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Title: The Catholic World. Volume II; Numbers 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12. - A Monthly Eclectic Magazine
Author: Rameur, E.
Language: English
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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 II; Numbers 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12. - A Monthly Eclectic Magazine" ***

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[Transcriber's notes]
  This text is derived from

  Page numbers in this book are indicated by numbers enclosed in curly
  braces, e.g. {99}. They have been located where page breaks occurred
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  Although square brackets [] usually designate footnotes or
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  This text includes Volume II;
    Number 7--October 1865
    Number 8--November 1865
    Number 9--December 1865
    Number 10--January 1866
    Number 11--February 1866
    Number 12--March 1866
[End Transcriber's notes]



_A Monthly Eclectic Magazine_




OCTOBER, 1865, TO MARCH, 1866.


7 Beekman Street.



Adventure, The, 843.
Anglican and Greek Church, Attempt at Union between the, 65.
All-Hallow Eve; or, The Test of Futurity, 71, 199, 377, 507, 697, 813.
Ancient Laws of Ireland, The, 129.
Anglicanism and the Greek Schism, 429.
Ancient Faculty of Paris, The, 496, 681.

Bell Gossip, 32.
Birds, Migration of, 57.
Bruges, The Capuchin of, 237.
Bossuet and Leibnitz, 433.

Catholic Congresses at Malines and Würzburg, 1, 221, 331, 519
Constance Sherwood, 37, 160, 304, 444, 614, 759.
Chinese Characteristics, 102.
Catholic Settlements In Pennsylvania, 145.
Capuchin of Bruges. The, 237.
Christmas Carols, A Bundle of, 349.
Christendom, Formation of, 856.
Calcutta and its Vicinity, A Ride through, 386.
Christmas Eve: or, The Bible, 397.
Charles II. and his Son, Father James Stuart, 577.
Canton, Up and Down, 656.
California and the Church, 790.
Charles II.'s Last Attempt to Emancipate The Catholics, 827.

Duc d'Ayen, The Daughters of the, 252.

Epidemics, Past and Present, 420.

Formation of Christendom, The, 356.

Gallitzin, Rev. Demetrius Augustin, 145.
Gertrude, Saint, Thoughts on, 406.
Genzano, The Inflorata of, 608.
Glastonbury Abbey, Past and Present, 662.

Handwriting, 695.

Inside the Eye, 119.
Ireland before Christianity, 541.

Kingdom without a King, 705.

Leibnitz and Bossuet, 433.
Law and Literature, 560.

Malines and Würzburg, Catholic Congresses in, 1, 221, 332, 519.
Marie Louise, Napoleon's Marriage with, 12.
Migrations of European Birds, 57.
Miscellany, 136, 276, 563, 714, 853.
Moricière, General De La, 289.
Malta, Siege of, 483.
Mistaken Identity, 707.
Mary, Queen of Scots, The Two Friends of, 813.

Natural History of the Tropics, Gleanings from, 178
Novel Ticket-of-leave, A, 707.

Pierre Prévost's Story, 110.
Pen, Slips of the, 272.
Paris, The Ancient Faculty of, 496, 681.
Pusey, Dr., on the Church of England, 530.
Positivism, 791.
Plain-Work, 740.
Procter, Adelaide Anne, Poems of, 837.

Récamier, Madame, and her Friends, 79.
Rome, Facts and Fictions about, 325.
Religious Statistics of the World, 491.
Rhodes, The Colossus of, 544.

Steam Engine, The Inventor of, 211.
Saturnine Observations, A Few, 266.
Slips of the Pen, 272.
Saints of the Desert, 275, 476, 453, 655, 835.
Saint Catharine of Siena, Public Life of, 547.
Saint Patrick, The Birth place of, 744.

True to the Last, 110.
The Eye, Inside of, 119.
Tropics, Gleanings from the Natural History of, 178
The Clouds and the Poor, 213
The Bible; or, Christmas Eve, 397.
The Adventure, 848.

World, Religious Statistics of the, 491.



An English Maiden's Love, 27.

Better Late than Never, 454.
Books, 495.

Children, The, 70.
Christmas Carol, A, 419, 559.
City Aspirations, 680.

"Dum  Spiro Spero," 159.

Falling Stars, 348.

Inquietus, 704

Kirkstall Abbey, 36.
Keviaar, Pilgrimage to, 127.

Little Things, 836.

Properzia Rossi, 235.
Patience, 812.

Resigned, 654.

Song of the Year, 490.
Saint Elizabeth, 529.

Tender and True and Tried, 385.
The Round of the Waters, 396.
The Better Part, 757.

Unshed Tears, 789.

Winter Signs, 198.




Archbishop Hughes's Complete Works, 282.
American Republic, The, 714.
Andrew Johnson, Life of, 856.

