. I will leave pen
and ink. I know something better, for I have tried it a hundred times;
it is prayer--prayer which calms me when I say to my soul before God,
'Why art thou sad, and wherefore art thou troubled?' I know not what
he does in answering me, but it quiets me just like a weeping child
when it sees its mother. The Divine compassion and tenderness is truly
maternal toward us."


And, further on: "Now I have something better to do than write: I will
go and pray. Oh, how I love prayer! I would that all the world knew
how to pray. I would that children, and the old, and the poor, the
afflicted, the sick in soul and body--all who live and suffer--could
know the balm that prayer is. But I know not how to speak of these
things. We cannot tell what is ineffable."

She had said once, as we have seen, that she would give life and all
to see Maurice once more serving God. She had written to him thus, not
carelessly indeed, but as we are too wont to write--not counting the
cost, because we know not what the cost is. She wrote thus, and God
took her at her word, and he asked from her not life, as she then
meant it, but her life's life. First came the trial of a temporary
estrangement. Her journal suddenly stops; she believed it wearied him,
and, without a word of reproach, she silenced her eager pen. Maurice,
however, declared she was mistaken, and she joyfully resumed her task
with words which would evidence, if nothing else were left, us, the
intense depth of her love for her brother. "I was in the wrong. So
much the better; for I had feared it had been your fault." Then
Maurice's health, which had always been delicate, began to fail, and
her heart was tortured at the thought of him suffering, away from her
loving care, unable to send her news of him.

"I have, been reading the epistle about the child raised to life by
Elias. Oh, if I knew some prophet, some one who would give back life
and health, I would go, like the Shunamite, and throw myself at his

And again, most touchingly, she says: "A letter from Felicité, which
tells me nothing better about you. When will those who know more
write? If they knew how a woman's heart beats, they would have more

Maurice recovered from these attacks, and in the autumn of 1836
married a young and pretty Creole lady. He had not the violent
attachment as to the "Louise" of his early youth; but the union seemed
a suitable one on both sides. One of Eugénie's brief visits to Paris
was made for the purpose of being present at her brother's marriage.
It was a romantic scene. It took place in the chapel of the old and
quaint Abbaye aux Bois. The church was filled with brilliant and
admiring friends. The bride and bridegroom, both so beautiful, knelt
before the altar; the Père Bugnet, who had {223} known Maurice as a
boy, blessed the union. The gay procession passed from the church, and
met a funeral cortège! It fell like an omen on Eugénie's heart. Six
short months went by, and Eugénie was again summoned to Paris, to
Maurice's sick-bed--his dying-bed it indeed was, but his sister's
passionate love would not relinquish hope. The physicians, catching at
a straw, prescribed native air, and the invalid caught at the proposal
with feverish impatience. That eager longing sustained him through the
long and terrible journey of twenty days; for, the moment he revived,
he would be laid in the salon, and see the home-faces gathered round
him. Then he was carried to his room, and soon the end came. At last
Eugénie knew that he must go, and all the powers of her soul were
gathered into that one prayer, that he might die at peace with God.
Calmly she bent over him, and kissed the forehead, damp with the dews
of death.

"Dearest, M. le Curé is coming, and you will confess. You have no
difficulty in speaking to M. le Curé?" "Not at all," he answered. "You
will prepare for confession, then?" He asked for his prayer-book, and
had the prayers read to him.

When the priest came, he asked for more time to prepare. At last the
curé was summoned.

"Never have I heard a confession better made," said the priest
afterward. As he was leaving the room, Maurice called him back, and
made a solemn retraction of the doctrines of M. de Lamennais. Then
came the Viaticum and the last anointing. Life ebbed away; he pressed
the hand of the curé, who was by him to the last, he kissed his
crucifix, and died. Eugénie's prayer was heard. He died, but at home;
a wanderer come back; an erring child, once more forgiven, resting on
his Father's breast.

And he was gone!--"king of my heart! my other self!" as she had called
him--and Eugénie was left behind. She had loved him too well for her
eternal peace, and it was necessary that she should be purified in the
crucible of suffering. Very gradually she parted from him; the gates
of the tomb closed not on her love; slowly she uprooted the fibres of
her nature which had been entwined in his. Her journal did not end,
and she wrote still to him--to Maurice in heaven: "Oh, my beloved
Maurice! Maurice, art thou far from me? hearest thou me? Sometimes I
shed torrents of tears; then the soul is dried up. All my life will be
a mourning one; my heart is desolate." Then, reproaching herself, she
turns to her only consolation: "Do I not love thee, my God? only true
and Eternal Love! It seems to me that I love thee as the fearful
Peter, but not like John, who rested on thy heart--divine repose which
I so need. What do I seek in creatures? To make a pillow of a human
breast? Alas! I have seen how death can take that from us. Better to
lean, Jesus, on thy crown of thorns.


"This day year, we went together to St. Sulpice, to the one o'clock
mass. To-day I have been to Lentin in the rain, with bitter memories,
in solitude. But, my soul, calm thyself with thy God, whom thou hast
received to-day, in that little church. He is thy brother, thy friend,
the well-beloved above all; whom thou canst never see die; who can
never fail thee, in this world or the next. Let us console ourselves
with this thought, that in God we shall find again all we have lost."

One great desire was, however, left to her; that of publishing the
letters and writings of Maurice, and of winning for her beloved one
the fame which she so despised for herself. A tribute to his memory
appeared the year after his death, in the _Revue des deux Mondes_,
from the brilliant pen of Madame Sand; but it was the source of more
pain than pleasure to Eugénie. With the want of candor which is so
often a characteristic of the class of writers to whom Madame Sand
{224} belongs, she represented Maurice as a man totally without faith.
Eugénie believed that he had never actually lost it, although it had
been darkened and obscured; and she was certainly far more in his
confidence than any of his friends.

For some time before his death he had gradually been returning to
religious exercises; and, as we have seen, on his death-bed, he had
most fully retracted and repented of whatever errors there had been in
his life. But Madame Sand was not very likely to trouble herself about
the dying moments of her friend, while it was another triumph to
infidelity to let the world think this brilliant young man lived and
died in its ranks.

"Madame Sand makes Maurice a skeptic, a great poet, like Byron, and it
afflicts me to see the name of my brother--a name which was free from
these lamentable errors--thus falsely represented to the world." And
again: "Oh, Madame Sand is right when she says that his words are like
the diamonds linked together, which make a diadem; or, rather, my
Maurice was all one diamond. Blessed be those who estimated his price;
blessed be the voice which praises him, which places him so high, with
so much respect and enthusiasm! But on one point this voice is
mistaken--when she says he had no faith. No; faith was not wanting in
him. I proclaim it, and attest it by what I have seen and heard; by
his prayers, his pious reading; by the sacraments he received; by all
his Christian actions; by the death which opened life unto him--a
death with his crucifix."

This article of Madame Sand only increased Eugénie's desire to
vindicate her brother, by letting the world judge from his own
writings and letters what Maurice really was. Many projects were set
on foot for publishing this work. Rather than leave it undone, Eugénie
would have undertaken it herself, though her broken spirit shrank more
than ever from any sort of notoriety, or communication with the busy
world outside her quiet home. But she would greatly have preferred the
task should be accomplished by one of his friends; and much of her
correspondence was devoted to the purpose. Time passed, and plan after
plan fell to the ground. This last satisfaction was not to be hers.
She was to see, as she thought, the name of her beloved one gradually
fading away, and forgotten as years went on. To the very last drop she
was to drain the cup of disappointment and loss. Her journal ceased,
and its last sentence was, "Truly did the saint speak who said, 'Let
us throw our hearts into eternity.'"

There are a few fragments and letters, which carry us on some years
later; and in one of the last of these letters, dated 15th of June,
1845, we find these consoling words: "I have suffered; but God teaches
us thus, and leads us to willingly place our hearts above. You are
again in mourning, and I have felt your loss deeply. I mean the death
of your poor brother. Alas! what is life but a continual separation?
But you will meet in heaven, and there will be no more mourning nor
tears; and there the society of saints will reward us for what we have
suffered in the society of men. And, while waiting, there is nothing
else to do than to humble one's self, as the Apostle says, 'under the
mighty hand of God, that he may exalt you in the time of visitation;
casting all your care upon him, for he hath care of you.'"

These are almost her closing words; and thus we see God comforted her.
Three years more passed, of which we have no record; and we cannot but
deeply regret the determination of M. Trebutien not to give any
account of her beyond her own words. As long as they lasted, they are
indeed sufficient; but we would have fain followed her into the
silence of those last years, and have seen the soul gradually passing
to its rest. We would have liked to know if the friends she loved
soothed her dying hours--whether M. Bories, with his "strong {225} and
powerful words," was by her side in her last earthly struggle. But a
veil falls over it all. We feel assured, as we close the volume, that
whatever human means were wanting, the God she had faithfully served
consoled his child to the last, and sustained her mortal weakness till
she reposed in him. After her death, her heart's wish was fulfilled,
and abundant honor has been rendered to Maurice de Guérin. Nay, more;
for homage is ever given to the majesty of unselfish love; and from
henceforth, if Maurice the poet shall be forgotten, Maurice the
brother of Eugénie will never be. She has embalmed his memory with her
deep and fond devotion; and she has left a living record of how, in
the midst of a wearisome, an objectless, a monotonous life, a woman
may find work to do, and doing it, like Eugénie, with all her might,
leave behind her a track of light by which others may follow after
her, encouraged and consoled.





Rome, according to the old aphorism, was not built in a day. Neither
was the old town of Mourne, although it was destroyed in a day, and
made fit almost for the sowing of salt upon its foundations, by the
great Lord of Thomond, Murrough of the Ferns, when he gathered around
it his rakehelly kerns, as Spenser in his spleen called them, and his
fierce galloglasses and roving hobbelers. But the present story has
naught to do with the spoliation and burning of towns. Far different,
indeed, was the founding of Mourne, to the story of the disastrous
termination of its prosperity. You will look in vain to the histories
for a succinct or circumstantial account of the building of this
ancient town; but many a more famous city has its early annals
involved in equal obscurity--Rome, for instance. What tangible fact
can be laid hold of with regard to its early history, save the
will-o'-the-wisp light emanating from the traditions of a more modern
day? A cimmerian cloud of darkness overhangs its founding and youthful
progress, through which the double-distilled microscopic eyes of the
historian are unable to penetrate with any degree of certainty.
Mourne, however, though it cannot boast of a long-written history,
possesses an oral one of remarkable perspicuity and certainty. The men
are on the spot who, with a mathematical precision worthy of
Archimedes or Newton, will relate everything about it, from its
foundation to its fall. The only darkness cast upon their most
circumstantial history is the elysian cloud from their luxuriant
dudheens, as they whiff away occasionally, and relate--

That there was long ago a certain Dhonal, a nobleman of the warlike
race of Mac Caurha, who ruled over Duhallow, and the wild mountainous
territories extending downward along the banks of the Blackwater. This
nobleman, after a long rule of prosperity and peace, at length grew
weary of inaction, and manufactured in his pugnacious brain some cause
of mortal affront and complaint against a neighboring potentate, whose
territory extended in a westerly direction on the opposite shore of
the river. So he mustered his vassals with all imaginable speed, and
prepared to set out for the domains of his foe on a foray of unusual
ferocity and magnitude. Before departing from his castle, which stood
some miles above Mallow, on the banks of the river, he held a long and
confidential parley with his wife, in which he told her, if he were
defeated or slain, and if the foe should cross the Blackwater to make
reprisals, that she should hold out the fortress while one stone would
stand upon another, and especially that she should guard their three
young sons well, whom, he doubted not, whatever might happen, would
one day gain prosperity and renown. After this, he set out on his
expedition, at the head of a formidable array of turbulent kerns and
marauding horsemen. But his neighbor was not a man to be caught
sleeping; for, at the crossing of a ford near Kanturk, he attacked
Dhonal, slew him in single combat, and put his followers to the sword,
almost to a man. After this he crossed the Blackwater, laid waste the
territories of the invader, and at length besieged the castle, where
the widowed lady and her three sons had taken refuge. For a long time
she held her own bravely against her enemy; but in the end the castle
was taken by assault, and she and her three young sons narrowly
escaped with their lives out into the wild recesses of the forest.

After wandering about for some time, the poor lady built a little hut
of brambles on the shore of the Clydagh, near the spot where stand the
ruins of the preceptory of Mourne, or Ballinamona, as it is sometimes
called. Here she dwelt with her children for a long time, in want and
misery. Her sons grew up without receiving any of those
accomplishments befitting their birth, and gained their subsistence,
like the children of the common people around, by tilling a little
plot of land before their hut, and by the products of the chase in the
surrounding forest. One day, as Diarmid, the eldest, with his bow and
arrows ready for the chase, was crossing a narrow valley, he met a
kern, one of the followers of the great lord who had slain his father.
Now, neither Diarmid nor his brothers recollected who had killed their
father, nor the high estate from which they had fallen, for their
mother kept them carefully in ignorance of all, fearing that they
might become known, and that their enemies would kill them also. So
the kern and himself wended their way for some time together along the
side of the valley. At length they started a deer from its bed in the
green ferns. Each shot his arrow at the same moment, and each struck
the deer, which ran downward for a short space, and at last fell dead
beside the little stream in the bottom of the valley.

"The deer is mine!" said the strange kern, as they stood over its

"No!" answered Diarmid, "it is not. See! your arrow is only stickin'
in the skin of his neck, an' mine is afther rattlin' into his heart,
through an' through!"

"No matther," exclaimed the kern, with a menacing look. "I don't care
how he kem by his death, but the deer I must have, body an' bones,
whatever comes of it! Do you think sich a _sprissawn_ as you could
keep me from it, an' I wantin' its darlin' carkiss for the table o' my
lord, the Mac Donogh?"

Now Diarmid recollected that his mother and brothers were at the same
time almost dying in their little hut for want of food. So without
further parley he drew his long skian from its sheath.

"Very well," said he, "take it, if you're a man; but before it goes,
my carkiss must lie stiff an' bloody in its place!"

The kern drew his skian at the word, and there, over the body of the
fallen deer, ensued a combat stern and fierce, which at last resulted
in Diarmid's plunging his skian through and through the body of his
foe into the gritty sand beneath them.


Diarmid then took the spear and other weapons of the dead kern, put
the deer upon his broad shoulders, and marching off in triumph, soon
gained his mother's little hut. There, after eating a comfortable
meal, and telling his adventure, Diarmid began to lay down his future

"Mother," he said, "the time is come at last when this little cabin is
too small for me. I'm a man now, an' able to meet a man, body to body,
as I met him to-day; so I'll brighten up my weapons, an' set off on my
adventures, that I may gain renown in the wars. Donogh here, too, has
the four bones of a man," continued he, turning to his second brother;
"so let him prepare, an' we'll thramp off together as soon as we can,
an' perhaps afther all we'd have a castle of our own, where you could
reign in glory, as big an' grand as Queen Cleena o' the Crag!"

"Well, then," answered his mother, "if you must go, before you leave
me, you and your brothers must hunt in the forest for a month, and
bring in as much food as will do me and Rory here for a year and a

"But," said Rory, the youngest, or Roreen Shouragh, or the Lively, as
he was called, in consequence of the 'cute and merry temperament of
his mind--"but, Diarmid, you know I am now beyant fifteen years of
age, an' so, if you go, I'll folly you to the worldt's end!"

"You presumptious little atomy of a barebones," answered his eldest
brother, "if I only see the size of a thrush's ankle of you follyin'
us on the road, I'll turn back an' bate that wiry an' freckled little
carkiss o' yours into frog's jelly! So stay at home in pace an'
quietness, an' perhaps when I come back I might give you a good purse
o' goold to begin your forthin with."

"That for your mane an' ludiacrous purse o' goold!" exclaimed Roreen
Shouragh, at the same time snapping his fingers in the face of his
brother. "Arrah! do you hear him, mother? But never mind. Let us be
off into the forest to-morrow, an' we'll see who'll bring home the
most food before night!"

"Well," said his mother, "whether he stays at home or goes away, I
fear he'll come to some bad end with that sharp tongue of his, and his
wild capers."

"With all jonteel respect, mother," answered Shouragh again, "I mane
to do no such thing. I think myself as good a hairo this
minnit--because I have the sowl an' heart o' one as King Dathi, who
was killed in some furrin place that I don't recklect the jography of,
or as Con o' the Hundhert Battles, or as the best man amongst them,
Fion himself--an' I'll do as great actions as any o' them yet!"

This grandiloquent boast of Roreen Shouragh's set his mother and
brothers into a fit of laughter, from which they only recovered when
it was time to retire to rest. In the morning the three brothers
betook themselves to the forest, and at the fall of night returned
with a great spoil of game. From morning till night they hunted thus
every day for a month, at the end of which time Diarmid said that they
had as much food stored in as would last his mother and Rory for a
year and a day.

On a hot summer noon the two brothers left the little hut, with their
mother's blessing on their heads, and set off on their adventures.
After crossing a few valleys, they came at length to the shore of the
Blackwater, and sat down in the shade of a huge oak-tree on the bank
to rest themselves. Beneath them, in a clear, shady pool, a huge pike,
with his voracious jaws ready for a plunge, was watching a merry
little speckled trout, which in its turn was regarding with most
affectionate eyes a bright blue fly, that was disporting overhead on
the surface of the water. Suddenly the trout darted upward into the
air, catching the ill-starred fly, but, in its return to the element
beneath, unfortunately plumped itself into the Charybdis-like jaws of
the villanous {228} pike, and was from that in one moment quietly
deposited in his stomach.

"Look at that!" said Diarmid to his brother. "That's the way with a
man that works an' watches everything with a keen eye. He'll have all
in the end, just as the pike has both fly and throut--an' just as I
have both fly, an' throut, an' pike!" continued he, giving his spear a
quick dart into the deep pool, and then landing the luckless pike,
transfixed through and through, upon the green bank. "That's the way
to manage, and the divvle a betther sign o' good luck we could have in
the beginning of our journey, than to get a good male so aisy!"

"Hooray!" exclaimed a voice behind them. "That's the way to manage
most galliantly. What a nate dinner the thurminjous monsther will make
for the three of us!" and on turning round, the two brothers beheld
Roreen Shouragh, accoutred like themselves, and dancing with most
exuberant delight at the feat beside them on the grass.

"An' so you have follied us afther all my warnin', you outragious
little vagabone!" exclaimed Diarmid, making a wrathful dart at Roreen,
who, however, eluding the grasp, ran and doubled hither and thither
with the swiftness of a hare, around the trunks of the huge oak-trees
on the shore. In vain Diarmid tried every ruse of the chase to catch
him. Roreen Shouragh could not be captured. At length the elder
brother, wearied out, returned to Donogh, who, during the chase, was
tumbling about on the grass in convulsions of laughter.

"'Tis no use, Donogh," he said, "we must only let him come with us.
He'll never go back. Come here, you aggravatin' young robber,"
continued he, calling out to Roreen, who was still dancing in defiance
beneath a tree, some distance off--"come here, an' you'll get your
dinner, an' may folly us if you wish."

Roreen knew that he might depend on the word of his brother. "I towld
ye both," said he, coming up to the spot, "that I'd folly ye to the
worldt's end; so let us have pace, an' I may do ye some service yet.
But may I supplicate to know where ye're preamblin' to at present; for
if ye sit down that way in every umberagious coolin' spot, as the song
says, the divvle a much ye'll have for yeer pains in the ind?"

"I'll tell you then," answered Donogh, now recovered from his fit of
laughing. "We're goin' off to Corrig Cleena, to see the Queen o' the
Fairies, an' to ask her advice what to do so as to win wealth an'

"'Tis aisier said than done," said Roreen, "to see Queen Cleena. But
howsomdever, when we're afther devourin' this vouracious thief of a
pike here, we'll peg off to the Corrig as swift as our
gambadin'-sticks will carry us!"

After the meal the three brothers swam across the river, and proceeded
on their way through the forest toward Corrig Cleena. On gaining the
summit of a little height, a long, straight road extended before them.

On and on the straight road they went, till, turning up a narrow path
in the forest, they beheld the great grey boulders of Corrig Cleena
towering before them. They searched round its base several times for
an entrance, but could find none. At length, as they were turning away
in despair, they saw an extremely small, withered old atomy of a
woman, clad all in sky blue, and sitting beside a clump of fairy
thimbles, or foxgloves, that grew on a little knoll in front of the
rock. They went up and accosted her:

"Could you tell us, ould woman," asked Diarmid, "how we can enter the
Corrig? We want to speak to the queen."

"Ould woman, inagh!" answered the little atomy in a towering passion.
"How daar you call me an ould woman, you vagabone? Off wid
you--thramp, I say, for if you sted there till your legs would root in
the ground, you'd get no information from me!"


"Be aisy, mother," said Donogh, in a soothing voice; "sure, if you can
tell us, you may as well serve us so far, an' we'll throuble you no

"Ould woman an' mother, both!" screamed the little hag, starting up
and shaking her crutch at the brothers; "this is worse than all. You
dirty an' insultin' spalpeens, how daar ye again, I say call me sich
names? What for should I be decoratin' my fingers wid the red blossoms
o' the Lusmore, if I was as ould as you say? Be off out o' this, or be
this an' be that, I ruinate ye both wid a whack o' this wand o' mine!"

"Young leedy," said Roreen Shouragh, stepping up cap in hand at this
juncture, and making the old hag an elaborately polite bow--"young,
an' innocent, an' delightful creethur, p'r'aps you'd have the kindness
to exercise that lily-white hand o' yours in pointin' out the way for
us into Queen Cleena's palace!"

"Yes, young man," answered the crone, greatly mollified at the
handsome address of Roreen. "For your sake, I'll point out the way.
You at laste know the respect that should be paid to youth an'

"Allow me, my sweet young darlint," said Roreen at this, as he stepped
up and offered her his arm--"allow me to have the shuprame pleasure of
conductin' you. I'm sure I must have the honor an' glory of ladin' on
my arm one of the queen's maids of honor. May those enticin' cheeks o'
yours for ever keep the bloomin' an' ravishin' blush they have at the
present minnit, an' may those riglar ivory teeth o' yours, that are as
white as the dhriven snow, never make their conjay from your purty an'
delightful mouth!"

The "delightful young creethur" allowed herself, with many a gratified
smirk, to be conducted downward by the gallant Roreen toward the rock,
where, striking the naked wall with her crutch, or wand as she was
pleased to call it, a door appeared before them, and the three
brothers were immediately conducted into the presence of the fairy

It would be long, but pleasant, to tell the gallant compliments paid
by Roreen to the queen, and the queen's polite and gracious acceptance
of them; merry to relate the covert laughter of the lovely maids of
honor, as Roreen occasionally showered down praises on the head of the
"young leedy" who so readily gained him admittance to the palace, and
who was no other than the vain old nurse of the queen; but, despite
all such frivolities, this history must have its course. At length the
queen gave them a gentle hint that their audience had lasted the
proper time, and as they were departing she cast her bright but
love-lorn eyes upon them with a kindly look.

"Young man," she said, "you ask my advice how to act so as to gain
wealth and renown. I could give you wealth, but will not, for wealth
thus acquired rarely benefits the possessor. But I will give you the
advice you seek. Always keep your senses sharp and bright, and your
bodies strong by manly exercise. Look sharply round you, and avail
yourselves honorably of every opportunity that presents itself. Be
brave, and defend your rights justly; but, above all, let your hearts
be full of honor and kindness, and show that kindness ever in aiding
the poor, the needy, and the defenceless. Do all this, and I doubt not
but you will yet come to wealth, happiness, and renown. Farewell!"

And in a moment, they knew not how, they found themselves sitting in
the front of the Rock of Cleena, upon the little knoll where Roreen
had so flatteringly accosted the "young leedy." Away they went again
down to the shore, swam back across the river, and wandered away over
hill and dale, till they ascended Sliabh Luchra, and lost themselves
in the depths of the great forest that clothed its broad back. Here
they sat down in a green glade, and began to consider what they should
further do with themselves. At length {230} they agreed to build a
little hut, and remain there for a few days, in order to look about
the country. No sooner said than done.

To work they went, finished their hut beneath a spreading tree, and
were soon regaling themselves on a young fawn they had killed as they
descended the mountain. Next day they went out into the forest, killed
a deer, brought him back to the hut, in order to prepare part of him
for their dinner. Diarmid undertook the cooking for the first day,
while his two younger brothers went out along the back of the mountain
to kill more game. With the aid of a small pot, which they had
borrowed from a forester at the northern part of the mountain, and a
ladle that accompanied it, Diarmid began to cook the dinner, stirring
the pieces of venison round and round over the fire, in order to have
some broth ready at the return of his brothers. As he was stirring and
tasting alternately with great industry, he heard a light footstep
behind him, and on looking round, beheld sitting on one of the large
mossy stones they used for a seat a little crabbed-looking boy, with a
red head almost the color of scarlet, a red jacket, and tight-fitting
trowsers of the same hue, which, reaching a little below the knee,
left the fire-bedizened and equally rubicund legs and feet exposed in
free luxury to the air. His face was handsomely formed, but brown and
freckled, and he had a pair of dark, keen eyes, which seemed to pierce
into the very soul of Diarmid as he sat gazing at him. There was a
wild, elfish look about him altogether, as, with a vivacious twinkle
of his acute eye, he saluted Diarmid politely, and asked him for a
ladleful of the broth. Diarmid, however, in turning round from the
pot, had spilt the contents of the ladle on his hand, burning it
sorely, and was in consequence not in the most amiable humor.

"Give you a ladle of broth, indeed, you little weasel o' perdition!"
exclaimed he. "Peg off out o' my house this minute, or I'll catch you
by one o' them murtherin' legs o' yours, an' bate your brains out
against one o' the stones!"

"I'm well acquainted with the cozy an' indestructible fact, that a
man's house is his castle," said the little fellow, at the same time
thrusting both his hands into his pockets, inclining his head slightly
to one side, and looking up coolly at Diarmid; "but some o' that broth
I must have, for three raisons. First, that all the wild-game o' the
forest are mine as well as yours; second, that I'm a sthranger, an'
you know that hospitality is a virthue in ould Ireland; an', third an'
best, because you darn't refuse me! So, sit down there an' cool me a
good rich ladleful, or, be the hole o' my coat! there'll be wigs on
the green bethune you an' me afore you're much ouldher!"

"Ther's for your impidence, you gabblin' little riffin!" said Diarmid,
making a furious kick at the imperturbable little intruder, who,
however, evaded it by a nimble jump to one side; and then leaping up
suddenly, before his assailant was aware, hit him right and left two
stunning blows with his hard and diminutive fists in the eyes. Round
and round hopped redhead, at each hop striking the luckless Diarmid
right in the face, till at length, with one finishing blow, he brought
him to the ground, stunned and senseless.

"There," he said, as he took a ladleful o' broth and began to cool it
deliberately, "that's the most scientific facer I ever planted on a
man's forehead in my life. I think he'll not refuse me the next time I
ask him."

With that he drank off the broth at a draught, laid the ladle
carefully in the pot, stuck his hands in his pockets, and jovially
whistling up, "The cricket's rambles through the hob," he left the
hut, and strutted with a light and cheerful heart into the forest.

When Diarmid's brothers returned, they found him just recovering from
his swoon, with two delightful black eyes, and a nose of unusual
dimensions. {231} He told them the cause of his mishap, at which they
only laughed heartily, saying that he deserved it for allowing himself
to be beaten by such an insignificant youngster. Next day, Diarmid and
Roreen went out to hunt, leaving Donogh within to cook the dinner.
When they returned, they found the ill-starred Donogh lying almost
dead on the floor, with two black eyes far surpassing in beauty and
magnitude those received on the preceding evening by his brother.

"Let me stay within to-morrow," said Roreen, "for 'tis my turn; an' if
he has the perliteness o' payin' me a visit, I'll reward him for his

"Arrah!" said both his brothers, "is it a little traneen like you to
be able for him, when he bate the two of us?"

"No matther," answered Roreen; "tis my turn, an' stay I will, if my
eyes were to be oblitherated in my purricranium!"

And so, when the morrow came, Diarmid and Donogh went out to hunt, and
Roreen Shouragh stayed within to cook the dinner. As the pot commenced
boiling, Roreen kept a sharp eye around him for the expected visitor,
whom he at length descried coming up the glade toward the door of the
hut, whistling cheerfully as he came.

"Good-morrow, youngster!" said the chap as he entered, and made a most
hilarious bow; "you seem to have the odor o' charity from your
handsome face here, at laste it comes most aromatically from the pot,

"Ah, then! good-morrow kindly, my blushin' little moss-rose!" said
Roreen, answering the salutation with an equally ornamental
inclination of his head--"welcome to the hall o' my fathers. P'r'aps
you'd do me the thurminjous honor o' satin' that blazin' little
carkiss o' yours on the stone fornent me there."

"With all the pleasure in the univarse," answered the other, seating
himself; "but as the clay is most obsthreporously hot an' disthressin'
to the dissolute traveller, p'r'aps you'd have the exthrame kindness
o' givin' me a ladleful o' broth to refresh myself."

"Well," said Roreen, "I was always counted a livin' respectacle o' the
hospitality of ould Ireland. Yet, although the first law is not to ask
the name of a guest, in regard to the unmerciful way you thrated my
brothers, I must make bowld, before I grant your request, to have the
honor an' glory of hearin' your cognomen."

"With shuprame pleasure," answered the visitor. "My name, accordin' to
the orthography o' Ogham characters, is Shaneen cus na Thinné, which,
larnedly expounded, manes John with his Feet to the Fire. But the
ferlosophers an' rantiquarians of ould Ireland, thracin' effect from
cause, call me Fieryfoot, an' by that name I shall be proud to be
addhressed by you at present."

"Well," rejoined Roreen, "it only shows their perfound knowlidge an'
love for truth, to be able to make out such a knotty ploberm in
derivations; an' so, out o' compliment to their oceans o' larnin',
you'll get the broth; but," continued he, as he took up a ladleful and
held it to cool, "as there are a few questions now and then thrublin'
my ruminashins, p'r'aps you may be so perlite as to throw a flash o'
lightnin' on them, while we're watin'. One is in nathral history. I've
heerd that of late the hares sleep with one eye shut an' th' other
open. What on earth is the raison of it?"

"That," answered Fieryfoot, "is aisily solvoluted. Tis on account o'
the increase o' weasels, and their love for suckin' the blood o' hares
in their sleep. So the hares, in ordher to be on their guard an'
prevent it, sleep with only one eye at a time, an' when that's rested
an' has slept enough, they open it an' shut the other!"

"The other," said Roreen, "is in asthronomy, an' thrubbles me most of
all, sleepin' an' noddin', aitin' an' dhrinkin'. Why is it that the
man in the moon always keeps a rapin'-hook in his hand, and never uses


"Because," answered Fieryfoot, getting somewhat impatient, "because,
you poor benighted crathure, he's not a man at all, but the image of a
man painted over the door of Brian Airach's shebeen there, where those
that set off on a lunarian ramble go in to refresh themselves, as I
want to refresh myself with that ladle o' broth you're delayin' in
your hand!"

"Oh! you'll get it fresh an' fastin'!" exclaimed Roreen, and with that
he dashed the ladleful of scalding broth right into the face of
Fieryfoot, who started up with a wild cry, and rushed half-blinded
from the hut. Away went Roreen in hot pursuit after him, with the
ladle in his hand, and calling out to him, with the most endearing
names imaginable, to come back for another supply of broth--away down
the glades, till at length, on the summit of a smooth, green little
knoll, Fieryfoot suddenly disappeared. Roreen went to the spot, and
found there a square aperture, just large enough to admit his body. He
immediately went and cut a sapling with his knife, stuck it by the
side of the aperture, and placed his cap on it for a mark, and then
returned to the hut, and found his brothers just after coming in. He
related all that happened, and they agreed to go together to the knoll
after finishing their dinner. When the dinner was over, the three
brothers went down to the knoll, and easily found out the aperture
through which Fieryfoot had disappeared.

"An' now, what's to be done?" asked Diarmid.

"What's to be done, is it?" said Roreen; "why just to have me go down,
as I'm the smallest--smallest in body I mane--for, to spake
shupernathrally, my soul is larger than both of yurs put together;
an', in the manetime, to have ye build another hut over the spot an'
live there till I return with a power o' gold an' dimons, and oceans
o' renown an' glory!"

With that he crept into the aperture, while his brothers busied
themselves in drawing brambles and sticks to the spot in order to
build a hut as he had directed. As Roreen descended, the passage began
to grow more broad and lightsome, and at length he found himself on
the verge of a delightful country, far more calm and beautiful than
the one he had left. Here he took the first way that presented itself,
and travelled on till he came to the crossing of three roads. He saw a
large, dark-looking house, part of which he knew to be a smith's
forge, from the smoke, and from the constant hammering that resounded
from the inside. Roreen entered, and the first object that presented
itself was Fieryfoot, as fresh and blooming as a trout, and roasting
his red shins with the utmost luxuriance and happiness of heart before
the blazing fire on the hob.

"Wisha, Roreen Shouragh," exclaimed Fieryfoot, starting from his seat,
spitting on his hand for good luck, and then offering it with great
cordiality, "you're as welcome as the flowers o' May! Allow me to
offer you my congratulations, _ad infinitum_, for your superior
cuteness in the art of circumwentin' your visitors. I prizhume you'll
have no objection to be presented to the three workmen I keep in the
house--the smith there, the carpenter, an' the mason. Roreen Shouragh,
gentlemin, the only man in the world above that was able to circumwint
your masther!"

"A céad mille fáilté, young gintleman!" said the three workmen in a

Roreen bowed politely in acknowledgment.

"Any news from the worldt above?" asked the smith, as he rested his
ponderous hammer on the anvil.

"Things are morthially dull," answered Roreen, giving a sly wink at
Fieryfoot. "I've heard that the Danes are making a divarshin in
Ireland; that a shower o' dimons fell in Dublin; that the moon is
gettin' mowldy for want o' shinin'; and that there's a say in the west
that is gradually becoming transmogrified into whiskey. I humbly hope
that the latther intelligence {233} is unthrue, for if not, I'm afraid
the whole worldt will become drunk in the twinklin' of a gooldfrinch's

"Milé, milé gloiré!" exclaimed the three workmen, "but that's grate
an' wondherful intirely! P'r'aps masther," continued they, addressing
Fieryfoot, and smacking their lips at the thought of whiskey, "p'r'aps
you'd have the goodness o' givin' us a few days' lave of absence!"

"Not at present," answered Fieryfoot; "industry is the soul o'
pleasure, as the hawk said to the sparrow before he transported him to
his stomach, so ye must now set to work an' make a sword, for I want
to make my frind here a present as a compliment for his superior

To work they went. The smith hammered out, tempered, and polished the
blade, the carpenter fashioned the hilt, which the mason set with a
brilliant row of diamonds; and the sword was finished instantly.

"An' now," said Fieryfoot, presenting the sword to Roreen, "let me
have the immorthial pleasure o' presenting you with this. Take it and
set off on your thravels. Let valior and magnanimity be your guide,
and you'll come to glory without a horizintal bounds. In the manetime
I'll wait here till you return."

"I accept it with the hottest gratitudinity an' gladness," said
Roreen, taking the sword and running his eye critically along hilt and
blade. "'Tis a darlin', handy sword; 'tis sharp, shinin', an' killin',
as the sighin' lover said to his sweetheart's eyes, an' altogether
'tis the one that matches my experienced taste, for 'tis tough, an'
light, and lumeniferous, as Nero said to his cimitar, whin he was
preparin' to daycapitate the univarsal worldt wid one blow!"

Saying this, Roreen buckled the sword to his side, bade a ceremonious
farewell to the polite Fieryfoot and his workmen, left the house, and
proceeded on his adventures. He took the west and broader road that
led by the forge, and travelled on gaily till night. For seven days he
travelled thus, meeting various small adventures by the way, and
getting through them with his usual light-heartedness, till at length
he saw a huge dark castle before him, standing on a rock over a
solitary lake. He accosted an old man by the way-side, who told him
that a huge giant of unusual size, strength, and ferocity dwelt there,
and that he had kept there in thrall, for the past year and a day, a
beautiful princess, expecting that in the end she'd give her consent
to marry him. The old peasant told him also that the giant had two
brothers, who dwelt far away in their castles, and that they were the
strangest objects ever seen by mortal eyes; one being a valiant dwarf
as broad as he was long, and the other longer than he was broad, for
he was tall as the giant, but so slightly formed that he was
designated by the inhabitants of the country round Snohad na Dhial, or
the Devil's Needle. Roreen thanked the old man with great urbanity,
and proceeded on his way toward the castle. When he came to the gate,
he knocked as bold as brass, and demanded admittance. He was quickly
answered by a tremendous voice from the inside, which demanded what he

"Let me in, ould steeple," said Roreen; "I'm a poor disthressed boy
that's grown wary o' the worldt on account o' my fatness, an' I'm come
to offer myself as a volunthary male for your voracious stomach!"

At this the gate flew open with a loud clang, and Roreen found himself
in the great court-yard of the castle, confronting the giant. The
giant was licking his lips expectantly while opening the gate, but
seemed now not a little disappointed as he looked upon the spare, wiry
form standing before him.