Banim's Works, 286.
Baker, Rev. F. A., Memoir and Sermons of, 566.
Brownson's American Republic, 714.
Brincker, Hans, 719.

Catholic Anecdotes, 287.
Cobden, Richard, Career of, 860.
Complete Works of Archbishop Hughes, 282.
Croppy, The, 859.

Darras' History of the Church, 143.
De Guérin, Eugénie, Journal of, 716.
Draper's Civil Policy of America, 858.

England, Froude's History of, 676.

Faith, the Victory, Bishop McGill's, 575.

Hedge's Reason in Religion, 430.
Holmes, Oliver W., Humorous Poems, 576.

Lives of the Popes, 288.

Mother Juliana's Sixteen Revelations, 281.
Metropolites, The, 287.
Memoir and Sermons of Rev. F. A. Baker, 566.
Manning's Temporal Mission of the Holy Ghost, 568.
Merry Christmas, A Cantata, 719.
Monthly, The, 719.
Mozart, Letters of, 856.

Newman's, Rev. Dr., History of Religious Opinions, 139.
Nicholas of the Flue, 718.

Remy St. Remy, 287.
Reason in Religion, 430.

Sixteen Revelations of Mother Juliana, 281.
Sherman's Great March, Story of, 283.
Saint John of the Cross, Works of, 432.
Spelling Book, The Practical Dictation, 576.
Spare Hours, 718.
St. Teresa, Life of, 855.

Thoreau's Cape Cod, 283.
The Old House by the Boyne, 26.
The Christian Examiner, 573, 717.

United States Cavalry, History of, 858.

Vade Mecum, The Catholic's, 859.





VOL. II., NO. 7.--OCTOBER, 1865.


Translated from the German.





The Catholic Congresses in Belgium are of more recent date than the
general conventions of all Catholic societies in Germany. The
political commotions of 1848 burst the chains which had fettered the
German Church, and ushered in a period of renewed religious life and
activity. This new and glorious era was inaugurated by the council of
twenty-six German bishops at Würzburg, which lasted from Oct 22 to
Nov. 16, 1848. There it was that our prelates boldly seized the
serpent of German revolution, and in their hands the serpent was
turned into a budding rod, the stay alike of Church and state.

Since then sixteen years have rolled by; sixteen general conventions
have been held, each of which gained for its participants the respect
of the public. Powerful was the influence exerted by these meetings on
the religious life of the laity, as is shown both by the numerous and
active associations that arose everywhere, and by the general spirit
of enterprise which they fostered. By their means, the spirit and
principles of the Church were made known to the Catholic laity, whose
actions they were not slow to influence.

To these meetings may be traced, directly or indirectly, whatever good
was accomplished within the past sixteen years in Catholic Germany;
every part of Germany has felt their beneficial effects; they were
well suited to perform the task allotted them; and have thus far at
least attained the end for which they were called into existence.

These meetings were associations of laymen; of laymen penetrated with
the spirit of faith, devoted to the Church, and fully convinced that
in matters relating to the government of the Church, to the
realization of the liberty and independence due to the Church, their
only duty was to listen to the voice of their pastors, and to follow
devotedly the lead of a {2} hierarchy they respected and revered.
Though for the most part but one third of the members of the annual
conventions were laymen, the lay character of the conventions is still
theoretically asserted, and appears to some extent at least in
practice, inasmuch as the president of the convention is always a
layman, and the principal committee is mainly composed of laymen. The
preference is also given to lay orators. The society of laymen
submitted the constitution drafted and adopted at its first meeting,
held at Mayence in 1848, not only to the Holy Father, but to all the
bishops of Germany, who joyfully approved its sentiment, and expressed
their interest in the welfare of the society. The same course is
pursued to the present day; each of the sixteen general conventions
maintained the most intimate relations with the German bishops and the
Holy See.

In honor of the present pontiff, Pius IX., these associations at first
adopted the name of _Piusvereine,_ thus paying a just tribute of
respect to the Holy Father. For Pius IX., during his long pontificate
of almost twenty years, has become the leading spirit of the age; _we
live in the age of Pius IX._ It was he who brought into vogue modern
ideas, and he was the first to do justice to the wants of the age. As
the historian now speaks of the age of Gregory VII. and Innocent III.,
so will the future historian write of the age of Pius IX. The true
sons of the nineteenth century are gathered to fight under the banners
of the many Catholic associations which, founded for the purpose of
putting to flight the threatening assaults of infidelity, have spread
during the pontificate of Pius IX. over every portion of the globe. In
Switzerland the original name of these societies is retained; in
Germany, owing to their branching out into numerous similar
associations, it has disappeared, and we now speak of a "general
convention of the Catholic associations in Germany."