"If you're engaged, ould cannibal," said Roreen again, "in calkalatin'
a gasthernomical ploberm, as I'm aweer you are, by the way you're
lookin' at me, allow me perlitely to help you in hallucidatin' it. In
the first place, if {234} you intend to put me in a pie, I must tell
you that you'll not get much gravy from my carkiss, an' in the next,
if you intend to ate me on the spot, raw, I must inform you that
you'll find me as hard as a Kerry dimon, an' stickin' in your throat,
before you're half acquainted with the politics of your abdominal

As an answer to this the giant did precisely what Roreen Shouragh
expected he would do. He stooped down, caught him up with his
monstrous hand, intending to chop off his head with the first bite;
but Roreen, the moment he approached his broad, hairy chest, pulled
suddenly out the sword presented to him by Fiery foot, and drew it
across the giant's windpipe, with as scientific a cut as ever was
given by any champion at the battle of Gaura, Clontarf, or of any
other place on the face of the earth. The giant did not give the usual
roar given by a giant in the act of being killed. How could he, when
his windpipe was cut? He only fell down simply by the gate of his own
castle, and died without a groan. Roreen, by way of triumph, leaped
upon his carcass, and with a light heart cut a few nimble capers
thereon, and then proceeded on his explorations into the castle. There
he found the beautiful princess sad and forlorn, whom he soon relieved
from her apprehensions of further thraldom. She told him that she was
not the only lady whose wrongs were unredressed in that strange
country, for that the two remaining brothers of the giant, to wit, the
dwarf and the Devil's Needle, had kept, during her time of thrall, her
two younger sisters in an equally cruel bondage.

"An' now, my onrivalled daisy," said Roreen, after some conversation
had passed between them, "allow me, while I'm in the humor for
performin' deeds o' valior, to thramp off an' set them free!"

"But," said the princess, "am I to be left behind pining in this
forlorn dungeon of a castle?"

"Refulgint leedy," answered Roreen, "a pair of eyes like yours, when
purferrin' a request, are arrisistible, but this Kerry-dimon' heart o'
mine is at present onmovable; and in ferlosophy, when an arrisistible
affeer conglomerates against an onmovable one, nothin' occurs, an' so
I must have the exthrame bowldness of asking you to stay where you are
till I come back, for 'tis always the maxim of an exparienced an'
renowned gineral not to oncumber himself with too much baggage when
settin' out on his advinthures!"

And so the young princess consented to stay, and Roreen, with many
bows and compliments, took his leave. For three days he travelled,
till at length he espied the castle of the dwarf towering on the
summit of a great hill. He climbed the hill as fast as his nimble legs
could carry him, blew the horn at the gate, and defied the dwarf to
single combat. To work they went. The skin of the dwarf was as hard
and tough as that of a rhinoceros, but at length Roreen's sword found
a passage through it, and the dwarf fell dead by his own gate. Roreen
went in, brought the good news of her sister's liberation to the lady,
and after directing her to remain where she was till his return, set
forward again. For three days more he travelled, till he came to the
shore of a sea, where he saw the castle of Snohad na Dhial towering
high above the waves. He climbed up the rock on which the castle
stood, found the gate open, and whistling the romantic pastoral of
"The piper in the meadow straying," he jovially entered the first door
he met. On he went, through room after room, and saw no one, till at
last he came before an exceedingly lofty door, with a narrow and
perpendicular slit in it, extending almost from threshold to lintel.
He peeped in through the open slit, and beheld inside the most
beautiful young lady his eyes ever rested upon. She was weeping, and
seemed sorely troubled. Roreen opened the door, presented himself
before her, and told her how he had liberated her {235} sisters. In
return she told him how that very day she was to be married to Snohad
na Dhial, and wept, as she further related that it was out of the
question to think of vanquishing him, for that he was as tall as the
giant, yet so slight that the slit in the door served him always for
an entrance, but then he was beyond all heroes strong, and usually
killed his antagonist by knotting his long limbs around him and
squeezing him to death.

"No matther," said Roreen. "I'll sing a song afther my victory, as the
gamecock said to the piper. An' now, most delightful an' bloomin'
darlint o' the worldt, this purriliginious heart o' mine is melted at
last with the conshumin' flame o' love. Say, then, the
heart-sootherin' an' merlifluous word that you'll have me, an' your
thrubbles are over in the twinklin'--"

"Not over so soon!" interrupted a loud, shrill voice behind them, and
Roreen, turning round, beheld Snohad na Dhial entering at the slit,
with deadly rage and jealousy in his fiery eyes. Snohad, however, in
his haste to get in and fall upon Roreen, got his middle in some way
or other entangled in the slit, and in his struggles to free himself,
his feet lilted upward, and there he hung for a few moments, inward
and outward, like the swaying beam of a balance. For a few moments
only; for Roreen, running over, with one blow of his faithful sword on
the waist cut him in two, and down fell both halves of Snohad na Dhial
as dead as a door-nail. After this Roreen got the heart-sootherin'
answer he so gallantly implored. He then bethought himself of
returning. After a few weeks he found himself with the three sisters,
and with a cavalcade of horses laden with the most precious diamonds,
pearls, and other treasures belonging to the three castles, in front
of the forge where he had met Fieryfoot, and talking merrily to that

"An' now," said Fieryfoot, after he had complimented the ladies on
their beauty, and Roreen on his success and bravery, "I am about to
give my three workmen lave of absence. But they must work seven days
for you first. Then they may go on their peregrinations about ould
Ireland. Farewell. Give my ondeniable love to the ladle, and remember
me to your brothers balligerently!"

With that the two friends embraced, on which Fieryfoot drew out a
small whistle and blew a tune, which set Roreen Shouragh and the three
princesses into a pleasant sleep; on awakening from which they found
themselves by the side of the little hut on the knoll, with the three
workmen beneath them, holding the horses and guarding their loads of
treasure. Roreen's two brothers had just returned from the chase, and
were standing near them in mute wonderment at the spectacle. After
some brief explanations, the whole cavalcade set out on their journey
home, and travelled on till they came to the hut of the lonely widow
on the banks of the Clydagh. It was nightfall when they reached the
place. Roreen told the three workmen that he wanted to have a castle
built on the meadow beside the hut, and then went in and embraced his
mother. The workmen went to the meadow, and when the next morning
dawned, had a castle of unexampled strength and beauty built for
Roreen and his intended bride. The two succeeding mornings saw two
equally splendid castles built for the two brothers and their brides
elect, for they were about to be married to the two elder princesses.
By the next morning after that they had a castle finished for Roreen's
mother. On the second morning afterward they had a town built, and at
length, on the seventh morning, when Roreen went out, he found both
castles and town' enclosed by a strong wall, with ramparts, gateways,
and every other necessary appliance of defence. The three workmen
then took their leave, and by the loud smacking of their lips as they
departed, Roreen knew that they were going off to the west in search
of the "say" of whiskey. After this the three {236} brothers were
married to the three lovely princesses, mercenary soldiers flocked in
from every quarter, and took service under their banners; the
inhabitants of the surrounding country removed into the town, and
matters went on gaily and prosperously. The name of Roreen's wife was
Mourne Blanaid, or the Blooming, and on a great festival day got up
for the purpose, he called the town Mourne, in honor of her. In a
pitched battle they defeated and killed the slayer of their father,
and drove his followers out of their patrimony, and after that they
lived in glory and renown till their death.

For centuries after the town of Mourne flourished, still remaining in
possession of the race of the Mac Carthys. At length the Normans came
and laid their mail-clad hands upon it. In the reign of King John,
Alexander de St. Helena founded a preceptory for Knights Templars near
it, the ruins of which stand yet in forlorn and solitary grandeur
beside the little river. Still the town flourished and throve, though
many a battle was fought within it, and around its gray walls, till at
length, according to Spenser, Murrogh na Ranagh, prince of Thomond,
burst out like a fiery flame from his fastnesses in Clare, overran all
Munster, burnt almost every town in it that had fallen into the
possession of the English, and among the rest Mourne, whose woeful
burning did not content him, for he destroyed it altogether, scarcely
leaving one stone standing there upon another. And now only a few
mounds remain to show the spot where Roreen Shouragh got his town
built, and where he ruled so jovially.

And so, gentle reader, if you look with me to the history of Troy,
Rome, the battle of Ventry Harbor, the Pyramids, or Tadmor in the
Desert, I think you will say that there is none of them so clear, so
circumstantial, and so trustworthy as the early history of the old
town of Mourne.





  "Hark, child--again that knocking!  Go, fling wide the door, I pray;
  Perchance 'tis some poor pilgrim who has wandered from his way.
  Now save thee, gallant stranger! Sit thou down and share our cheer:
  Our bread is white and wholesome see! our drink is fresh and clear."

  "I come not here your bread to share, nor of your drink to speak.
  Your name?"--"Hans Euler."--"So! 'tis well: it is your blood I seek.
  Know that through many a weary year I've sought you for a foe:
  I had a goodly brother once: 'twas you who laid him low.

  "And as he bit the dust, I vowed that soon or late on you
  His death should be avenged; and mark! that oath I will keep true."
  "I slew him; but in quarrel just. I fought him hand to hand:
  Yet, since you would avenge his fall,--I'm ready; take your stand.

  "But I war not in my homestead, by this hearth whereon I tread;
  Not in sight of these--my dear ones--for whose safety I have bled.
  My daughter, reach me down yon sword,--the same that laid him low;
  And if I ne'er come back again, Tyrol has sons enow."

  So forth they fared together, up the glorious Alpine way,
  Where newly now the kindling east led on the golden day.
  The sun that mounted with them, as he rose in all his pride,
  Still saw the stranger toiling on, Hans Euler for his guide.

  They climbed the mountain summit; and behold! the Alpine world
  Showed clear and bright before them, 'neath the mists that upward curled.
  Below them, calm and happy, lay the valley in her rest,
  With the châlets in her arms, and with their dwellers on her breast.

  Amidst were sparkling waters; giant chasms, scarred and riven;
  Vast, crowning woods; and over all, the pure, blest air of heaven:
  And, sacred in the sight of God, where peace her treasures spread,
  On every hearth, on every home, the soul of freedom shed!

  Both gazed in solemn silence down. The stranger stayed his hand.
  Hans Euler gently pointed to his own beloved land:
  "'Twas this thy brother threatened; such a wrong might move me well.
  'Twas in such a cause I struggled:--'twas for such a fault he fell."

  The stranger paused: then, turning, looked Hans Euler in the face;
  The arm that would have raised the sword fell powerless in its place.
  "You slew him. Was it, then, for this--for home and fatherland?
  Forgive me! 'Twas a righteous cause. Hans Euler, there's my hand!"



From All the Year Round.


Water to raise corn from the seed, to clothe the meadow with its
grass, and to fill the land with fruit and flowers; water to lie
heaped in fantastic clouds, to make the fairy-land of sunset, and to
spread the arch of mercy in the rainbow; water that kindles our
imagination to a sense of beauty; water that gives us our meat, and is
our drink, and cleans us of dirt and disease, and is our servant in a
thousand great and little ways--it is the very juice and essence of
man's civilization. And so, whether we shall drag over cold water, or
let hot water drag us, is one way of putting the question between
canal and steam communication for conveyance of our heavy traffic. The
canal-boat uses its water cold without, the steam-engine requires it
hot within. Before hot water appeared in its industrial character to
hiss off the cold, canals had all the glory to themselves. They are
not yet hissed off their old stages and cat-called into contempt by
the whistle of the steam-engine, for canal communication still has
advantages of its own, and canal shares are powers in the money

Little more than a century ago, not only were there neither canals nor
railroads in this country, but the common high-roads were about the
worst in Europe. Corn and wool were sent to market over those bad
roads on horses' or bullocks' backs, and the only coal used in the
inland southern counties was carried on horseback in sacks for the
supply of the blacksmiths' forges. Water gave us our over-sea
commerce, that came in and went out by way of our tidal rivers; and
the step proposed toward the fostering of our home industries was a
great one when it occurred to somebody to imitate nature, by erecting
artificial rivers that should flow whereever we wished them to flow,
and should be navigable along their whole course for capacious,
flat-bottomed carrying-boats.

The first English canal, indeed, was constructed as long as three
hundred years ago, at Exeter, by John Trew, a native of
Glamorganshire, who enabled the traders of Exeter to cancel the legacy
of the spite of an angry Countess of Devon, who had, nearly three
hundred years before that time, stopped the ascent of sea-going
vessels to Exeter by forming a weir across the Exe at Topham. Trew
contrived, to avoid the obstruction, a canal from Exeter to Topham,
three miles long, with a lock to it. John Trew ruined himself in the
service of an ungrateful corporation.

After this time, improvements went no further than the clearing out of
some channels of natural water-communication, until the time of James
Brindley, the father of the English canal system.

James Brindley was born in the year 1716, the third of the reign of
George the First, in a cottage in the parish of Wormhill, midway
between the remote hamlets of the High Peak of Derby. There his
father, more devoted to shooting, hunting, and bull-running, than to
his work as a cottier, cultivated the little croft he rented, got into
bad company and poverty, and left his children neglected and untaught.
The idle man had an industrious wife, who taught the children, of whom
James was the eldest, what little she knew; but they must all help to
earn as soon as they were able, and James Brindley earned wages at any
ordinary laborer's work that he could get until he was seventeen years
old. {239} He was a lad clever with his knife, who made little models
of mills, and set them to work in mill-streams of his own contrivance.
The machinery of a neighboring grist-mill was his especial delight,
and had given the first impulse to his modellings. He and his mother
agreed that he should bind himself, whenever he could, to a
millwright; and at the age of seventeen he did, after a few weeks'
trial, become apprentice for seven years to Abraham Bennett,
wheelwright and millwright, at the village of Sutton, near
Macclesfield, which was the market-town of Brindley's district.

The millwrights were then the only engineers; they worked by turns at
the foot-lathe, the carpenter's bench, and the anvil; and, in country
places where there was little support for division of labor, they had
to find skill or invention to meet any demand on mechanical skill.
Bennett was not a sober man, his journeymen were a rough set, and much
of the young apprentice's time was at first occupied in running for
beer. He was taught little, and had to find out everything for
himself, which he did but slowly; so that, during some time, he passed
with his master for a stupid bungler, only fit for the farm-work from
which he had been taken. But, after two years of this sort of
pupilage, a fire having injured some machinery in a small silk-mill at
Macclesfield, Brindley was sent to bring away the damaged pieces; and,
by his suggestions on that occasion, he showed to Mr. Milner, the mill
superintendent, an intelligence that caused his master to be applied
to for Brindley's aid in a certain part of the repairs. He was
unwillingly sent, worked under the encouragement of the friendly
superintendent with remarkable ability, and was surprised that his
master and the other workmen seemed to be dissatisfied with his
success. When they chaffed him, at the supper celebrating the
completion of the work, his friend Milner offered to wager a gallon of
the best ale that, before the lad's apprenticeship was out, he would
be a cleverer workman than any of them there present, master or man.
This was a joke against Brindley among his fellow-workmen; but in
another year they found "the young man Brindley" specially asked for
when the neighboring millers needed repairs of machinery, and
sometimes he was chosen in preference to the master himself. Bennett
asked "the young man Briudley" where he had learnt his skill in
mill-work, but he could tell no more than that it "came natural like."
He even suggested and carried out improvements, especially in the
application of the water-power, and worked so substantially well, that
his master said to him one day, "Jem, if thou goes on i' this foolish
way o' workin', there will be very little trade left to be done when
thou comes oot o' thy time: thou knaws firmness o' wark's h' ruin o'

But presently Jem's "firmness o' wark" was the saving of his master.
Bennett got a contract to set up a paper-mill on the river Dane, upon
the model of a mill near Manchester. Bennett went to examine the
Manchester mill, brought back a confused and beery notion of it, and,
proceeding with the job, got into the most hopeless bewilderment. An
old hand, who had looked in on the work, reported, over his drink at
the nearest public-house, that the job was a farce, and that Abraham
Bennett was only throwing away his employer's money. Next Saturday,
after his work, young Jem Brindley disappeared. He was just of age,
and it was supposed he had taken it into his head to leave his master
and begin life on his own account. But on Monday morning, there he was
at his work, with his coat off, and the whole duty to be done clear in
his head. He had taken on Saturday night a twenty-five mile walk to
the pattern mill, near Manchester. On Sunday morning he had asked
leave of its proprietor to go in and examine it. He had spent {240}
some hours on Sunday in the study of its machinery, and then had
walked the twenty-five miles back, to resume his work and save his
master from a failure that would have been disastrous to his credit.
The conduct of the work was left to him; he undid what was amiss, and
proceeded with the rest so accurately, that the contract was completed
within the appointed time, to the complete satisfaction of all persons
concerned. After that piece of good service, Bennett left to James
Brindley the chief care over his business. When Bennett died, Brindley
carried on to completion all work then in hand, and wound up the
accounts for the benefit of his old master's family. That done, he set
up in business on his own account at the town of Leek, in
Staffordshire; he was then twenty-six years old, having served seven
years as an apprentice and two years as journeyman.

Leek was then but a small market-town, with a few grist-mills, and
Brindley had no capital; but he made himself known beyond Leek as a
reliable man, whose work was good and durable, who had invention at
the service of his employers, and who always finished a job within the
stipulated time. He did not confine himself to mill-work, but was
ready to undertake all sorts of machinery connected with the draining
of mines, the pumping of water, the smelting of iron and copper, for
which a demand was then rising, and became honorably known to his
neighbors as "the Schemer." At first he had no journeyman or
apprentice, and he cut the tree for his own timber. While working as
an apprentice, he had taught himself to write in a clumsy,
half-illegible way--he never learnt to spell--and when he had been
thirteen years in business, he would still charge an employer his
day's work at two shillings for cutting a big tree, for a mill-shaft
or for other use. When he was called to exercise his skill at a
distance upon some machinery, he added a charge of sixpence a day for
extra expenses.

When the brothers John and Thomas Wedgwood, potters in a small way at
the outset of their famous career, desired to increase the supply of
flint-powder, they called "the Schemer" to their aid, and the success
of the flint-mill Brindley then erected brought him business in the
potteries from that time forward.

About this time, also, a Manchester man was being married to a young
lady of mark in the potteries, and, during the wedding festivities,
conversation once turned on the cleverness of the young millwright of
Leek. The Manchester man wondered whether he was clever enough to get
the water out of some hopelessly drowned coal mines of his, and
thought he should like to see him. Brindley was sent for, told the
case and its hitherto insuperable difficulties, went into a brown
study, then suddenly brightened up, and told in what way he thought
that, without great expense, the difficulty might be conquered. The
gist of his plan was to use the fall of the river Irwell, that formed
one boundary of the estate, and pump the water from the pits by means
of the greater power of the water in the river. His suggestion was
thought good, and, being set to work upon this job, he drove a tunnel
through six hundred yards of solid rock, and by the tunnel brought the
river down upon the breast of an immense water-wheel, fixed in a
chamber thirty feet below the surface of the ground; the water, when
it had turned the wheel, was carried on into the lower level of the
Irwell. That wheel, with its pumps, working night and day, soon
cleared the drowned outworkings of the mine; and for the invention and
direction of this valuable engineering work, he seems only to have
charged his workman's wages of two shillings a day.

An engineer from London had been brought down to superintend the
building of a new silk-mill at {241} Congleton, and Brindley was
employed under him to make the water-wheel and do the common work of
his trade. The engineer from London got his work into a mess, and at
last was obliged to confess his inability to carry out his plan. "The
Schemer" Brindley was applied to by the perplexed proprietor. Could he
put the confusion straight? James Brindley asked to see the plans; but
the great engineer refused to show them to a common millwright. "Well,
then," said Brindley to the proprietor of the mill, "tell me exactly
what you want the machinery to do, and I will try to contrive what
will do it. But you must leave me free to work in my own way." He was
told the results desired, and not only achieved them, but achieved
much more, adding new contrivances, which afterward proved of the
greatest value.

After this achievement, Brindley was employed by the now prospering
potters to build flint-mills of more power upon a new plan of his own.
One of the largest was that built for Mr. Baddely, of which work there
is record in such trade entries of his as "March 15, 1757. With Mr.
Baddely to Matherso about a now" (new) "flint-mill upon a windey day 1
day 3s. 6d. March 19 draing a plann 1 day 2s. 6d. March 23 draing a
plann and to sat out the wheelrace 1 day 4s."

At this time Brindley is also exercising his wit on an attempt at an
improved steam-engine; but though his ideas are good, it is hard to
bring them into continuously good working order, and after the close
of entries about it in his memorandum-book, when it seems to have
broken down for a second time, he underlines the item "to Run about a
Drinking Is. 6d." But he confined his despair to the loss of a day and
the expenditure of eighteen pence. Not long afterward he had developed
a patent of his own, and erected, in 1763, for the Walker Colliery at
Newcastle, a steam-engine wholly of iron, which was pronounced the
most "complete and noble piece of iron-work" that had up to that time
been produced. But the perfecting of the steam-engine was then safe in
the hands of Watt, and Brindley had already turned into his own path
as the author of our English canal system.

The young Duke of Bridgewater, vexed in love by the frailty of fair
woman, had abjured interest in their sex, had gone down to his estate
of Worsley, on the borders of Chat Moss, and, to give himself
something more wholesome to think about than the sisters Gunning and
their fortunes, conferred with John Gilbert, his land steward, as to
the possibility of cutting a canal by which the coals found upon his
Worsley estate might be readily taken to market at Manchester.
Manchester then was a rising town, of which the manufacturers were yet
unaided by the steam-engine, and there was no coal smoke but that
which arose from household fires. The roads out of Manchester were so
bad as to be actually closed in winter, and in summer the coal, sold
at the pit mouth by the horse-load, was conveyed on horses' backs at
an addition to its cost of nine or ten shillings a ton.

When the duke discussed with Gilbert old abandoned and new possible
schemes of water conveyance for his Worsley coal, Gilbert advised the
calling in of the ingenious James Brindley of Leek, "the Schemer."
When the duke came into contact with Brindley, he at once put trust in
him, and gave him the direction of the proposed work; whereupon he was
requested to base his advice upon what he enters in his
memorandum-book of jobs done, as an "ochilor," (ocular) "servey or a

Brindley examined the ground, and formed his own plan. He was against
carrying the canal down into Irwell by a flight of locks, and so up
again on the other side to the proposed level, but counselled carrying
the canal by solid embankments and a stone aqueduct right over the
river upon one {242} level throughout. The duke accepted his opinion,
and had plans prepared for a new application to parliament, Brindley
often staying with him at work and in consultation for weeks together,
while still travelling to and fro in full employment upon mills,
water-wheels, cranes, fire-engines, and other mechanical work. Small
as his pay was, he lived frugally. He had by this time even saved a
little money, and gained credit enough to be able, by borrowing from a
friend at Leek, to pay between five and six hundred pounds for a
fourth share of an estate at Turnhurst, in Staffordshire, supposed by
him to be full of minerals.

The Duke of Bridgewater obtained his act in the year 1760, but the
bold and original part of Brindley's scheme, which many ridiculed as
madness, caused the duke much anxiety. In England there had never been
so great an aqueduct, but the scheme was not only for the carrying of
water in a water-tight trunk of earth over an embankment, but also for
the carrying of ships on a bridge of water over water. Brindley had no
misgivings. To allay the duke's fears, he suggested calling in and
questioning another engineer, who surprised the man of genius by
ending an adverse report thus: "I have often heard of castles an the
air; but never before saw where any of them were to be erected."

The duke, however, with all his hesitation, had most faith in the head
of James Brindley, bade him go on in his own way, and resolved to run
the risk of failure. And so, on a bridge of three arches, the canal
was carried over the Irwell by the Barton aqueduct, thirty-nine feet
above the river. The water was confined within a puddled channel, to
prevent leakage, and the work is at this day as sound as it was when
first constructed. For the safe carrying of water along the top of an
earthen embankment, Brindley had relied upon the retaining powers of
clay puddle. It was by help also of clay puddle that he carried the
weight of the embankment safe over the ooze of Trafford Moss.

With great ingenuity, also, Brindley provided for the crossing of his
canal by streams intercepting its course, without breach of his rule
that it is unsafe to let such waters freely mix with the canal stream.
Thus, to provide for the free passage of the Medlock without causing a
rush into the canal, an ingenious form of weir was contrived, over
which its waters flowed into a lower level, and thence down a well
several yards deep, leading to a subterranean passage by which the
stream was passed into the Irwell, near at hand. Arthur Young, who saw
Brindley's canal soon after it was opened, said that "the whole plan
of these works shows a capacity and extent of mind which foresees
difficulties, and invents remedies in anticipation of possible evils.
The connection and dependence of the parts upon each other are happily
imagined; and all are exerted in concert, to command by every means
the wished-for success." At the Worsley end Brindley constructed a
basin, into which coal was brought from different workings of the mine
by a subterranean water channel. Brindley also invented cranes for the
more ready loading of the boats, laid down within the mines a system
of underground railways leading from the face of the coal where the
miners worked, to the wells that he had made at different points in
the tunnels for shooting the coal down into the boats waiting below.
He drained and ventilated with a water-bellows the lower parts of the
mine. He improved the barges, invented water-weights, raising dams,
riddles to wash the coal for the forges. At the Manchester end
Brindley made equally ingenious arrangements for the easy delivery of
the coal at the top of Castle Hill. At every turn in the work his
inventive genius was felt. When the want of lime for the masonry was a
serious impediment, Brindley discovered how to make, of a useless,
unadhesive lime-marl, by tempering it and casting it in {243} moulds
before burning, an excellent lime, a contrivance that alone saved the
duke several thousands of pounds cost. When the water was let in, and
the works everywhere stood firm, people of fashion flocked to see
Brindley's canal, as "perhaps the greatest artificial curiosity in the
world:" and writers spoke in glowing terms of the surprise with which
they saw several barges of great burden drawn by a single mule or
horse along a "river hung in the air," over another river flowing

As for Manchester, with the price of coal reduced one half, it was
ready to make the best use of the steam-engine when it was established
as the motive-power in our factories.

Within two months of the day, seventeenth of July, 1761, when the
first boat-load of coals travelled over the Barton viaduct, Brindley's
notes testify that he was at Liverpool "recconitoring" and by the end
of September he was levelling for a proposed extension of his canal
from Manchester to Liverpool, by joining it with the Mersey, eight
miles below Warrington Bridge, whence there is a natural tideway to
Liverpool, about fifteen miles distant. At that time there was not
even a coach communication over the bad roads between Manchester and
Liverpool, the first stage-coach having been started six years later,
when it required six, and sometimes eight horses to pull it the thirty
miles along the ruts and through the sloughs. The coach started from
Liverpool early in the morning, breakfasted at Prescot, dined at
Warrington, and reached Manchester by supper-time. From Manchester to
Liverpool it made the return journey next day. The Duke of
Bridgewater's proposed canal was strongly opposed as an antagonist
interest by the Mersey and Irwell Navigation Company. The canal
promised to take freights at half the price charged by the Navigation
Company. A son of the Earl of Derby took the part of the "Old
Navigators," and as the Duke of Bridgewater was a Whig, Brindley had
to enter in his note-book that "the Toores" (Tories) had "mad had"
(made head) "agane ye Duk." But at last his entry was: "ad a grate
Division of 127 fort Duk 98 nos for t e Duke 29 Me Jorete," and the
Duke's cause prospered during the rest of the contest.

Brindley bought a new suit of clothes to grace his part as principal
engineering witness for the canal, and having upset his mind for some
days by going to see Garrick play Richard the Third, (wherefore he
declared against all further indulgence in that sort of excitement),
he went to the committee-room duly provided with a bit of chalk in his
pocket, and made good the saying that originated from his clear way of
showing what he meant, upon the floor of the committee-room, that
"Brindley and chalk would go through the world." When asked to produce
a drawing of a proposed bridge, he said he had none, but could
immediately get a model. Whereupon he went out and bought a large
cheese, which he brought into the committee-room and cut into two
equal parts, saying, "Here is my model." The two halves of the cheese
represented the two arches of his bridge, the rest of the work
connected with them he built with paper, with books, or with whatever
he found ready to hand. Once when he had repeatedly talked about
"puddling," some of the members wished to know what puddling was.
Brindley sent out for a lump of clay, hollowed it into a trough,
poured water in, and showed that it leaked out. Then he worked up the
clay with water, going through the process of puddling in miniature,
again made a trough of the puddled clay, filled it with water, and
showed that it was water-tight. "Thus it is," he said, "that I form a
water-tight trunk to carry water over rivers and valleys, wherever
they cross the path of the canal."

And so the battle was fought, and the canal works completed at a total
{244} cost of two hundred and twenty thousand pounds, of which
Brindley was content to take as his share a rate of pay below that of
an ordinary mechanic at the present day. The canal yielded an income
which eventually reached eighty thousand pounds a year; but three and
sixpence a day, and for a greater part of the time half a crown a day,
was the salary of the man of genius by whom it was planned and
executed. Yet Brindley was then able to get a guinea a day for
services to others, though from the Duke of Bridgewater he never took
more than a guinea a week, and had not always that. The duke was
investing all the money he could raise, and sometimes at his wit's end
for means to go on with the work. Brindley gave his soul to the work
for its own sake, and if he had a few pence to buy himself his dinner
with--one day he enters only "ating and drinking 6d."--he could live,
content with having added not a straw's weight of impediment to the
great enterprise he was bent with all the force of his great genius
upon achieving. It gave him the advantage, also, of being able, as was
most convenient, to treat with the duke on equal terms. He was invited
as a canal maker to Hesse by offers of any payment he chose to demand,
but stuck to the duke, who is said even to have been in debt to him
for travelling and other expenses, which he had left unpaid with the
answer, "I am much more distressed for money than you; however, as
soon as I can recover myself, your services shall not go unrewarded."
After Brindley's sudden death his widow applied in vain for sums which
she said were due to her late husband.

The Staffordshire Grand Trunk Canal, Brindley's other great work,
started from the duke's canal, near Runcorn, passed through the
salt-making districts of Cheshire and the Pottery district, to unite
the Severn with the Mersey by one hundred and forty miles of
water-way. This canal went through five tunnels, one of them, that at
Harecastle, being nearly three thousand yards long, a feature in the
scheme accounted by many to be as preposterous as they had called his
former "castle in the air." The work was done; bringing with it
traffic, population, and prosperity into many half-savage midland
districts. It gave comfort and ample employment in the Pottery
district, while trebling the numbers of those whom it converted, from
a half-employed and ill-paid set of savages, into a thriving

Once, when Brindley was demonstrating to a committee of the House of
Commons the superior reliableness and convenience of equable canals as
compared with rivers, liable to every mischance of flood and drought,
he was asked by a member, "What, then, he took to be the use of
navigable rivers?" and replied, "To make canal navigations, to be
sure!" From the Grand Trunk, other canals branched, and yet others
were laid out by Brindley before he died. He found time when at the
age of fifty to marry a girl of nineteen, and the house then falling
vacant on the estate of Turnhurst, of which he had, for the sake of
its minerals, bought a fourth share, and by that time had a colliery
at work, he took his wife home as the mistress of that old, roomy
dwelling. He was receiving better pay then as the engineer of the
Grand Trunk Canal, and his new home was conveniently near to the
workings of its great Harecastle Tunnel, into which he and his
partners sent a short branch canal--of a mile and a half long--from
their coal mine, which was only a few fields distant from his house.

Water, that made his greatness, was at last the death of Brindley. He
got drenched one day while surveying a canal, went about in his wet
clothes, and when he went to bed at the inn was put between damp
sheets. This produced the illness of which he died, at the age of
fifty-six. It was not the first time that he had taken to his bed.
Scarcely able to read, and if he could have read, engaged on work so
new that no book precedents could have {245} helped him, whenever
Brindley had some difficulty to overcome that seemed for a time
insuperable, he went to bed upon it, and is known to have stopped in
bed two or three days, till he had quietly thought it all over, and
worked his way to the solution. It is said that when he lay on his
death-bed some eager canal undertakers urged to see him and seek from
him the solution of a problem. They had met with a serious difficulty
in the course of their canal, and must see Mr. Brindley and get his
advice. They were admitted, and told him how at a certain place they
had labored in vain to prevent their canal from leaking. "Then puddle
it," murmured Brindley. "Sir, but we have puddled it." "Then"--and
they were almost his last words in life--"puddle it again--and
again." As he had wisely invested his savings in Grand Trunk shares,
they and his share in the colliery enabled him to leave ample
provision for his widow and two daughters.

As for the canal system that he established, it has not been made
obsolete by its strong younger brother, the railway system. The duke's
canal is as busy as ever. Not less than twenty million tons of traffic
are at this date carried yearly upon the canals of England alone, and
this quantity is steadily increasing.

We have taken the facts in this account of Brindley, from a delightful
popular edition of that part of Mr. Smiles's Lives of the Engineers
which tells of him and of the earlier water engineers. Of Mr. Smiles's
Lives of George and Robert Stephenson there is a popular edition as a
companion volume, and therein all may read, worthily told, the tale of
the foundation and of the chief triumphs of that new form of
engineering which dealt with water, not by the riverful, but by the
bucketful, and made a few buckets of water strong as a river to sweep
men and their goods and their cattle in a mighty torrent from one
corner of the country to another.


From Chambers's Journal.


  A thistle grew in a sluggard's croft,
  Rough and rank with a thorny growth,
  With its spotted leaves, and its purple flowers
  (Blossoms of Sin, and bloom of Sloth);
  Slowly it ripened its baneful seeds,
  And away they went in swift gray showers.

  But every seed was cobweb winged,
  And they spread o'er a hundred miles of land.
  'Tis centuries now since they first took flight,
  In that careless, gay, and mischievous band,
  Yet still they are blooming and ripening fast,
  And spreading their evil by day and night.


From The Dublin Review.


_The History of our Lord as exemplified in Works of Art;_ with that of
the Types, St. John the Baptist and other persons of the Old and New
Testament. Commenced by the late Mrs. JAMESON; continued and completed
by Lady EASTLAKE. 2 vols. London: Longman. 1864.

The series of works on Christian Art brought out by the late Mrs.
Jameson, and which earned for her so high a reputation as an art
critic, was conceived upon a plan of progressive interest and
importance. From "Sacred and Legendary Art," published in 1848, she
passed to the special legends connected with Monastic Orders, and in
1852 gave to the public her most charming volume, entitled "Legends of
the Madonna." The series was to have closed with the subject of the
volume now before us, and some progress had been made by Mrs. Jameson
in collecting notes on various pictures, when, in the spring of 1860,
death cut her labors short. The work, however, has passed into hands
well able to complete it worthily. We may miss some of the freshness
and genuine simplicity with which Mrs. Jameson was wont to transfer to
paper rare impression made on her mind and heart; but Lady Eastlake,
while bringing to her task the essential qualification of earnestness
and exhibiting considerable grace and force of style, is possessed of
a far wider and more critical acquaintance with the history of art
than her amiable predecessor either had or pretended to have. It is
pleasant to find in these pages, as in those which preceded them, the
evidence of a desire to avoid controversial matter; and that, without
compromise of personal conviction, care has been generally taken not
to wound the feelings of those who differ from the writer in religious
belief. The primary object of the work is aesthetic and artistic, not
religious; and it is seldom that the laws of good taste are
transgressed in its pages by gratuitous attacks upon the tenets of the
great body of artists who are the immediate subject of criticism.
Indeed, considering that these volumes are the production of a
Protestant, we think that less of Protestant animus could hardly be
shown, at all consistently with honesty of purpose and frankness of
speech. That no traces of the Protestant spirit should appear, would
be next to an impossibility; and the affectation of Catholic feeling,
where it did not exist, would be offensive from its very unreality. So
much self-control in traversing a vast extent of delicate and
dangerous ground deserves all the more hearty acknowledgment, as it
must have been peculiarly difficult to a person of Lady Eastlake's
ardent temperament and evident strength of conviction. If, therefore,
in the course of our remarks, we feel bound to point out the evil
influence which Lady Eastlake's religious views seem to us to have
exercised on her critical appreciations, it will be understood that
theories, not persons, are the object of our animadversions. It is at
all times an ungrateful task to expose the weak points of an author;
it would be especially ungenerous to be hard upon the shortcomings of
one who has done such good service to the cause of truth, in proving,
however unconsciously, by the mere exercise of persistent candor, the
identity of Christian and Catholic art. Catholics, indeed, do not
ordinarily stand in need of such proof. If they know anything of art,
the fact of this identity must be with them an early discovery; but it
is gratifying, especially in a time and country in which scant justice
on such matters is too often dealt out to us, to be able to adduce a
{247} testimony the more valuable because given in despite of an
adverse bias. It is quite possible, indeed, that the writer has not
perceived the full import of her work; but no one, we think, can study
her examples or weigh the force of her criticism with out coming to
the true conclusion upon this subject.