The first general convention took place toward the beginning of
October, 1848, in the ancient electoral palace at Mayence. Hundreds of
noble spirits from every quarter of Germany met here, as if by magic;
the Spirit of God had convened them. Meeting for the first time, they
felt at once that they were friends and brothers. There was no
discord, no embarrassment, for on all hearts rested a deep
consciousness of the unity, the power, and the charity of their common
faith. Whoever was present at this first gathering of the Catholics of
Germany, owned to himself that by no scene which he had previously
witnessed had he been so profoundly impressed. Opposite the stand from
which the speakers were to address the meeting sat Bishop Kaiser, of
Mayence, whilst most prominent among the orators of the occasion
appeared his destined successor, Baron Emmanuel von Ketteler, who was
at that time pastor of the poor and insignificant parish of Hopsten.
Writing of him, Beda Weber said: "His determined character is a fresh
and living type of the German nation, of its universality, its
history, and its Catholic spirit. In his heart he bears the great and
brave German race with all its countless virtues, and hence springs
the peculiar boldness of his words, asserting that the revolution is
but a means to rear the edifice of the German Church, an edifice
destined to be far statelier than the cathedral of Cologne. His form
was tall and powerful, his features marked, expressing at once his
fearlessness, his energy, and his Westphalian devotion to God and the
Church, to the emperor and the nation. The words of Baron von Ketteler
acted irresistibly on all present, for they were but the echo of their
own sentiments." Such was the impression then produced by the man who
is now looked upon by the Catholics of Germany as their

The voice of Beda Weber too was heard on that occasion. Frankfort had
not as yet become the scene of his {3} labors as pastor, for he was
still professor at Meran. He was a member of the German parliament,
then holding its sessions at Frankfort, and like many other Catholic
fellow members had come to Mayence for the purpose of assisting at the
first general reunion of the Catholic societies. His eloquence
likewise called forth immense enthusiasm. Strong and energetic,
sometimes pointed and unsparing, a vigorous son of the mountains,
manly, noble, and respected, he came forth at a most opportune moment
from the solitude of his mountains and his cell, in order to take part
in the struggles of his age and become their historian. A master at
painting characters, he has written unrivalled sketches of the German
parliament and clergy. Equally successful as an orator, a poet, a
historian, and a contributor to periodical literature, Beda Weber was
distinguished no less by a childlike heart and a nice appreciation of
the beautiful in nature and art, than by manly force and an untiring
zeal for what is true and good. His deep and extensive learning has
proved a useful weapon at all times. His writings were read throughout
Germany, and to the rising generation Beda Weber has been an efficient
instructor and director.

_Döllinger_ of Munich was also present; he spoke for the twenty-three
members of the German parliament, maintaining that the concessions
granted to Catholics by that body would necessarily lead to the entire
independence of the Church and the liberty of education. At a meeting
of the Rhenish-Westphalian societies, held at Cologne in May, 1849,
the learned provost delivered another speech, which was at that time
considered one of the best, most timely, and most telling efforts of
German eloquence. Döllinger's speech at the third general convention,
which took place at Regensburg in October, 1849, was hailed as one of
the few consoling signs of that gloomy period. It was a masterpiece of
oratory, that brought conviction to all minds, and which will prove a
lasting monument of German eloquence. The interest Döllinger displayed
in these conventions should not be forgotten. He is entitled to our
respect and gratitude for his aid in laying the foundations of the
edifice; its completion he might well leave to others.

The other members of the parliament that spoke at Mayence were
_Osterrath_, of Dantzic; _von Bally_, a Silesian; A. Reichensperger,
of Cologne; Prof. Sepp, of Munich; and Prof. Knoodt, of Bonn. One of
the most impressive speakers was Forster of Breslau, at that time
canon of the Metropolitan church of Silesia, now prince-bishop of one
of the seven principal sees in the world. Germany looks upon him as
her best pulpit orator. Listen to the words of one who heard Forster
at Mayence: "The chords of his soul are so delicate that every breath
calls forth a sound, and as he must frequently encounter the storms of
the world, we may readily pardon the deep melancholy which tinges his
words. As he spoke, his heart was weighed down by the troubles of the
times, and grief was pictured in his countenance, for he saw no
prospect of reconciliation between the conflicting elements. He has no
faith in a speedy settlement of the relations between Church and
state, such a settlement as will allow freedom of action to the
former. To him the revolution appears to be a divine judgment,
punishing the clergy for their negligence, and chastising the laity
for their crimes. His voice possesses a rich melody, which speaks in
powerful accents to the heart. It sounds like the solemn chimes of a
bell, waking every mind to the convictions which burst forth from the
depth of his soul. He is an orator whose words seem like drops of
honey, and whose faith and devotion call forth our love and our

The best known of the Frankfort representatives were, Arndts, of
Munich; Aulicke, of Berlin; Flir, of {4} Landeck; Kutzen, of Breslau;
von Linde, of Darmstadt; Herman Müller, of Würtzburg; Stülz of St.
Florian; Thinnes, of Eichstädt; and Vogel, of Dillingen.