But, before establishing the correctness of this assertion, we must
draw attention to one point upon which we are at issue with Lady
Eastlake: a point, moreover, of no small importance, as it vitally
affects the value of a large part of her criticisms. A question arises
at the outset, what standard or test of Christian art is to be set up;
and Lady Eastlake makes an excellent start in the investigation. There
is, perhaps, no principle so steadily kept in view throughout the
work, or so often and earnestly insisted on, as this: that genuine
Christian art and true Christian doctrine are intimately and
essentially connected. Art is bound to depict only the truth in fact
or doctrine (vol. ii., p. 266, note). Departure from sound theology
involves heresy in art. Now, no principle can be more true than this,
or of greater importance toward forming a correct judgment upon works
professing to belong to Christian art. Beauty and truth are
objectively identical, for beauty is only truth lighted up and
harmonized by the reason; and to supernatural beauty, which Christian
art essentially aims at expressing, supernatural truth must
necessarily correspond. For here we have nothing to do with mere
material beauty, "the glories of color, the feats of anatomical skill,
the charms of chiaroscuro, the revels of free handling." Admirable as
these are in themselves, and by no means, theoretically at least,
injurious to Christian art, they belong properly to art as art, and
are more or less separable from art as Christian. Christian art is
never perfect as art, unless material beauty enters into the
composition; but as Christianity is above art, and the soul superior
to the body, so material beauty must never forget its place, never
strive to obtain the mastery, or constitute itself the chief aim of
the artist, upon pain of total destruction of the Christian element.
The soul of Christian art is in the idea--the shadowing out by symbol
or representation, under material forms and conditions, of immaterial,
supernatural, even uncreated beauty, the beauty of heavenly virtue, or
heavenly mystery or divinity itself. But how are these objects, in all
their harmony, proportion, and splendor, to be realized--how is
supernatural beauty to be conceived--except by a soul gifted with
supernatural perceptions? Faith, at least, is indispensably requisite
to the truthfulness of any artistic work intended to represent the
supernatural. Without faith, distortion and caricature are inevitable.
With faith--the foundation of all knowledge of the supernatural in
this life--much, very much, may be accomplished. But it is when faith,
enlivened and perfected by supernatural love, exercises itself in
contemplation, that the spiritual sight becomes keen, and the soul,
from having simply a just appreciation, passes to a vision of
exquisite beauty, sublimity, and tenderness, which a higher perception
of divine mysteries has laid open to its gaze. The hand may falter,
and be faithless to the mental conception, so as to produce imperfect
execution and inadequate artistic result. Faith and love do not make a
man an artist. But, amidst deformity or poverty of art in the material
element, if there is any, however slight, artistic power employed, the
outward defects will be qualified, and almost transformed, to the eye
of an appreciating spectator, through the inner power which speaks
from the painter's soul to his own: just as we learn to overlook, or
even to admire, plain features, and anything short of positive
ugliness of outline, in those whose mental greatness and moral beauty
we have learned to venerate and to love. On the other hand, any amount
of material perfection in contour and color is insipid as a doll,
{248} a mere mask of nothingness, incapable of arresting attention or
captivating the heart, unless within there be a soul of beauty--that
inward excellence which subordinates to itself, while it gives life
and meaning to, the outward form. On the side of the object, truth; on
the part of the spectator, faith and love--these are the palmary
conditions of Christian art and its appreciation. For it must ever be
remembered that supernatural truth lies beyond the ken of any but
souls elevated by faith; and, what is of equal importance, that faith
can have no other object than the truth. Its object is infallible
truth, or it is not faith. No wonder, then, that, when we see a
prodigality of manual skill and grace of form, and even moral beauty
of the natural order, devoid of the inspiration of supernatural faith
and love, we are forced to exclaim with St. Gregory, as he gazed on
the fair Saxon youths, _Heit proh dolor! quod tam lucidi vultus
homines tenebrarum auctor possideret, tantaque gratia frontis
conspicui mentem ab aeterna gratia vacuam gestarent._   [Footnote 51]
Alas! that so much physical beauty should embody nothing but a pagan
idea! It were as unreasonable to look for Christian art as the product
of an heretical imagination, as to demand Christian eloquence or
Christian poetry from an heretical preacher or a free-thinking poet.
The vision is wanting, the appreciation is not there--how, then, is
the expression possible?

  [Footnote 51: "Alas! what pain it is to think that men of such
  bright countenance should be the possession of the Prince of
  Darkness; and that though conspicuous for surprising grace of
  feature, they should bear a soul within untenanted by everlasting

Nor is this a mere abstract theory, erected on  _a priori_
principles. It would be easy to verify our position by a large
induction from the history of art. Is there a picture whose mute
eloquence fills the soul with reverential awe, or holy joy, or
supernatural calm, or deep, deep sympathy with the sufferings of our
Lord, or the sorrows of his Immaculate Mother, we may be sure the
painter was some humble soul, ascetical and pious, who, like Juan de
Joanes, or Zurbaran, spent his days in lifelong seclusion, given up to
the grave and holy thoughts which their pictures utter to us; or that
other Spaniard, Luis de Vargas, famed alike for his austerity and
amiable Christian gaiety; or a Sassoferrato, or a Van Eyck, seeking
in, holy communion the peace of soul which can alone reflect the
calmness of sanctity, or the bliss of celestial scenes; or the holy
friar, John of Fiesoli, known to all as the Angelic whose heroic
humility and Christian simplicity, learned in a life of prayer and
contemplation, invest his pictures with an unearthly charm. These, and
many another pious painter, known or unknown by name to men, looked on
their vocation as a holy trust, and sought to keep themselves
unspotted from the world. Theirs was the practical maxim so dear to
the blessed Angelico, that "those who work for Christ must dwell in
Christ." On the other hand, does a picture, albeit Christian in
subject and in name, offend us by false sentiment, or cold
conventionalism, or sensuality, or affectation, or strain after
theatrical effect, or any of the hundred forms which degraded art
exhibits when it has wandered from the Christian type--we know that we
are looking on the handiwork of some schismatic Greek, or modern
Protestant; or that, if the painter be a Catholic, he lived in the
days or wrought under the influence of the Renaissance, when paganism
made its deadly inroads upon art, substituting the spirit of
voluptuousness for the sweet and austere graces that spring of divine
charity; or under the blighting influence of Jansenism, which killed
alike that queenly virtue and her sister humility by false asceticism
and pharisaic rigor. We might even trust the decision as to the
truthfulness of our view to an inspection of the examples with which
Lady Eastlake has so abundantly illustrated her volumes. Indeed,
hitherto her principle and ours are one.


But unfortunately, though the _major_ premise of the art-syllogism is
granted on both sides, Lady Eastlake adopts a _minor_, from which we
utterly dissent. It is implied in one and all of the following
statements, and is more or less interwoven with the whole staple of
her work. She tells us that "the materials for this history in art are
only properly derivable from Scripture, and therefore referable back
to the same source for verification" (vol. i., p. 3). And again: "It
may be at once laid down as a principle, that the interests of art and
the integrity of Scripture [by integrity is meant literal adherence to
the text of Scripture] are indissolubly united. Where superstition
mingles, the quality of Christian art suffers; where doubt enters,
Christian art has nothing to do. It may even be averred that, if a
person could be imagined, deeply imbued with aesthetic instincts and
knowledge, and utterly ignorant of Scripture, he would yet intuitively
prefer, as art, all those conceptions of our Lord's history which
adhere to the simple text. . . . All preference for the simple
narrative of Scripture he would arrive at through art--all
condemnation of the embroideries of legend through the same channel"
(vol. i., p. 6). And again: "The simplicity of art and of the Gospel
stand or fall together. The literal narrative of the agony in the
garden lost sight of, all became confusion and error" (vol. ii., p.

Now, whatever obscurity and confusion these passages contain--and they
do contain a great deal--one thing is unmistakably clear, that the
orthodoxy of the ultra-Protestant maxim, "The Bible and the Bible
only," is a fixed principle with Lady Eastlake. And the consequence
is, that, whenever she looks at a religious picture, she refers to the
Gospel narrative for its verification. If it does not stand this test,
it is nowhere in her esteem. What is not in Scripture is legendary and
unartistic, because necessarily at variance with scriptural truth.
Thus whole provinces of art in connection with our Lord are banished
from her pages. Surely such a canon of taste is not only narrow, but
arbitrary: narrow, as excluding whatever comes down to us hallowed by
tradition, considered apart from or beyond the limits of scriptural
statement; arbitrary, because it leaves art at the mercy of the sects,
with their manifold dissensions as to the extent of Scripture, or its
true interpretation. Thus, Lady Eastlake, being herself no believer in
the doctrine of the real presence, does not recognize its enunciation
in the sacred pages, and loses, apparently, all interest in the great
pictures which symbolize or relate to the most holy sacrament of the
altar. So, too, most of the special devotions to the person of our
Lord, which have sprung out of the living faith of the church, and
have furnished subjects for pictures incontestably of a high order,
are totally omitted from her classification of devotional
compositions. We can hardly imagine it possible for her to adhere
consistently to her rule in other departments of Christian art. The
Immaculate Conception, for instance, the Assumption, the Coronation of
our Lady, the marriage of St. Catherine, the stigmata of St. Francis,
the vision of St. Dominic, the miracles of the saints--subjects, many
of which have inspired some of the noblest productions of her favorite
Fra Angelico, or of Raphael, or Murillo, or Velasquez--undoubtedly do
violence to her criteria of artistic merit, though we cannot believe
that she would contest their universally acknowledged claim to the
highest honors in Christian art. Indeed, fidelity to this narrow
Protestant maxim would have rendered these two volumes an
impossibility. Strange, then, that it should not have occurred to the
mind of the authoress that by far the larger part, and, on her own
showing, the most glorious part, of the fraternity of Christian
artists have been men full to overflowing of the spirit of a church
which has never adopted her standard of orthodoxy.


The Catholic Church is at once the parent, historically, of all
Christian art and the upholder of that grand principle of tradition
which gives to art, no less than to doctrine, a range far wider and
more ample than the mere letter of the biblical records. Of course,
contradiction of Scripture, or "alterations of the text, which,
however slight, affect the revealed character of our Lord," must give
offence to every judicious critic; but it is tradition and the voice
of the living Church--together with that instinctive sense of the
faithful which, so long as they live in submission to their
divinely-appointed teachers, is so marvellously true and
unerring--that must be the criteria of orthodoxy, and determine when
the artist's conceptions or mode of treatment are contrary to, or in
accordance with, the spirit of the sacred text.

Lady Eastlake does not like the notion of our Lord's falling under the
cross. It is not in the Bible, and she pronounces it to be counter to
the spirit and purport of the Gospel narrative. She grows positively
angry with some painters for having represented an angel holding the
chalice, surmounted by a cross or host, before the eyes of our blessed
Redeemer in his agony. She has her own standard of feeling, abstract
and arbitrary, to which she refers the decision of such points. But
where is the guarantee for the correctness of that standard, or the
security for its general acceptance? The Bible does not tell us what
its own spirit and purport are, and outside the Bible Lady Eastlake,
at least, cannot point to any infallible authority. She is, therefore,
imposing her own judgment, unsupported by any assigned reason, upon
the world, as a rule to be followed. So, too, St. Veronica to her is
always _de trop_, morally and pictorially, in the Way of the Cross;
and scholastic interpretations, seemingly because they are scholastic,
of the types of the Old Testament, are invariably pronounced by her to
be strained, unreal, and superstitious. So effectually does
Protestantism interfere with the capacity of a critic to appreciate
the higher developments and fuller expression of Christian art.

Not that a Protestant or a free-thinker can have no sense at all of
the supernaturally beautiful. If they are trained to a high degree of
moral and intellectual cultivation in the natural order, and in
proportion to the height of their attainments in that order, they will
not fail to be affected by beauty of a superior order. For there is no
contradiction between the truth of nature and the truth which is above
nature. The Protestant, indeed, as sincerely holding large fragments
of Christian truth, will necessarily have much sympathy with many
exhibitions of supernatural beauty. But he lacks the clue to it as a
whole; and if he can often admire, rarely, if ever, can he create.
Both Protestant and unbeliever must therefore labor under much
vagueness and uncertainty of judgment, inasmuch as they can have no
fixity of principle. Often they will not know what they want; they
will praise in one page what they condemn in the next; or, when moved,
will be at a loss to account for their emotion. They will exhibit
phenomena not unlike those so often presented in this country by
unbelievers, who, entering our churches, are one while overawed by a
presence they cannot define, and which bewilders their intellect,
whilst it captivates their imagination; and another while, as
unaccountably, are moved to disgust and derision by what to them is an
insoluble riddle, a perplexity, and an annoyance. To such critics some
phases of the supernatural will never be welcome. The tortures of the
martyrs, the self-inflicted macerations of ascetics, the sublime
self-abandonment of heroic charity--whatever, in a word, embodies and
brings home the grand, sacred, but, to the natural man, repugnant idea
of the cross, will always be offensive, and produce a sense of
irritation, such as even Lady Eastlake, with all her {251}
self-mastery and good taste, cannot wholly suppress or conceal. So
true is it in the sphere of Christian art, as in that of Christian
doctrine and devotion, _Nisi credideritis, non intelligetis_. Casual
excitement, transient enthusiasm, unmeaning admiration, are at best
the pitiful substitutes for an intelligent and abiding appreciation of
excellence, in those who are not possessed of supernatural ideas in
common with the subjects and authors of the works of genuine Christian

It would be unfair, however, not to mention that Lady Eastlake admits
many important modifications of this rigid principle of adherence to
the letter of Scripture. The following secondary canons go far to
soften down the asperity of her Protestantism. They shall be stated in
her own words:

"On the other hand, additions to Scripture given in positive images,
if neither prejudicial to art nor inconsistent with our Lord's
character, are not in themselves necessarily objectionable; but will,
according to their merits, be looked upon with indulgence or
admiration. The pictures, for instance, representing the disrobing of
our Lord--a fact not told in Scripture, yet which must have
happened--will be regarded with pathetic interest. The same will be
felt of Paul Delaroche's exquisite little picture, where St. John is
leading the Virgin home; for such works legitimately refresh and carry
on the narrative in a scriptural spirit. Nay, episodes which are more
purely invention--such as the ancient tradition of the Mother of Christ
wrapping the cloth round her son, previous to his crucifixion; or,
again, the picture by Paul Delaroche, of the agony of her and of the
disciples, represented as gathered together in a room while Christ
passes with his cross--even such imaginary episodes will silence the
most arrant Protestant criticism, by their overpowering appeal to the
feelings; since in neither case is the great duty of art to itself or
to its divine object tampered with.

"The same holds good where symbolical forms, as in Christian art of
classic descent, are given, which embody the idea rather than the
fact. For instance, where the Jordan is represented as a river god,
with his urn under his arm, at the baptism of our Lord; or when,
later, the same event is accompanied by the presence of angels, who
hold the Saviour's garments. Such paraphrases and poetical imaginings
in no way affect the truth of the facts they set forth, but rather, to
mortal fancy, swell their pomp and dignity.

"Still less need the lover of art and adorer of Christ care about
inconsistencies in minor matters. As, for example, that the entombment
takes place in a renaissance monument, in the centre of a beautiful
Italian landscape, and not in a cave in a rock in the arid scenery of
Judea. On the contrary, it is right that art should exercise the
utmost possible freedom in such circumstances, which are the signs and
handwriting of different schools and times, and enrich a picture with
sources of interest to the historian and the archaeologist. It is the
moral expression which touches the heart and adorns the tale, not the
architecture or costume; and whether our Lord be in the garb of a
Roman citizen or of a German burgher (though his dress is usually
conventional in color and form), it matters not, if he be but God in

The arbitrariness of the principles set forth in the earlier portion
of this passage, and the quiet assumption that all ancient traditions
are pure inventions, may well be excused by the reader for the sake of
the inconsistency which saves from condemnation not a few glorious
pictures, which could never otherwise have been made to square with
the rule of literal adherence to the Gospel narrative.

Another principle essential to the right appreciation of art is
admirably stated by Lady Eastlake:

"All will agree that the duty of the Christian artist is to give not
only the {252} temporary fact, but the permanent truth. Yet this
entails a discrepancy to which something must be sacrificed. For, in
the scenes from our Lord's life, fact and truth are frequently at
variance. That the Magdalen took our Lord for a gardener, was the
fact; that he was Christ, is the truth. That the Roman soldiers
believed him to be a criminal, and therefore mocked and buffeted him
without scruple, is the fact; that we know him through all these
scenes to be the Christ, is the truth. Nay, the very cruciform nimbus
that encircles Christ's head is an assertion of this principle. As
visible to us, it is true; as visible even to his disciples, it is
false. There are, however, educated people so little versed in the
conditions of art, as to object even to the nimbus, as a departure
from fact, and, therefore, an offence to truth; preferring, they say,
to see our Lord represented as he walked upon earth. But this is a
fallacy in more than one sense. Our Lord, as he walked upon earth, was
not known to be the Messiah. To give him as he was seen by men who
knew him not, would be to give him not as the Christ. It may be urged
that the cruciform nimbus is a mere arbitrary sign, nothing in itself
more than a combination of lines. This is true; but there _must_ be
something arbitrary in all human imaginings (we should prefer to say
symbolizings) of the supernatural. Art, for ages, assumed this sign as
that of the Godhead of Christ, and the world for ages granted it. It
served various purposes; it hedged the rudest representations of
Christ round with a divinity, which kept them distinct from all
others. It pointed him out to the most ignorant spectator, and it
identified the sacred head, even at a distance."

This principle may, indeed, be legitimately extended much further. The
purpose of Christian art is instruction, either in morals or in dogma,
or in both. It is not, therefore, a sin in art to sacrifice upon
occasion some portion of historical truth, in subservience to this
end. Nor in fact, in Catholic ages, was there danger of the people
being led into error on the fundamental facts of religion. The Gospel
narrative was too familiar to them for that. They seem, as is well
remarked by Father Cahier, to have had hearts more elevated than ours,
and more attuned by meditation and habitual catholicity of spirit to
mystery, and its sublimer lessons; and therefore, whenever we find in
early paintings what seems to us anomalous in an historic point of
view, we may conclude with safety that there was a dogmatic intention.

There are, however, limits to liberties of this kind, which may not be
transgressed without incurring censure. Overbold speculation has ere
now betrayed even orthodox theologians into accidental error. And a
Catholic artist may depict, as a Catholic schoolman may enunciate,
views which deserve to be stigmatized as rash, offensive, erroneous,
scandalous, or even, in themselves, heretical. There have been
occasions in which the Church has felt herself bound to interfere with
wanderings of the artistic imagination, as injurious, morally or
doctrinally, to the faithful committed to her charge. Nor have
theologians failed to protest from time to time against similar
abuses. Bellarmine frowned upon the muse in Christian art. Savonarola,
in his best days, made open war upon the pagan corruptions which in
his time had begun to abound in Florentine paintings. Father Canisius
denounces those painters as inexcusable who, in the face of Scripture,
represent our Lady as swooning at the foot of the cross; and Father de
Ligny reprobates, on the same grounds, the introduction of St. Joseph
into pictures of the meeting between the Blessed Virgin and St.
Elizabeth. For--whatever we may think as to his having accompanied our
Lady on the journey--had he been present at the interview, he would
have been enlightened upon the mystery, his ignorance of which
afterward threw him into such perplexity.