The noble Baron Henry von Andlaw also assisted at the convention in
Mayence. For sixteen years this chivalric and devoted defender of the
Church has furthered by every means in his power the success of the
Catholic conventions, and his name will often appear in these pages.
Chevalier Francis Joseph von Buss, of Freiburg, was president of the
meeting at Mayence. Buss is the founder of the Catholic associations
in Germany; to him above all others was due the success of the
convention at Mayence, and he it was who laid down the principles on
which are based the Catholic societies throughout Germany, and which
are the chief source of their efficacy. In 1848 Buss was in the flower
of his age, fresh and vigorous in body and mind. All Germany was
acquainted with his writings, his exertions, his sufferings, and his
struggles. He was no novice on the battle-field, for he had passed
through a fiery ordeal, and bore the marks of wounds inflicted both by
his own passions and by the broken lances of his enemies. Naturally an
agitator, and an enthusiast for ideas, bold, quick, and intrepid, he
united restless activity and unquenchable ardor with the most
self-sacrificing devotion. He is distinguished for extensive learning,
a powerful imagination, and for the force and flow of his language. So
constant and untiring have been his exertions for the liberty and
independence of the Church, that one who is no mean painter of men and
character has lately styled him the Bayard of the Church in the
nineteenth century. The last time I saw and heard the Chevalier von
Buss was in the convention held at Frankfort in 1862. His imposing
figure, his bold commanding eye, his fiery patriotic heart, his
glowing fancy, his powerful ringing voice, all were unchanged. His
speeches exert the magic influence which belongs to an enthusiastic,
powerful, and penetrating mind. Age has whitened his hair, wrinkles
furrow his noble features, his life is on the wane. A glance at
Catholic Germany and the growth of the Church during the past sixteen
years, will reflect a bright consoling radiance on the evening of his

We must still mention one of the founders and chief stays of the
Catholic general conventions, and one who, alas, is no more. I refer
to Dr. Maurice Lieber, attorney and counsellor at Camberg in Nassau,
one of the most active members at Mayence in 1848; he was elected
president of the second general convention at Breslau in 1849. He was
present at the first seven general meetings, and at Salzburg in 1857
filled the chair a second time. At Cologne, in 1858, this honor would
again have been conferred on him had he not declined. Maurice Lieber
seems by nature to have been designed to preside at these assemblies.
Of a noble appearance, he combined dignity with gentleness, force and
decision with moderation; his remarks were always to the point. An
able and spirited writer and journalist, he contributed in a great
measure to make the public acquainted with the aim and object of the
newly founded association. He never grew weary of scattering good and
fruitful seed, and his writings as well as his speeches were
life-inspiring, strengthening, purifying productions. The name of
Maurice Lieber will ever be honored.

Beside the eminent men above mentioned, those whose exertions aided in
calling into existence the Catholic general conventions in Germany are
Lennig, vicar-general at Mayence, Prof. Riffel, Himioben, now dead,
and lastly, Heinrich and Moufang, who have been present at almost
every meeting.

So many illustrious names are connected with the foundation of the {5}
Catholic congress in Belgium that to do all justice will be extremely

The political and religions status of Belgium is sufficiently well
known. In Belgium there are but two parties; the one espouses the
cause of God, the other supports that of Antichrist. These parties are
on the point of laying aside entirely their political character and of
opposing each other on religious grounds. War is inevitable, war to
the knife; either party must perish. "To be or not to be, that is the

Outnumbering the Catholics in parliament, the followers of Antichrist
eagerly use their superiority to trample their opponents in the dust
and, if possible, annihilate them. The people is the stronghold of the
latter; for the great majority of the Belgians are Catholics, sincere,
fervent, self-sacrificing Catholics. They yield support neither to the
rationalists nor to the solidaires and affranchis. Day by day the
influence of the Catholic leaders increases; they are whetting their
swords, and gathering recruits to fight for Christ and his Church. The
congress at Malines is their rendezvous, as it were. Even the first
congress, that of 1863, exerted a magic influence; the drowsy were
aroused from their lethargy, and the faint-hearted were inspired with
confidence; they saw their strength and felt it. In that congress we
see the beginning of a new epoch in the religious history of Belgium.

The Belgium congresses are imitations of the Catholic conventions in
Germany. A number of men used their best endeavors to bring about the
congress of 1863, and for this they deserve our respect and gratitude.
We shall mention but a few of the many.

_Dumortier_ will head our list. He is one of the most powerful
speakers in Belgium, a ready debater, a valiant champion of the
Catholic cause, whose delight it is to fight for his principles.
Dumortier has the power of kindling in his hearers his own enthusiasm,
as he proved in 1863 at Aix-la-chapelle. He has all the qualities of
an agitator, and these qualities were the cause of his success in
bringing about the congress of 1863. When indignant, Dumortier
inspires awe; his brow is clouded, and like a hurricane he sweeps
everything before him. It is the anger of none but noble spirits that
increases our affection for them. Once only I saw Dumortier swell with
just indignation, and I seldom witnessed a spectacle more sublime.

_Ducpetiaux_ was the soul of the congresses at Malines. To singular
talent for organization he joins a burning zeal for the interests of
Catholicity, and to them he devotes every day and hour of his life. No
sacrifice is too great, no labor too exhausting, if it is needed to
further the Catholic cause. As general secretary, he is in
communication with the leading men of Catholic Europe. At his call
Catholics from every country flocked to Malines. Ducpetiaux was the
ruling mind of the congress, for the president had intrusted him, to a
great extent, with its management. Cautious, subtle, and quick, he is
prompt in action, though no great speaker. The most numerous assembly
would be obedient to his nod. Ducpetiaux is no stranger to Germany,
for he was among us at Aix-la-chapelle in 1862, and at Würzburg in
1864, and the whole-souled remarks made by him on the latter occasion
will long ring in our memory. He is an international character, a type
of the nineteenth century. By the interest a man takes in the
movements and ideas of his age, and by his intercourse with prominent
characters, we may easily estimate his influence. To Germany a general
secretary like Ducpetiaux would be of inestimable advantage.

Viscount _de Kuckhove_ must not be passed over in silence. A thorough
well bred gentleman, he is familiar with the nations and languages of
{6} Europe. He is a man of mind, energy, and prudence, and of a
dazzling appearance. He seems the embodiment of elegance. His speeches
sparkle with delicate touches and are distinguished for refinement.
His voice is somewhat shrill and sharp, but melodious withal. In
Belgium the viscount ranks as an orator equal to Dechamps and
Dumortier. His favorite scheme, to the promotion of which he gives his
entire energies, is the closest union among Catholics of all
countries. At times he expresses this idea so forcibly that he is
misunderstood, but in itself the scheme is praiseworthy, and has been
more or less realized in the age of Pius IX.

Baron _von Gerlache_ now demands our attention. He was president of
the congress both in 1863 and in 1864. If I were writing his
biography, how eventful a life would it be my lot to portray! Baron
Gerlache is identified with Belgian history since 1830; for more than
forty years he has been acknowledged by the Catholics in Belgium as
their head. In 1831 he had no mean share in forming the Belgian
constitution, a constitution based on political eclecticism, which at
that time satisfied all parties, and which promised even-handed
justice to all. Gerlache has ever been the loyal defender of this
constitution; Belgium has not a more devoted son. He is a historian
and a statesman. But the Church too claims his affection, the great
and holy Catholic Church. All Belgium listens to his voice, and his
words sometimes become decrees. He speaks with dignity and moderation,
with caution and prudence; he is always guided by reason, and never
loses sight of facts. His energies spent in the course of a life of
seventy-two years, he is no longer understood as well as formerly; his
voice has become too weak to address an assemblage of six thousand
persons; but there is in it something so solemn, so moving, that his
hearers seem spell-bound. His language is appropriate, and at times
approaches sublimity. Baron Gerlache is as much the idol of the
Catholics of Belgium as O'Connell was of the Irish; he is as respected
as Joseph von Grörres was in Germany; he is the Godfrey de Bouillon of
the great Belgian crusade of the nineteenth century. Great men seldom
appear alone; around them are grouped many minor characters, well
worthy of a niche in the temple of fame. The most prominent of those
who have fought side by side with Baron von Gerlache are the Count de
Theux, a veteran in political warfare, generous, able, and experienced
in the art of governing; the Baron della Faille, a man distinguished
for the dignity of his demeanor and the nobility of his character; his
manners are captivating, and his features bear the impress of
calmness, moderation, and judgment; the Viscount Bethune of Ghent, a
venerable old man, whose countenance beams with piety, and who in the
course of a long career has gathered a store of wisdom and experience;
General Capiaumont, a man immovable as a rock, and full of chivalrous
sentiments. These venerable men were seated on each side of the
President von Gerlache. But the other members are no less worthy of
notice. To hear and see such men produces a profound impression.

_Dechamps_, the mighty Dechamps, the lion of Flanders and Brabant,
must not be forgotten. He stands at the head of the Belgian statesmen,
brave as Achilles, the terror of the so-called liberals. Dechamps was
one of the pearls of the last congress; his mere appearance had a
magic effect; the few words he addressed to the assembly before its
organization called forth a storm of applause; he electrifies his
hearers by his bold and sparkling ideas.