As to the order of the work, Lady Eastlake gives ample explanation in
the preface:

"In the short programme left by Mrs. Jameson, the ideal and devotional
subjects, such as the Good Shepherd, the Lamb, the Second Person of
the Trinity, were placed first; the scriptural history of our Lord's
life on earth next; and, lastly, the types from the Old Testament.
There is reason, however, to believe, from the evidence of what she
had already written, that she would have departed from this
arrangement. After much deliberation, I have ventured to do so, and to
place the subjects chronologically. The work commences, therefore,
with that which heads most systems of Christian art--The Fall of
Lucifer and Creation of the World--followed by the types and prophets
of the Old Testament. Next comes the history of the Innocents and of
John the Baptist, written by her own hand, and leading to the Life and
Passion of our Lord. The abstract and devotional subjects, as growing
out of these materials, then follow, and the work terminates with the
Last Judgment."

Mrs. Jameson's own share in the work is confined mainly to some of the
types, the histories specified above, and familiar scenes in the
earlier portions of the Gospel narrative, including a few of the
miracles and parables of our Lord. The notes are fragmentary, but
written in her usual interesting and lively style. How refreshing, for
instance, and characteristic are the following comments upon some
pictures representing the dismissal of Hagar and Ishmael at the
imperious request of Sarah:

"I believe the most celebrated example is the picture by Guercino, in
the Brera; but I do not think it deserves its celebrity--the pathetic
is there alloyed with vulgarity of character. I remember that, when I
first saw this picture, I could only think of the praises lavished on
it by Byron and others, as the finest expression of deep, natural
pathos to be found in the whole range of art. I fancied, as many do,
that I could see in it the beauties so poetically described. Some
years later, when I saw it again, with a more cultivated eye and
taste, my disappointment was great. In fact, Abraham is much more like
an unfeeling old beggar than a majestic patriarch, resigned to the
divine will, yet struck to the heart by the cruel necessity under
which he was acting. Hagar cries like a housemaid turned off without
wages or warning, and Ishmael is merely a blubbering boy. For
expression, the picture by Govaert Hiricke (Berlin Gallery, 815) seems
to me much superior; the look of appealing anguish in the face of
Hagar as she turns to Abraham, and points to her weeping boy, reaches
to the tragic in point of conception, but Ishmael, if very natural,
with his fist in his eye, is also rather vulgar. Rembrandt's
composition is quite dramatic, and, in his manner, as fine as
possible. Hagar, lingering on the step of the dwelling whence she is
rejected, weeps reproachfully; Ishmael, in a rich Oriental costume,
steps on before, with the boyish courage of one destined to become an
archer and a hunter in the wilderness, and the father of a great and
even yet unconquered nation; in the background Sarah is seen looking
out of the window at her departing rival, with exultation in her

Those who are acquainted with Italian paintings of the 15th century
must have remarked the frequency with which the great masters of the
Tuscan school in that era treat the subject of "The Massacre of the
Innocents." Though our Lord is not an actor in the scene, it is
intimately connected with his history. The Innocents were the first
martyrs in his cause, and from the earliest times attracted the
veneration and tender affection of Christians. Painful as the subject
is, it affords scope for the exercise of the highest tragic power. The
mere fact that Herod's sword swept the nurseries of Bethlehem, though
necessarily entering into the picture, becomes subordinate to the
{254} sorrow which then started into life in so many mothers' hearts.
That is the point made most prominent in the Gospel by the citation of
the pathetic words of Jeremias in the prophecy: "In Rama was there a
voice heard, lamentations, and weeping, and great mourning. Rachel
weeping for her children, and would not be comforted, because they are
not." The mind is carried back to the time when the very sound of
those tottering feet sufficed to waken the pulses of love in the
mother's bosom; when those confiding hands were ever locked in hers.
How dear had been the pretty prattle of those little ones, the first
stammerings of the tongue, the silvery laughter, even the cries of
passion or of pain! Hitherto all had bsen sunshine, or once and again
the shadow of some light cloud had drifted across the face of heaven;
but now agony comes on the wings of the whirlwind--a pitiless storm
that leaves nothing but blank, broken hearts behind. Here we see a
bereaved mother, wildly passionate, tossing her frantic arms
heavenward; we almost fancy we hear her rave and moan. There we mark
the wandering footsteps, no longer obedient to the helm of reason.
Another, with clasped hands, kneels, gazing on the purple stains which
dye the ivory limbs of her slaughtered darling. Or the eye rests with
awful compassion on a standing figure, another speechless Niobe, pale
and unconscious as a statue, still pressing her dead infant to her
breast. Upon one or two upturned faces a light has broken; the grand
thought seems just to have flashed upon their souls--that the purple
stains are the dye of martyrdom, destined by a loving Providence to
adorn a robe of unfading glory. And so sorrow passes almost into joy,
and the imagination reaches forward to another sorrowful Mother
--Mother of sorrows--who is to sit in desolation, yet mastering her
deep woe, and, with a sacrificing love that transcends resignation,
entering into and uniting herself with the mysterious designs of God.
In spite, however, of the interest of the subject, for ages it was
rarely depicted. Mrs. Jameson gives the following account of its
sudden rise into general favor:

"All at once, however, in the latter half of the 15th century--that
is, after 1450--we find the subject of the Holy Innocents assuming an
extraordinary degree of popularity and importance. Then, for the first
time, we find chapels dedicated to them, and groups of martyred
children in altar-pieces round the throne of Christ or the Virgin.
From this period we have innumerable examples of the terrible scene of
the massacre at Bethlehem, treated as a separate subject in pictures
and prints, while the best artists vied with each other in varying and
elaborating the details of circumstantial cruelty and frantic despair.

"For a long time, I could not comprehend how this came about, nor how
it happened that through all Italy, especially in the Tuscan schools,
a subject so ghastly and so painful should have assumed this sort of
prominence. The cause, as it gradually revealed itself, rendered every
picture more and more interesting; connecting them with each other,
and showing how intimately the history of art is mixed up with the
life of a people.

"There had existed at Florence, from the 13th century, a hospital for
foundlings, the first institution of the kind in Europe. It was
attached to the Benedictine monastery of San Gallo, near one of the
gates of the city still bearing the name. In the 15th century, when
the population and extent of the city had greatly increased, it was
found that this hospital was too small, and the funds of the monastery
quite inadequate to the purpose. Then Lionardo Buruni, of Arezzo, who
was twice chancellor of Florence--the same Lionardo who gave to
Ghiberti the subjects of his famous gates--filled with compassion for
the orphans and neglected children, addressed the senate on the
subject, and made such an affecting appeal in their behalf, that not
the senate only, but the whole people of {255} Florence, responded
with enthusiasm, frequently interrupting him with cries of 'Viva
Messer Lionardo d'Arezzo!' 'And,' adds the historian, 'never was a
question of importance carried with such [more] quickness and
unanimity' (_mai con maggior celerità e pienezza de' voti fu vinto
partito di cosa grave come questa_). Large sums were voted, offerings
flowed in, a superb hospital was founded, and Brunelleschi was
appointed architect. When finished, which was not till 1444, it was
solemnly dedicated to the '_Holy Innocents_.' The first child
consigned to the new institution was a poor little female infant, on
whose breast was pinned the name 'Agata,' in remembrance of which an
altar in the chapel was dedicated to St. Agatha. We have proof that
the foundation, progress, and consecration of this refuge for
destitute children excited the greatest interest and sympathy, not
only in Florence, but in the neighboring states, and that it was
imitated in Pisa, Arezzo, and Siena. The union of the two hospitals of
San Gallo and the 'Innocenti' took place in 1463. Churches and chapels
were appended to the hospitals, and, as a matter of course, the
painters and sculptors were called upon to decorate them. Such are the
circumstances which explain, as I think, the popularity of the story
of the Innocents in the 15th century, and the manner in which it
occupied the minds of the great cotemporary artists of the Tuscan
school, and others after them."

We cannot pretend to decide upon the truth of this supposed connection
between the establishment of an institution to minister to the wants
of the forsaken and the development of a special branch of Christian
art. Whether true or not, this much is certain, that it is in keeping
with a multitude of instances which go to prove how favorable the
practice of Catholic charity is to the progress of the arts. Love ever
pours itself around in streams of radiance, lighting up whole regions
which lie beyond its immediate object. It copies the creative
liberality of God, who, in providing us with what is necessary for
subsistence, surrounds us at the same time with a thousand superfluous
manifestations of beauty.

But it is time to pass on to the second volume of this history, which
we owe almost entirely to the pen of Lady Eastlake. It is mainly
occupied with the Passion of our Lord; and certainly the diligent
attention paid by the authoress to this subject, and the judgment
displayed in the arrangement of the narrative and the selection of
examples, cannot be too highly commended. The style is generally
clear, simple, and earnest. Always dignified, it sometimes rises to
eloquence, as in the description of Rembrandt's etching of the "Ecce
Homo," and in the following criticism of Leonardo da Vinci's
celebrated "Last Supper." After a clever disquisition on the
difficulties of the subject, and the conditions essential to its
effective treatment, she thus proceeds:

"We need not say who did fulfil these conditions, nor whose Last
Supper it is--all ruined and defaced as it may be--which alone arouses
the heart of the spectator as effectually as that incomparable shadow
in the centre has roused the feelings of the dim forms on each side of
him. Leonardo da Vinci's _Cena_, to all who consider this grand
subject through the medium of art, is _the_ Last Supper--there is no
other. Various representations exist, and by the highest names in art,
but they do not touch the subtle spring. Compared with this _chef
d'oeuvre_, their Last Suppers are mere exhibitions of well-drawn,
draped, or colored figures, in studiously varied attitudes, which
excite no emotion beyond the admiration due to these qualities. It is
no wonder that Leonardo should have done little or nothing more after
the execution, in his forty-sixth year, of that stupendous picture. It
was not in man not to be fastidious, who had such an unapproachable
standard of his own {256} powers perpetually standing in his path.

"Let us now consider this figure of Christ more closely.

"It is not sufficient to say that our Lord has just uttered this
sentence, viz., 'Verily, verily, I say unto you, one of you shall
betray me;' we must endeavor to define in what, in his own person, the
visible proof of his having spoken consists. The painter has cast the
eyes down--an action which generally detracts from the expression of a
face. Here, however, no such loss is felt. The outward sight, it is
true, is in abeyance, but the intensest sense of inward vision has
taken its place. Our Lord is looking into himself--that self which
knew 'all things,' and therefore needed not to lift his mortal lids to
ascertain what effect his words had produced. The honest indignation
of the apostles, the visible perturbation of the traitor, are each
right in their place, and for the looker-on, but they are nothing to
him. Thus here at once the highest power and refinement of art is
shown, by the conversion of what in most hands would have been an
insipidity into the means of expression best suited to the moment. The
inclination of the head, and the expression of every feature, all
contribute to the same intention. This is not the heaviness or even
the repose of previous silence. On the contrary, the head has not yet
risen, nor the muscles of the face subsided from the act of mournful
speech. It is just that evanescent moment which all true painters
yearn to catch, and which few but painters are wont to observe--when
the tones have ceased, but the lips are not sealed--when, for an
instant, the face repeats to the eye what the voice has said to the
ear. No one who has studied that head can doubt that our Lord has just
spoken: the sounds are not there, but they have not travelled far into

"Much, too, in the general speech of this head is owing to the skill
with which, while conveying one particular idea, the painter has
suggested no other. Beautiful as the face is, there is no other beauty
but that which ministers to this end. We know not whether the head be
handsome or picturesque, masculine or feminine in type--whether the
eye be liquid, the cheek ruddy, the hair smooth, or the beard
curling--as we know with such painful certainty in other
representations. All we feel is, that the wave of one intense meaning
has passed over the whole countenance, and left its impress alike on
every part. Sorrow is the predominant expression--that sorrow which,
as we have said in our Introduction, distinguishes the Christian's
God, and which binds him, by a sympathy no fabled deity ever claimed,
with the fallen and suffering race of Adam. His very words have given
himself more pain than they have to his hearers, and a pain he cannot
expend in protestations as they do, for this, as for every other act
of his life, came he into the world.

"But we must not linger with the face alone; no hands ever did such
intellectual service as those which lie spread on that table. They,
too, have just fallen into that position--one so full of meaning to
us, and so unconsciously assumed by him--and they will retain it no
longer than the eye which is down and the head which is sunk. A
special intention on the painter's part may be surmised in the
opposite action of each hand: the palm of the one so graciously and
bountifully open to all who are weary and heavy-laden; the other
averted, yet not closed, as if deprecating its own symbolic office. Or
we may consider their position as applicable to this particular scene
only; the one hand saying, 'Of those that thou hast given me none is
lost,' and the other, which lies near Judas, 'except the son of
perdition.' Or, again, we may give a still narrower definition, and
interpret this averted hand as directing the eye, in some sort, to the
hand of Judas, which lies nearest it, 'Behold, the hand of him that
{257} betrayeth me is with me on the table.' Not that the science of
Christian iconography has been adopted here, for the welcoming and
condemning functions of the respective hands have been reversed--in
reference, probably, to Judas, who sits on our Lord's right. Or we may
give up attributing symbolic intentions of any kind to the painter--a
source of pleasure to the spectator more often justifiable than
justified--and simply give him credit for having, by his own exquisite
feeling alone, so placed the hands as to make them thus minister to a
variety of suggestions. Either way, these grand and pathetic members
stand as preeminent as the head in the pictorial history of our Lord,
having seldom been equalled in beauty of form, and never in power of

"Thus much has been said upon this figure of our Lord, because no
other representation approaches so near the ideal of his person. Time,
ignorance, and violence have done their worst upon it; but it may be
doubted whether it ever suggested more overpowering feelings than in
its present battered and defaced condition, scarcely now to be called
a picture, but a fitter emblem of him who was 'despised and rejected
of men.'"

Perhaps there is no other passage in the work so lovingly elaborated
as this. Rivalling in energy, it surpasses in delicate discrimination
even such brilliant criticisms as that of the eloquent Count de
Montalembert on Fra Angelico's "Last Judgment"--a criticism which must
have struck all readers of "Vandalism and Catholicism in Art" as
worthy of the painting it describes. But the mention of the blessed
friar of Fiesoli reminds us that he is a special favorite with Lady
Eastlake also. The spell of his tender and reverent contemplations has
told upon her with considerable power, to an extent, indeed, which
makes her scarcely just toward Raphael himself. Several graphic pages
are devoted to a description of Fra Angelico's "Last Judgment." His
"Adoration of the Cross" also is dwelt upon with much affection, and
in great detail. But our readers will be enabled, we hope, to form
some idea of the feelings with which Lady Eastlake regards this most
Christian of all artists, from the shorter extracts which we subjoin.
After criticizing a fine fresco by Giotto of "Christ washing the
Disciples' feet," she thus comments upon Fra Angelico's treatment of
the same subject:

"Of all painters who expressed the condescension of the Lord by the
impression it produced upon those to whom it was sent, Fra Angelico
stands foremost in beauty of feeling. Not only the hands, but the feet
of poor shocked Peter protest against his Master's condescension. It
is a contest for humility between the two; but our Lord is more than
humble, he is lovely and mighty too. He is on his knees; but his two
outstretched hands, so lovingly offered, begging to be accepted, go
beyond the mere incident, as art and poetry of this class always do,
and link themselves typically with the whole gracious scheme of
redemption. True Christian art, even if theology were silent, would,
like the very stones, cry out and proclaim how every act of our Lord's
course refers to one supreme idea."

And, once more, speaking of the same artist's picture of the "Descent
from the Cross," she thus contrasts his conception with those of Luca
Signorelli, Michael Angelo, Raphael, Razzi, Da Volterra, and other
Italian versions of the 15th and 16th centuries:

"After contemplating these conceptions of the deposition in which a
certain parade of idle sorrow, vehement action, and pendent
impossibilities are conspicuous, it is a relief to turn to one who
here, as ever, stands alone in his mild glory. Fra Angelico's Descent,
painted for the Sta. Trinita at Florence, now in the Accademia there,
is the perfect realization of the most pious idea. No more Christian
conception of the subject, and no more probable {258} setting forth,
of the scene, can perhaps be attained. All is holy sorrow, calm and
still; the figures move gently, and speak in whispers. No one is too
excited to help, or not to hinder. Joseph and Nicodemus, known by
their glories, are highest in the scale of reverential beings who
people the ladder, and make it almost look as if it lost itself, like
Jacob's, in heaven. They each hold an arm close to the shoulder.
Another disciple sustains the body as he sits on the ladder, a fourth
receives it under the knees; and St. John, a figure of the highest
beauty of expression, lifts his hands and offers his shoulder to the
precious burden, where in another moment it will safely and tenderly
repose. The figure itself is ineffably graceful with pathetic
helplessness, but _Corona gloriae_, victory over the old enemy,
surrounds a head of divine peace. He is restored to his own, and rests
among them with a security as if he knew the loving hands so quietly
and mournfully busied about him. And his peace is with them already:
'Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you.' In this picture it
is as if the pious artist had sought first the kingdom of God, and all
things, even in art, had been added unto him. . . . We have taken only
the centre group (the size forbidding more), leaving out the sorrowing
women on the right, with the Mother piously kneeling with folded
hands, as if so alone she could worthily take back that sacred form."

Such a picture might have been supposed to be the source of Father
Faber's most pathetic description of the same scene in his "Foot of
the Cross," did we not know that there is sure to be a strong family
likeness between the conceptions of two gentle, humble souls, deriving
their inspiration from the same exercise of prayerful and
compassionate contemplation.

It would be a pity to mar the impression made upon our readers by
passages such as we have quoted, and of which there are many kindred
examples scattered throughout Lady Eastlake's volume, by the painful
contrast of a sad passage upon the Agony in the Garden (vol. ii., p.
30). Though not the sole, it is the most serious, blot upon her work.
Misconceiving altogether the symbolic intention of Catholic artists in
placing the chalice and host in the hand of the ministering angel,
Lady Eastlake for once allows the Protestant spirit within to break
through all bounds of decorum. In what sense the eucharistic chalice,
introduce it where you will, can be a _profane_ representation, it is
impossible to conceive. Good taste, not to say reverence, should have
proscribed the employment of such an epithet. A little patient
reflection, or the still easier and surer method of inquiry at some
Catholic source, would, we venture to think, have overcome her
repugnance, and have saved her Catholic readers some unnecessary pain.
But we are willing to let this offence pass, and to leave the logic of
the accompanying strictures, bad as it is, unchallenged, in
consideration of the eminent service rendered by the work, as a whole,
to the cause of Christian art. Few could have brought together a
larger amount of instructive and interesting matter. Few, perhaps no
one, at least among Protestants, could have undertaken the task with
so much to qualify, so little to disqualify, them for the office of
historian and critic of the glorious series of monuments which
Christian artists have bequeathed to us.