We must next call attention to Joseph _de Hemptinne_. The owner of
immense factories, he employs thousands of laborers, and freely
devotes his fortune to the cause of the Church. _He_ also contributed
to the success of {7} the congress of Malines. His employés owe him a
debt of gratitude. Like a father, he cares for their corporal and
spiritual welfare, accompanies them when going to assist at mass, and
with them he says the beads and receives the sacrament. De Hemptinne
is entirely devoted to his country and his faith; his countenance is a
mirror that reflects a pure and guileless soul, deeply imbued with
religious feeling. It has seldom been my good fortune to meet as
amiable a man as Joseph de Hemptinne.

_Perin_ next demands our notice. He fills a professorship at Louvain,
and is well known to the public by his writings. In the congress be
was noted as an adroit business man. Possessing a refined mind, stored
with manifold attainments, he exerts a peculiar, I might almost say
magic, influence on those with whom he deals. His fine piercing eye
beams with knowledge, not mere book learning, but the knowledge of
men, whilst his noble forehead is stamped with the seal of uncommon
intellectual power. In his language as well as in his actions Perin is
extremely graceful; he might not inaptly be styled the _doctor
elegantissimus_. Count _Villermont_ of Brussels is well known in
Germany, and respected for his historical researches. At Malines he
displayed extraordinarily activity. True, he seems to be no favorite
of the graces--the warrior appears in all his actions. On seeing him,
I imagined I beheld the colonel of one of Tilly's Walloon regiments.
This circumstance must surprise us all the more, as the count is not
only a diligent student of history and a generous supporter of the
Catholic press in Belgium, but also a man who takes a lively interest
in every charitable undertaking and in the social amelioration of his
country. Would to God that Germany had many Counts Villermont!
Monsignor de _Ram_ the rector magnificus of the university of Louvain,
was the representative of Belgian science at Malines. Ever since its
establishment, he has been at the head of that institution, which he
has governed with a firm and steady hand. He is the pride of Belgium,
eminent, perhaps the most eminent, among all her sons. His authority
is most ample, and to it we must probably trace the majestic calmness
that distinguishes his whole being, for to me de Ram appears to be the
personification of dignity. At the proper moment, however, he knows
how to display the volubility and affable manners of the Roman

Many illustrious Belgian names might still be mentioned, but we will
speak of them in a more appropriate place.

The Belgian congresses differ in some respects from the Catholic
conventions in Germany, for the latter are by no means so well
attended as the former. At the German meetings, the number of members
never exceeded fifteen hundred; only six hundred representatives were
present at the convention of Frankfort in 1863, whilst that of Breslau
in 1849 mustered scarcely two hundred members. In 1863 four thousand,
and in 1864 no less than five thousand, were present at the Malines
congress. The sight of this army, full of fervor and of zeal to do
battle for the faith, involuntarily reminds us of the warriors who
were marshalled under the banners of Godfrey for the purpose of
achieving the conquest of Jerusalem and the Holy Land. Or it recalls
to our mind the great council of Clermont (Nov., 1095), at which the
entire assembly, hurried away by the eloquent appeals of Urban II.,
shouted with one accord "_Deus lo volt_," "God wills it," and swore to
deliver Jerusalem from the tyranny of the Moslems. The members of the
Catholic congresses are the crusaders of the nineteenth century, for
in their own way they too battle for Christendom against its enemies,
falsehood and malice.

Belgium is a small kingdom, Malines the central point where all its
railroads converge; it is a Catholic {8} country, boasting of a
numerous clergy both secular and regular; it is an international
country, the Lombardy of the north. Its position has made it the
connecting link between the Romanic and Teutonic races, between the
continent and England. Thus situated, Belgium is a rendezvous equally
convenient for the German, the Frenchman, and the Briton. Moreover,
Belgium has ever been the battle ground of Germany and France: where
can be found a more suitable spot on which to decide the great
struggle for the freedom of the Church? This explains sufficiently the
numerous attendance of the Belgium congress. In addition to the
foreign element, the congress at Malines calls forth the entire
intellectual strength of Belgium, both lay and clerical No one remains
at home; all are brethren fighting for the same cause; all wish to
imbibe new vigor, to gather new courage for the struggle, for the
congress acts like the spiritual exercises of a mission.

Very different is the situation of Germany. Much larger than Belgium,
its most central point is at a considerable distance from its
extremities. Beside, the conventions do not even meet at the most
convenient point, but change their place of meeting every year.
Suppose, therefore, the convention is held in some city on the French
border, say Freiburg, or Treves, or Aix-la-chapelle, this arrangement
will render it very difficult for the delegates from the opposite
extremity of the empire to attend, the more so since it is not likely
that the German railroad companies will reduce their fares to half
price, as was done by the Belgium government roads. Lastly, our
language, difficult in itself, and especially so to the Romanic races,
who are not distinguished for extensive philological learning, will
prevent many from attending our meetings.

For these reasons, the German reunions are hardly an adequate
representation of the Church militant; comparatively few can attend,
the majority must remain at home. For the most part, our conventions
are chiefly composed of delegates from the district or diocese in
which they are held. Nevertheless, every German tribe has its
representative, and Germany, with its many tribes and states, is by no
means an inappropriate emblem of the European family of nations.