One lesson, above all, every unprejudiced reader ought to derive from
these volumes--that Christian art and Catholic art are identical. Not
to every Catholic artist is it given to produce true Christian art;
but he, _caeteris paribus_, is most certain of attaining the true
standard who is most deeply imbued with true Catholic principles, most
highly gifted with the Catholic virtues of supernatural faith and
love. Looking at the whole range of Christian art, it may be safely
averred that whatever shortcomings there have been within the Church
have been owing to {259} the influence of principles foreign to her
spirit; and that, outside the Church (we say it in spite of Lady
Eastlake's admiration of Rembrandt), there has simply never existed
any Christian art at all. In our own days the rule is not reversed.
Whom have Protestants to set against Overbeck, Cornelius, Deger,
Molitor, and we are proud to add our own illustrious countryman,
Herbert? Not surely the Pre-Raphaelite school in England, though it is
the only one that has the least pretensions to the cultivation of
Christian art. No, it is the Catholic Church alone that can stamp upon
the painter's productions the supernatural impress of those notes by
which she herself is recognizable as true.

There is a unity of intention, scope, and spirit in Catholic art of
every age and clime. Like the doctrines and devotions of the Church,
Catholic art, in all its various forms--symbolical, historical,
devotional, ideal--ever revolves round one centre, and is referable to
one exemplar. Divine beauty "manifest in the flesh"--the image of the
Father clothed in human form and living in the Church--he is the
inspirer of Christian art. _Deum nemo vidit unquam: unigenitus Filius,
qui est in sinu Patris, ipse narravit_.  [Footnote 52] The God-man is
the primary object of artistic contemplation. As in doctrine, so in
aestheticism, every truly Catholic artist may exclaim, _Verbum caro
factum est, et habitavit in nobis; et vidimus gloriam ejus, gloriam
quasi unigeniti a Patre, plenum gratia et veritatis_.  [Footnote 53]

  [Footnote 52: "No man hath seen God at any time: the only-begotten
  Son who is in the bosom of the Father, he hath declared him."--John
  i. 18.]

  [Footnote 53: "The Word was made flesh and dwelt among us; and we
  saw his glory, the glory as it were of the only-begotten of the
  father, full of grace and truth."--John i. 14.]

But this unity, how exuberant in its fertility! The unity of the
Church is the source of her catholicity. The two stand or fall
together. And, so, too, the oneness of Catholic art is the secret of
its universality. It admits of no partial view, excludes no variety or
difference. Unity of spirit binds all together in perfect harmony,
just as diversity of race and multiplicity of individual gifts, in her
members, are fitted together, organized, and held in balance by the
unity of the Church. Unity is the basis and safeguard of catholicity;
catholicity the glory and crown of unity.

Nor is the note of apostolicity wanting. For the Bible, and the Bible
only, as the rule and standard of art, substitute Catholic tradition
handed down from the apostles, inclusive of all that is in Scripture,
but reaching beyond the limits of the written word, and ever
interpreted to the artist, no less than to the rest of the faithful,
by the living voice of the teaching Church, and then the principle
which identifies orthodoxy with Christian art may safely be applied as
a test to religious painting.

Lastly--we had almost said above all--the beauty of holiness is
stamped exclusively upon all art created after the mind of the Church.
For Catholic art is nothing else than the product of contemplation in
souls gifted with artistic capacities; and contemplation is only
another word for the gaze of supernatural faith, quickened and
perfected by supernatural love, upon one or other of those mysteries
which the Church sets before the minds of her children. So at least we
have learned from the Angelic Doctor; who tells us  [Footnote 54] that
beauty is found primarily and essentially in the contemplative life.
For, although St. Gregory teaches that contemplation consists in the
love of God, we are to understand this rather of the motive than of
the precise act. The will inflamed with love desires to behold the
beauty of the beloved object, either for its own sake--the heart
always being where the treasure is--or for the sake of the knowledge
itself which results from the act of vision. Sometimes it is the
senses which are thus compelled to act, sometimes the intellect which
is prompted to this gaze, according as the object is material or
spiritual. But how is the beauty of the object {260} perceived? What
is the faculty whose office it is to light up and reduce to order and
due proportion what is seen? Evidently, the reason. For reason is
light, and where there is reason there is harmony and proportion. And
so beauty, whose essence is brightness and due proportion, is, as we
have said, primarily and necessarily found in the contemplative life;
or, which is the same thing, in the exercise of the reason--its
natural exercise, if the beauty contemplated be in the natural order;
its supernatural exercise, if revealed mystery be that which attracts
and occupies the soul.

  [Footnote 54: 2. 2. Q. clxxx. a. 1, and a. 2. ad 3.]


From Chambers's Journal.


Nearly seven years ago, I was walking hurriedly along the boulevards
of Paris one winter's evening; it was Christmas-eve, and had been
ushered in by thick fog and miserable drizzling rain, which provoked
the inhabitants of the gay capital to complain loudly of the change
which they fancied had taken place in the seasons of late years,
whereby the detested _brouillards de Londres_ had been introduced into
their once clear, pure atmosphere. The weather was certainly most
unseasonable, and took away almost entirely the small remnant of
Christmas-like feeling, which an Englishman, with all his efforts, can
manage to keep up in a foreign land. I had sat chatting with a friend
over a cosey fire until dusk; and, on leaving his house, neither a
_remise_ nor a _fiacre_ was to be met with empty; so I made up my mind
to a wet walk, and amused myself, as I went on, by observing the
various groups of passengers, some of them suddenly benighted like
myself, as they sped on their way along the crowded thoroughfare. The
brilliant lamps hung from the shops threw a glare over each face as it
flitted past, or paused to look in at the windows; and the noise of
hammers resounded incessantly from the edge of the pavement, where
workmen were busy erecting small wooden booths for the annual
New-Year's fair. Some were already completed, and their owners hovered
about, ever and anon darting forth from behind their small counters,
to pounce upon a likely customer, to whom they extolled the beauty and
cheapness of their wares in tempting terms.

"Tenez, monsieur!" cries an old woman, whose entire stock-in-trade
consists of a few pairs of doll's shoes of chocolate, displayed upon a
tin tray, over which she carefully holds a weather-beaten umbrella.
"Two sous the pair, two sous!" "Voilà, mesdames," bawls a youth of
ten, who, in London, would probably execute an unlimited number of
Catherine-wheels under the feet of paterfamilias, as he crosses a
crowded street; here he is carefully watching a basinful of water, in
which float a number of glass ducks of the most brilliant and
unnatural colors. "Pour un sou!" and he holds up one tiny image
between his finger and thumb, with a business-like air. "Fi done!"
answers a sharp-visaged elderly woman, as she withdraws six of the
ducks from their watery bed, and places them gently in a corner of her
capacious basket, offering the owner at the same time four sous, {261}
which he accepts with the invariable "Merci, madame," and the polite
Parisian bow; and depositing the coins in some deep recess of his huge
trouser-pockets, he resumes his cry of "Un sou, mesdames, pour un
sou," with unblushing mendacity. Just at the corner of the boulevard,
where the Rue de la Paix joins it, stood a lively, wiry-looking little
man, whose bows and cries were incessant, holding something in his
outstretched hands carefully wrapped in wet grass, which he entreats
the bystanders to purchase. As I approach him, he uncovers it, and
discloses a small tortoise, who waves his thin neck from side to side
deprecatingly, and looks appealingly out of his dark eyes. "Buy him,
monsieur," cries the little owner: "he is my last; he will be your
best friend for many years, and afterward he will make an excellent
soup!" A laugh from some of the passers-by rewarded this very naive
definition of a pet; and leaving the lively bustle of the boulevard, I
turned down the Rue de la Paix, and into the dark-looking Rue Neuve
St. Augustin; a little way down which, I perceived a small knot of
people gathered under the arched entrance to a _hôtel_.

There were not many--a few bloused workmen returning from their daily
toil, two or three women, and the usual amount of active _gamins_
darting about the outskirts; within, I could perceive the cocked-hat
of the ever-watchful _sergent de ville_. Prompted by that gregarious
instinct which leads most men toward crowds, I went up to it; and, by
the help of a tolerably tall figure, I looked over the heads of the
people into the centre, at a group, the first sight of whom I shall
not soon forget. There, before me, on the cold pavement, now wet with
wintry rain, lay a little, a very little girl, fainting. Her face,
which was deadly pale, looked worn and pinched by want into that aged,
hard look so touching to see in the very young, because it tells of a
premature exposure to trial and care, if not of a struggle literally
for life. Her jet-black hair, of which she had a profusion, lay
unbound over her shoulders like a mantle. Her dress was an old black
velvet frock, covered with spangles, with a piece of something red
sewn on the skirt, and a scarlet bodice. Her neck and arms were bare;
and the gay dress, where it had been opened in front, showed nothing
underneath it but the poor thin body. Her legs were blue and mottled
with cold; and the tiny feet were thrust into wooden _sabots_, one of
which had dropped off, a world too wide for the little foot it was
meant to protect. A kind-looking elderly woman knelt on the pavement,
and supported the child's head in her arms, chafing her cold hands,
and trying, by every means in her power, to restore animation; and
wandering uneasily up and down beside them, was a curious-looking
non-descript figure, such as one can rarely meet with out of Paris. It
was a poodle--at least so its restless, bead-like, black eyes and
muzzle betokened, and also a suspicious-looking tuft of hair, now
visible, waving above its garments--but the animal presented a most
ludicrous appearance, from being dressed up in a very exact imitation
of the costume of a fine lady during the century of Louis le Grand.
The brilliant eyes were surmounted by a cleverly contrived wig,
frizzed, powdered, and sparkling with mock jewels; the body decked out
in a cherry-colored satin bodice, with a long peaked stomacher,
trimmed with lace, and a stiff hoop, bell-like in shape, but, in
proportion, far within the dimensions of a modern crinoline; even the
high-heeled shoes of scarlet leather were not forgotten; and the
strange anomaly between the animal and its disguise was irresistibly
ludicrous. The dog was perfectly aware that something was going
on--something strange, pitiful, and, what was more to the purpose,
nearly concerning himself; and clever as he was, he could not yet see
a way through his difficulties.

His misery was extreme; he pattered piteously up and down the space
{262} round the fainting child, and raised himself up anxiously on his
hind-legs to peer into her little wan face, presenting thus a still
more ludicrous aspect than before. With his wise doggish face peeping
out curiously from the ridiculous human head-dress, he sniffed all
over the various feet which encircled his precious mistress,
suspiciously; and finally placing himself, still on his hind-legs,
close by her side, he laid his head lovingly to her cheek, and uttered
a low dismal howl, followed, after an instant's pause, by an impatient
bark. The child stirred--roused apparently by the familiar
sound--gasped for breath once or twice; and presently opening her
eyes, she cried feebly, "Mouton, où es tu done?" He leaped up in an
ecstacy, trying, in the height of his joy, to lick her face; but this
was not to be: she pushed him away as roughly as the little feeble
hand had strength to do.

"Ah, wicked dog, go away; you do mischief," she said, fixing a pair of
eyes as round and almost as black as his own upon the unfortunate
animal. He dropped instantly, and with a subdued, sorrowful air, lay
down, licking diligently, in his humility, the little foot from which
the sabot had fallen: he had evidently proved that submission was the
only plan to pursue with his imperious mistress. The girl was stronger
now, and able to sit up with the help of the good woman's knee, and
she drank off a cup of milk which the compassionate wife of the
_concierge_ handed to her. "Thanks, madame," said the child, with native
politeness; "I am better now. You are a good Christian," she added,
turning her head so as to look in the face of the woman who supported

"What are you called, my child?" asked her friend. "Where do you

"Antoinette Elizabeth is my baptismal name," answered the child, with
odd gravity; "but I am generally called _Poucette_, because, you see,
I am small;" and a faint tinge of color came into her pale cheeks.

No wonder the name was bestowed upon her, for we could see that she
was small, very small; and, from the diminutive size of her limbs, she
seemed likely to remain so till the end of her days.

"Will you go home now?" asked the woman, after a moment's pause.

"No, not just yet," said the tiny being. "I have had no supper. I
shall go to Emile, but Mouton may go home. Go!" she cried,
imperiously, to the dog, as she swiftly slid off the marvellous dress
and wig, out of which casing Mouton came forth an ordinary looking and
decidedly dirty poodle. He hesitated for an instant, when she raised
her little clenched fist, and shook it fiercely at him, repeating
"Go!" in louder tones. He wagged his tail deprecatingly, licked his
black lips, looked imploringly at her out of his loving eyes, and
seemed to beg permission to remain with her; but in vain; then, seeing
her endeavor to rise, he turned, fled up the street with the swiftness
of a bird, and disappeared round the corner. His mistress, in the
meantime, folded up the dog's finery carefully, and deposited it
inside her own poor garments; then, after an instant's pause, she rose
to her feet, and looked round at us. She was well named Poucette: in
stature she did not exceed a child of four years old; but she was
perfectly made, and the limbs were in excellent proportion with the
stature, only her face showed age. There was a keen, worldly look
about the mouth, with its thin scarlet lips; and a vindictive
expression shining in the bold, black eyes--altogether a hard-looking
face, not at all attractive in its character; and yet I felt myself
drawn to the poor child.

She was evidently half-starved, fighting her own hard battle with the
world, and keeping her struggle as much to herself as she could; and
when, scanning curiously over the faces surrounding her, her eyes
rested on mine, I stepped forward, and offered her a five-franc piece.
To my surprise, she threw the money on the pavement {263} with the
bitterest scorn. "I don't want money," she shrieked, passionately--"I
want my supper. Go away, _canaille!_" I stooped down toward her, and
took her hand. "Come with me," I said to her, "and you shall have some
supper. I live close by." She stood on tiptoe even then, and peered
into my face with her sharp eyes. Apparently, however, a short
inspection satisfied her, for she said softly, "Thank you," and tried
to hold my hand. Finding it too much for her small grasp, she clung to
my trousers with one hand, and with the other she waved off the
wondering bystanders with a most majestic air. I offered payment for
the milk, which the good woman civilly refused; and then I sent for a
_fiacre_ in which to get to my lodgings in the Rue Rivoli, shrinking,
I must confess, from the idea of the ridiculous figure I should cut
walking along the streets with this absurd though unfortunate
creature. Presently the concierge arrived with one, and we stepped in,
Poucette entering majestically first. I gave the word, and we started.
Hardly had we turned out of the street, when the impulsive child
beside me seized me with both hands, and in an ecstacy of gratitude
thanked me with streaming eyes for what I was doing for her. "I am
starving," she sobbed--"I fainted from hunger. I have been dancing on
the boulevards all day with Mouton, who is hungry, too, poor fellow,
for he only ate a small bit of bread which a good little gentleman
gave him this morning."

"Why did you not take the money, then?" I asked. "You might have
bought food for yourself and Mouton."

"I did not want money," said the girl proudly--"I don't beg."

"But you say you are hungry."

"That is nothing. I never beg; I dance; and tonight, when I have had
some supper, I shall dance for you, and you shall see," drawing
herself up.

At this speech I hesitated. What in the world had I to do with a
dancing-girl in my quiet bachelor rooms? Did she intend taking them by
storm, and quartering herself upon me, whether I liked it or not? The
question was a difficult one; but yet, when I looked down at the tiny
figure, with its poor, woe-begone face, so thin and weary-looking, its
utter weakness and dependence, I felt that, come what might, I could
not act otherwise than I was doing. "There, go up stairs, _au
troisième_" said I to my charge, as the fiacre stopped, and we got
out; when lo! from behind a large stone close by the entrance to the
_porte-co-chère_, the black round eyes of Mouton glanced furtively out
upon us. His behavior was exceedingly reserved; he durst not even wag
his tail for fear of giving offence, but he glanced at me in the
meekest, humblest entreaty ever dog did. "Don't send him away," I said
to Poucette: "take him up stairs with you; I wish him to remain."

She made no reply, but snapped her fingers encouragingly at him, and
he followed her closely, as she walked up stairs. I paused a moment
with the concierge, to ask her to provide some dinner for my
unexpected guests; and then mounted the stairs after them. I found
Antoinette Elizabeth and her faithful follower seated at my door,
gravely awaiting my arrival. Mouton recognized me as a friend, and
faintly wagged his tail; evidently he was careful, in the presence of
his mistress, upon whom he bestowed his favors. We entered my room,
all three of us; and presently the dinner arrived, and was done ample
justice to. Poucette ate heartily, but not ravenously; and after the
meal was over, we drew our chairs round the fire, and sat eating
walnuts. She asked then, with more timidity than she had yet shown:
"When shall we have the honor of dancing for monsieur?" raising her
large black eyes, which had lost their fierce look, to my face.

"Not just yet, Poucette," I replied. "Tell me something about yourself
first, and eat more walnuts."


She looked up sharply at this, as if to say, What business is that of
yours? then away into the fire, which was evidently a novel luxury to
her; and finally her glance rested on Mouton, who, having devoured
every superfluous piece of meat, and gnawed the only bone at table,
had now stretched himself on the hearth-rug, and slumbered peacefully
at her feet. "Monsieur is very good," she said presently, with a sigh,
still with her eyes fixed on Mouton. "My history is nothing very
great. I am not a Parisian; my father was a Norman."

"Is he alive now?" I asked, as she paused here.

"I don't know about that," she answered haughtily. "He was a wicked
man. Monsieur understands me?" she said questioningly, with a piercing

"Yes, poor child. And your mother, what of her?"

"She is an angel," faltered the girl. "She went up to heaven last
Christmas;" and the tears filled her eyes as she said it.

"How have you lived since?'

"Oh, that was at Marseilles; and I came on here with Mouton. We
dance," she continued in a firmer voice; "we go out with a man called
Emile, who plays the organ very well, and he has another dog like
Mouton,' only not at all clever: the stupid creature can only hold a
basket in his mouth, and beg for sous; he has no talent." She shrugged
her shoulders, and continued, "We live with Emile and his wife; they
are not always kind to me; but I love Jean."

"Who is this Jean?" I asked.

"Ah! he is a poor boy," she replied; the whole expression of her
countenance softening at his name, and her sallow cheeks crimsoning
with a tender flush. "He is lame; he cannot walk, and is pulled about
in a little carriage; but he does not like to beg, so Emile will not
take him out with us."

"Is Emile his father?" I asked.

"No, monsieur; his father is dead but his mother is Emile's wife. I
take care of Jean myself."

"Are they good to you?"

"Yes, pretty well. You see I dance for them, and people give more
money because I am there; and then Mouton is so clever; one does not
easily meet with a dog like that, who will stand on his hind-legs for
an hour together, and dance as he does. Look at his dress too;" and
she pulled out of the bosom of her frock Mouton's paraphernalia, and
displayed it with evident pride. "In my opinion now, there is no such
dress as that for a dog in all Paris," she said, as she held it up
admiringly to the lamp. "Jean made those shoes; ar'n't they droll? And
the wig; look, that is superb!"

"Who made the wig?" I asked.

"Ah! it was a little boy who is apprenticed to a wigmaker," she
answered. "Monsieur, it was a bargain between us; he wanted something
from me, and--and I said I would give it him if he made a wig for
Mouton; and this is the wig. He is not bad himself, that little boy;
but he is not at all so good as Jean."

"How old is Jean?" I asked.

"He is twelve years old, monsieur."

"And you?"

"I am ten," she replied, with a little sigh and a blush. "But I may
grow still, may I not?" she asked timidly, looking up into my face so
pathetically, that I had hardly sufficient gravity to answer, "Yes, of
course; you will doubtless grow for a long time yet."

"Ah! that is exactly what Jean says," she exclaimed gaily; then added
in a lower voice, "Jean says he likes little people best; but, you
see, he may say that because he likes me."

I answered nothing to this; and presently she roused herself from a
little reverie, and said, "Now we shall dance for you, because it gets
late, and I must go home."

"If you like to remain here all night," I said, "the wife of the
concierge will let you sleep in a little {265} room off theirs, down
stairs; and when you have had some breakfast, you can then return."

"No, no," she repeated sharply; "I will not sleep here; I go home to

"Will Emile be glad to see you?"

"That depends; if he is cross, he will beat me for staying so long;
but it does not matter; I wished to stay, and I liked my dinner, and
this warm fire" (she looked wistfully at it). "Monsieur is very good.
Come, Mouton, my friend; wake yourself up."

The dog rose, shook himself, and patiently allowed himself to be
dressed once more. He took an unfair advantage of his mistress,
however, when she knelt down to put on his shoes, and licked her face.
"Ah, _cochon_, how often must I box your ears for that trick!" she
said, as she gave him a tap on the side of his head, for the liberty.
"Come now, walk along." The dog paced soberly toward the door on his
hind-legs.--"That is the _ancien régime_," she explained to me.--"Now,
Mouton, show us how people walk at the present day." The dog stopped,
and at once imitated the short, mincing step of a Parisian belle,
shaking his hoop from side to side in most ludicrous fashion; and as
he reached his mistress, he dropped a little awkward courtesy.

"That is well," she said. "Now sing for us like Madame G----," naming
a famous opera-singer, whose fame was then at its height, and she laid
a light piece of music-paper across his paws. The dog looked closely
down on the paper for an instant, licked his lips, looked round at an
imaginary audience, and then throwing back his head, and fixing his
black eyes on the ceiling, he uttered a howl so shrill and piercing
that I stopped my ears; he then ceased for an instant, looked at his
music attentively, then at his audience, and again uttered that
ear-piercing howl. "That is enough," said Poucette; "bow to the
company." The dog rose and sank with the grace almost of the prima
donna herself.

"Now, Mouton, we are going to dance;" and taking the animal by its
paw, she put the other arm round it, and the two whirled round in a
waltz, keeping admirable time to a tune which Poucette whistled. "Now
read a book, and rest yourself whilst I dance;" and again the piece of
music was laid on Mouton's paws, and he bent his eyes on it,
apparently with the most devoted attention, whilst Poucette slipped
off her heavy sabots, and with naked feet thrust into a pair of old
satin slippers, which she produced from some pocket in her dress, she
executed a sort of fancy dance, half Cachuca, half Bolero, throwing
herself into pretty, graceful attitudes, with a step as light as a
fairy's; then, as she approached Mouton in the figure, she lifted the
music, and taking him by one paw, she led him forward to the front of
my chair on the points of her toes, the two courtesying nearly to the
ground, when Mouton affectionately kissed his mistress on the cheek.

"There, it is over now," said Poucette; "that is all. He does not know
the minuet perfectly yet: next week, perhaps, we shall try it for the
_Jour de l'An_."

"Well done!" I exclaimed, and clapped my hands. "He is a famous dog;
and you--you dance beautifully."

Mouton came to be patted and made much of; and his mistress now
announced her intention of going home at once. Finding it useless to
try and induce her to stay, I offered to go with her myself, and see
her safely through the still crowded streets; but this she firmly

"No, not to-night," she said. "You may come to-morrow, if you will be
so kind, but not to-night. You have been very good, monsieur; I am not
ungrateful. You may come to-morrow; Rue----,  No.----,  quite close to
Notre Dame." She took my hand, raised it to her lips, courtesied, and
was gone.


I followed her down stairs, and watched the little figure hurrying
along with a firm step, upright as a dart, the light from the
gas-lamps falling now and then on the spangles of her dress, and
making them twinkle for an instant; and the dark outline of Mouton
following closely behind her, under the shadow of the houses.
Presently they crossed the street, and disappeared in the distance;
and I turned and walked up stairs to my cosey well-lighted room, to
think over the strange life of a street dancing-girl.

After this, I made inquiries about Poucette in the part of the town
where she lived, and visited the man Emile and his wife often. Here I
found the cripple boy Jean, to whom Poucette clung with a tenacity of
affection that was touching to witness. He had had a fall as an
infant, so his mother said, and never had walked; but his fingers were
skilful in making toys, baskets, and small rush-mats, which Poucette
sold during her daily rounds. To him she devoted her affections, her
life, with a steady ardor not often met with at her age. Toward
others, she was always grave, distant, often haughty and bitter in her
expressions of anger, but to him never. However tired she might return
home after dancing or selling his wares on the boulevard, she never
showed him that she was so; if he wished to go out, she drew him in a
rude wooden sledge to the gardens of the Luxembourg; and the two would
sit there by the hour together on Sundays, criticising the passers-by
as they walked about in their gay dresses. At night, if the invalid
was restless or in pain, Poucette sat beside him, sometimes till day
dawned, with a sympathizing cheerful face, ready to attend upon every
want. There she shone; but take away Jean out of her world, and
Poucette stood forth a vixen. Madame Emile, who was herself somewhat
of a shrew, vowed that if it were not that she and Jean were so bound
up together, and nothing could separate them, she must have sent away
Poucette long ago. "No one could endure her temper, monsieur," she
would declare to me; and when she began upon this subject, madame
waxed eloquent. "She is a girl such as there is not besides in Paris.
For Jean, she will give up dress, company, the theatre, everything;
but except for him, she would not go one step out of her way to be
made an empress. It is not natural that. After she first came here, we
had a great deal of trouble with her, and Emile beat her well; but
then she would run away in a rage, and come back again during the
night, for fear Jean should want something. Now we are more used to
her, and we let her have her own way pretty much."

Jean I could get nothing out of except a "Bonjour, monsieur" at
entering and on leaving his house. He sat silently plaiting his mats
or carving toys with his long fingers, looking as if he neither heard
nor understood what we were talking about; but he carefully repeated
all the conversation afterward to his friend Poucette, for she told me
so often when we were together. She used to come and see me at my
rooms, when it was wet, or business was slack; and I succeeded in
finding a customer for her wares in a toy-merchant, who promised to
take all Jean's work at a reasonable price, and was liberal toward the
two children. Poucette was thus able to give up her public dancing,
and stay more at home; and the toyman's daughter taught her dainty
embroidery, in which her skilful fingers soon excelled. She tamed down
wonderfully that winter, and even made some efforts to learn reading,
as I suggested to her what a source of pleasure it would be to Jean,
whose thirst for hearing stories related was intense, if he could read
them for himself. But she was very slow at this; the letters proved a
heavy task to learn, and when we came to spelling, I often despaired;
still she toiled on, and when I left Paris in May, she could read a
very little.


Six months passed, and again I turned my steps to my old
winter-quarters. The summer and autumn had been spent by me partly in
England, partly in Switzerland. My protege was unable to write, and I
had heard nothing of her since I left Paris. I had not returned there
longer than a week, when I set off into the _cité_, to discover again
my little pupil. It was much the same sort of a day as that on which
we had first met; cold, dank, misty rain kept falling, and streets
were wet and sloppy. The part of the town where Poucette lived was
wretchedly poor, dingy, and dirty-looking, especially in such weather
as I now visited it, and the reputed haunt of thieves and evil-doers
of various kinds. I picked my way along narrow ill-paved streets, with
the gutters in the middle, and at last I reached her old abode. There
was no one stirring about; but the door was ajar. I pushed it open,
and walked in. The dwelling had once been some nobleman's hotel in
bygone days, and its rooms were large and lofty, and at present each
inhabited by different poor families. Emile's was on the ground
floor--a long room, formerly used either as a guard-room or for
playing billiards in. It had one large window, opening in the center,
and crossed outside with thick iron bars, which partially excluded the
light. I was confused on entering from the outer air, and at first
could only perceive that the room was filled with a crowd of people,
of various ages and sexes, but all of the lowest order, some sitting,
some standing. A woman came forth to meet me, whom I recognized as
Madame Emile, sobbing and holding her apron to her eyes. "Ah, mon
Dieu, mon Dieu!" she whispered, as she looked at me and clasped her
hands piteously; "the poor Poucette, how hard it is! Monsieur, you are
welcome; but this is a sorrowful time; she is much hurt." She led me
gently through the various groups, all sorrowfully silent, toward a
low pallet, at the head of the room, where, crushed, bleeding, and now
insensible from pain, lay the form of poor Poucette. "What is this?" I
asked in a whisper. "How did it happen?"

"Ah, it was a vile remise," eagerly answered a dozen voices. "She was
returning home yesterday from selling the mats, and the driver was
drunk. She fell in crossing, and he did not see her. The wheel crushed
her poor chest. Ah, she will die, the unhappy child!"

"Where is Jean?" I asked.

His mother silently pointed out what looked like a bundle of clothes
huddled up in the bed beside the dying child. She was dying, my poor
Poucette. One of the kind-hearted surgeons from the _hôpital_ had been
to see her early that morning, and pronounced that beside the blow on
her chest, which was of itself a dangerous one, severe internal
injuries had taken place, which must end her life in a few hours. Poor
Poucette! I seated myself by the little couch in the dark room, which
was so soon to be filled by the presence of death, and presently the
surgeon came again. All eyes turned anxiously toward him as he walked
to the bed, and kneeling down beside it, carefully examined the poor
little sufferer, whose only sign of consciousness was a groan of
anguish now and then.

"Can nothing be done for her?" I asked, as he rose to his feet and
stood by the bed, looking pityingly down at the two children.

"Nothing whatever," he said, with a mournful shake of his head. "She
will not last through the night."

"Does she suffer?" I asked.

"Acutely, but it will not be for long. Mortification is setting in
rapidly." He paused, then added: "She will probably regain
consciousness at the last;" and left the room.

Slowly the weary hours glided on; gradually the moans became weaker,
and the pulse quick and fitful. Suddenly she opened her eyes, and
looked at me inquiringly; then her eyes fell {268} on Jean, who lay at
her side, and uttered an exclamation of joy. "I am not in pain now,"
she said faintly; "that is over.--Ah, my good monsieur, you said you
would return. I am glad."

"I am grieved to find you thus, Poucette," I whispered. "Can I do
anything for you?"

"Perhaps you would like to have Mouton," she said calmly, as if
thinking aloud.

"I will keep him, if you like it," I replied. "Is there anything else
you would like?"

"Only Jean, dear Jean," and her soft dark eyes were fixed timidly yet
imploringly on my face.

"I will take care of Jean."

"The good God reward you, my kind monsieur! That is all that I want.--
Adieu, madame. Adieu, my good friends. It is over." Just then Mouton
raised himself on his hind-legs by the bed, and peered anxiously into
her face. She put out her little right hand, and gently patted his
head; then, with a last effort, she turned round from us, and flung
one tiny arm round the crippled boy at her side. "Je t'aime toujours,"
she whispered, as she bent over and kissed him. It was a last effort.
A slight shiver passed over the little figure; one long-drawn sigh
escaped the white lips. Poucette was gone to her mother; the wanderer
had been taken home; the desolate one was comforted!

My tale is ended, except to say that, from that evening, Mouton has
been my inseparable companion. He is by no means, however, as
complaisant to me as he was to his mistress; on the contrary, Mouton,
like many other _nouveaux riches_, is rather a spoiled dog, and the
tyrant of my small household. Jean became a basket-maker, and it is
not improbable that my fair readers may have in their possession some
of the productions of his skilful fingers. Such was the fruit of my
Christmas-eve in Paris six years ago. I have never spent one there


Translated from Der Katholik.


There is none of the Christian poets who has exercised so great an
influence in the intellectual world as Dante Alighieri. His "Vision of
Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise" has been, ever since its appearance, a
mine in which artists, poets, philosophers, theologians, historians,
and statesmen have found treasures. In Italy, immediately after his
death, professors were appointed in the universities to explain his
work, and numbers of both lay and clerical savants, among them even
princes, bishops, and archbishops, took delight in its study and
exposition. With the spread of the Italian language, on which Dante
has stamped for ever the impress of his genius, and with the progress
of Italian culture, all Europe became acquainted with the Commedia,
and learned to admire its beauty and its grandeur. It was translated
into other tongues; learned foreigners undertook to fathom its depths;
and even the spirit of religious unity in the sixteenth century did
not check its influence over the Roman-Germanic nations. Protestant
translators and expositors contended with the Catholic writers who
made of the work of Dante a special study. The Germans especially have
{269} not been backward in this respect, and to prove it we need only
name Kannegieser, Strecksufs, Kofisch, Witte, Wegele, and Philalethes
(the present king of Saxony).

When we wish to assign Dante his proper place in Christian art and
poetry, by comparison with antiquity, we are reminded at once of Homer
and the veneration in which he was held by the Greeks. But how has the
Florentine poet merited such high consideration? Is it by the might of
his genius and the peculiarity of his chosen theme? By the perfection
and the poetic charm of his expression and language? By his deep
knowledge of life and of human nature? By the philosophic and moral
truths which he has woven into his poem? By his religious and
political views? Or by his judgment of historical personages and

No doubt all these have been helping causes to establish Dante's fame
and give him the position which he holds. But the true reason of all
the singular prerogatives of the poet and of the poem, the reason
which gives us the key to the right understanding of the "Divine
Comedy," and of the various and discrepant explanations of it, must be
sought deeper. There is a principal cause of Dante's greatness, from
which the secondary causes, just named, diverge, as rays of light from
a common centre, and to the knowledge of which only a philosophical
comprehension of history, and especially of poetry, can lead us. We
shall endeavor in this essay to discover this cause, after having
given a brief sketch of the contents and the scope of the great poem.


The _Commedia_, which, in the form of a vision, paints the condition
of the soul after death, is divided into three parts, Hell, Purgatory,
and Paradise. Each part consists of thirty-three cantos, which, with
the introductory canto, make the round number one hundred. Surrounded
by trials and troubles of various kinds, Dante is guided into the
regions of the invisible by his favorite poet Virgil, who comes to his
assistance. Virgil here represents poetry and the idea of the poem. It
was through him that Dante was first led to the serious study of
truth, and to direct his mind to the philosophical consideration of
the condition of mankind.

Our poet now proceeds into the realm of the damned souls, into the
regions of night and hell, which he represents in the form of a funnel
having nine gradually narrowing eddies, in which the souls of the
damned are revolving to the throne of Satan, who sits at the top of
the cone. The narrower grow the circles, the more intense become the
punishments inflicted, in proportion to the increasing guilt of the
culprits. The lowest place among the lost souls is occupied by the
traitors, Brutus, Cassius, and Judas.

The power of the devil over men, and the inexorable character of the
Christian idea of retributive justice, is grandly portrayed in this
part of the work, by interweaving the most moving and striking
episodes, in which well-known characters are described as receiving
punishment equal to their crimes. Even paganism is made to lend its
graces to increase the sublimity of the picture, and clothe the
thoughts of the writer in poetic garments.

Both poets then leave the darkness and horror of hell behind them, and
approach the regions of purification or purgatory, over which
perpetual twilight reigns. This realm of temporary suffering is
supposed by the poet to be on the opposite side of the earth, where
the antipodes dwell. This abode of those souls who are being purified
and doing penance for minor offences, and whose pains are lessened by
the hope of future happiness, is represented in the form of a
mountain, to whose summit one ascends by nine successive degrees, as
the descent through the {270} funnel of hell was by nine lessening
circles. At the top of the mountain is placed that earthly paradise
which was lost by the sins of our first parents, and from which the
way to heaven leads. Having arrived in the terrestrial paradise, Dante
suddenly finds himself deserted by Virgil, who from the beginning had
promised to guide him only so far. But Beatrice meets our poet here,
Beatrice the beloved of his youth. She teaches him the science of God,
and, aided by the light of faith and revelation, which Virgil had not,
she shows him the higher knowledge given to human reason under the
influence of Christianity. At her voice and teaching, Dante is moved
to repentance for his transgressions, and she becomes his future

Dante paints in the most lively colors, and describes with the
greatest beauty, in episodes and conversations, the intimate relation
of the souls in purgatory with each other, and with those they left
behind them on earth, and with the blessed in heaven. This latter
point is illustrated by the frequent appearance of angels, who descend
from time to time into the dusky realms of purgatory.

Led by his beloved Beatrice, our poet now mounts to heaven, and
traverses its various spheres, which are represented according to the
system of Ptolemy. Beginning by the moon, the poet travels through
Mercury, Venus, the Sun, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn, the glory and
happiness of the beatified increasing as he advances, in proportion
with their virtues and holiness, till he arrives at the so-called
Empyrean, at the very throne of God. In the highest sphere Dante
beholds the mystical rose, that is, the glory of the Blessed Virgin,
who is surrounded by the highest saints and angels in the form of a
rose; and among these glorified spirits he sees with delight his
Beatrice near the Mother of God, who gives an honorable place to those
who had been her fervent followers during life. The Vision of Heaven
ends by a glance at the mysteries of the Holy Trinity and the
Incarnation, which mortal eye, though supernaturally strengthened, is
unable to dwell upon for excess of light.

Dante in this part of his work treats the most difficult questions,
not only of philosophy, which he had also done in the preceding
cantos, but also of theology, with the greatest clearness, depth, and
poetic grace. He treats in it of the fundamental ideas of
Christianity, of faith, hope, and charity. The spirits that he
represents to the reader in hell, purgatory, and paradise are by no
means the mere wilful creations of his fancy, but for the most part
are historical characters, some of them but little removed from his
own time, others contemporary; and even those which he borrows from
Judaism or paganism to embellish his poem are symbolical, and have an
intimate connection with some reality. On this very account we should
not judge the Vision as an allegory, although in many respects it has
the peculiarities of an allegorical poem. It is, rather, a mystic
poem, in which the deepest religious and philosophical truths are
represented under the shadow of visionary forms and ethereal
similitudes; and realities are raised to an ideal sphere, where the
mind's eye can penetrate through their misty covering and contemplate
them to satiety. But what is the cause of the great influence which
this poem has exerted on mankind? This is the question which we have
undertaken to answer, and which