The hall of the _Petit Seminaire_ at Malines, where the Belgian
congress meets, is spacious and well fitted for its purpose; it will
seat six thousand persons. Nevertheless, only such as have admission
tickets, which cannot be obtained except at extravagant prices, can
assist at the sessions. The public in general are excluded, and but
few seats are reserved for ladies. On the other hand, the German
convention, which meets now in one city, then in another, desires and
encourages, above all things, the attendance of the inhabitants of the
city where it meets. In every city it has scattered fruit-producing
seed. At one place, the convention called into existence a society for
the promotion of Christian art; at another, an altar society, a
conference of St. Vincent de Paul, or a social club; and in many
cities it inspired new religious life and activity. In fact, if the
city for some reason cannot assist at the meetings, as was the case in
Würzburg, one of the most important ends of the convention is
defeated. The congress at Malines is too numerous to travel from place
to place; moreover, its meetings are not annual, as are those of the
German conventions.

The congress of Malines, like the German convention, claims to be a
congress of laymen. But though here, too, the principal committee is
mainly composed of laymen, the assembly has almost lost its lay
character. Among the laymen, however, who attend the Belgian congress,
there are many excellent speakers, in fact these are more numerous
than in Germany.


All the Belgian bishops were present at Malines. Whilst in Germany but
one or two bishops assist at the convention, the daily meetings of the
Malines congress were attended by the primate of Belgium, Cardinal
Sterex, and the bishops of Bruges, Namur, Ghent, Liege, and Doornik.
The bishops took part in the debates, and in 1864 the speech of
Monseigneur Dupanloup was the event of the day, whilst the congress of
1863 had been distinguished by the presence of the illustrious
archbishop of Westminster, Cardinal Wiseman. Whenever the bishops
appeared, they were welcomed with bursts of enthusiasm. For a full
week might be witnessed the most friendly intercourse between the
bishops and the other members of the congress, and thus the bonds of
affectionate love already existing between the hierarchy, the clergy,
and the laity were drawn still closer.

The nobility too of Flanders and Brabant, nay of all Belgium, was well
and worthily represented. On the rolls of the Malines congress we meet
the most illustrious Belgian names, names pregnant with historic
interest. The German nobles, on the contrary, have thus far paid
little attention to what is nearest and dearest to mankind, the
interests of humanity and religion. True, the Rhenish-Westphalian
nobility appeared in considerable numbers and displayed praiseworthy
zeal at the conventions of Aix-la-chapelle, Frankfort, and Würzburg,
nevertheless there is still room for improvement. Thus far the
Bavarian and Franconian nobles have taken no part in furthering the
restoration of the Church in Germany, and of the same indifference the
Austrian nobility were accused by Count Frederick von Thun, of Vienna.
Still, what a blessing for the nobility if they devoted their
influence to the service of the Church! The consequence would be the
regeneration of the German nobility. May God grant that the German
nobles, like those of Belgium, will join in cordially promoting our
great and sacred cause. Leaders are not wanting, men of talent,
energy, and devotion, such as the Prince Charles of Löwenstein,
Werthheim, and Prince Charles of Isenburg-Birstein.

The professors of the university at Louvain were not only present at
Malines, but worked with their usual energy and ability in the
different sections of the congress. They presented to the world the
noble spectacle of laymen uniting learning with zeal for religion and
devotion to the Church, a spectacle seldom witnessed in Germany. Of
the two thousand professors and fellows of the twenty-two German
universities, how many are there who, untainted by pride and
self-sufficiency, call the Church their mother? It is the union of
knowledge and piety that produces genuine men, worthy of admiration,
and at Malines such men were not scarce.

At Malines the foreigners were well represented; in the German
conventions but few make their appearance. Twice did France send her
chosen warriors to the congress--the first time in 1863, led by
Montalembert, at present the most brilliant defender of the Church,
and again in 1864, under the Bishop of Orleans, called by some the
Bossuet of our day. In August, 1863, the Tuileries were anxiously
occupied with the speeches held in the Petit Seminaire at Malines, for
in France despotism has gagged free speech, and there a congress of
Catholic Europe is an impossibility; the Caesar's minions would
tolerate no such assembly.

Next to the French delegation, the German, led by A. Reichensperger,
of Cologne, was the most numerous. There might also be seen a noble
band of Englishmen, and their speaker, Father Herman the convert,
seemed another St Bernard preaching the crusade. Spain, Italy,
Ireland, Hungary, Poland, Brazil, the United States, Palestine, the
Cape of Good Hope, almost every country on the globe, were represented
at Malines. True, the assembly was by no means {10} as large as the
multitude that met in Rome on June 8, 1862, when Pius IX. saw gathered
around him in St. Peter's church three hundred prelates, thousands of
priests, and forty to fifty thousand laymen, representing every nation
of the earth. Still, the congress at Malines brings to recollection
those immense gatherings of bygone times, where princes and bishops,
nobles and priests, met to provide for the welfare of the nations
committed to their charge.

The Malines congress is in its infancy, still the general committee
has displayed rare ability. All business matters are intrusted to a
few, whilst in Germany there is a great want of order, owing partly to
the inexperience of the local committees, and partly to the scarcity
of men versed in parliamentary proceedings. At the Mayence convention
in 1848, want of preparation might be excused; the subsequent meeting
had not the same claims on our indulgence. The Frankfort reunion in
1863 attempted to remedy the evil and partly succeeded, but until an
efficient general committee be established, many irregularities must
be expected. At Malines the delegates are furnished with a programme
of the questions to be discussed in the different sections; at
Würzburg, on the contrary, the convention seemed at first scarcely to
know the purpose for which it had been convened. In Germany, the
bureau of direction is composed of three presidents and sundry
honorary members and secretaries; at Malines it consists of fifty to
sixty officers of the congress, and the list of honorary
vice-presidents is at times very formidable. In Belgium secret
sessions are unknown, whilst in Germany it often happens that the most
important proceedings are decided upon in secret session, whereas the
public meetings are mainly devoted to the delivery of brilliant
speeches. At Malines the resolutions adopted by the different sections
are passed upon in a short session, seldom attended by more than
one-fifth of all the delegates. One evil at the Belgium congress is
the imperfect knowledge of the German character and of the religious
status of Germany. As the Romanic nations will never learn our
language, it remains for us to supply the deficiency. We must go to
Malines, and expound our views in French both in the sections and
before the full congress. A. Reichensperger pursued the proper course
in the section of Christian art. With surpassing ability he defended
the principles of the Church, triumphantly he came forth from the
contest, and many were prevailed upon to adopt his views. No doubt men
like Reichensperger are not found every day, nevertheless we might
easily send one or two able representatives to every section of the
congress. If some one were to do for Germany what Cardinal Wiseman did
for England in 1863, when he set forth in clear and forcible language
the state of Catholicity in that country, he would deserve the
everlasting gratitude of the Romanic races.

Leaving these considerations aside for the present, one thing is
certain, we must profit by each other's wisdom and experience.
Whatever may be the defects of the Belgian congresses or of the German
conventions, they mark the beginning of a new era for Belgium and
Germany. For when in the spring of 1848 the storm of revolution swept
away dynasties built on diplomacy and police regulations, the
Catholics, quick to take advantage of the liberty granted them, made
use of the freedom of assembly, of speech, and of the press to defend
the interests of religion and of the Church. To Germany the liberty
thus acquired for the Church has proved a blessing. This liberty,
attained after so many years of Babylonian captivity, acted so
forcibly, that many called the day on which the first general
convention met a "second Pentecost, revealing the spirit, the force,
and the charity of Catholicism." We Catholics have learned the
language of freedom, we {11} know the power of free speech. Next to
the liberty of speech, it is their publicity that gives a charm to
these conventions. Whoever addresses these assemblies speaks before
the whole Church, and his words are re-echoed in every country. There
the prince and the mechanic, the master and the journeyman, the
refined gentleman and the child of nature, all alike have the right to
express their opinions. They afford a general insight into the social
and religions condition of our times, disclosing at once their defects
and their fair side. How inspiring it is to see men, thorough men,
with sound principles, full of vital energy, and of experience
acquired in public life, men of intellectual vigor and mental
refinement! Hence arise great and manifold activity, unity of
sentiment, and zeal for the weal of all, in short, feelings of true
brotherly love. Great events arouse deep feelings, and the glory of
one casts its radiance over many. There is something beautiful and
grand in these Catholic reunions. They tend to awaken society to a
consciousness of its nobler feelings and to spread Catholic ideas;
they give strength and unity to the exertions of all who endeavor
seriously to promote the interests of Catholicity; they are, as it
were, a mirror that reflects an exact image of the life of the Church.
Before their influence narrow-mindedness withers; we take an interest
in men and things that had never before come within the scope of our
mental vision, and on our return from the congress to the ordinary
pursuits of life, we forget fossil notions and take up new ideas. As
we feel the heat of the sun after it has set, so long after the
adjournment of each convention do we feel its influence. The eloquent
words of the champion of their faith kindle in the hearts of Catholic
youth a glowing ardor which promises a bright and glorious future. All
are impressed with the conviction that it is only by unflinching
bravery that victories are won.

  "As in nature," says Hergenröther, "individuals are subordinate to
  species, species to genera, and these again to a general unity of
  design, thus in the Catholic Church all submit freely to the triple
  unity of faith, of the sacraments, and of government. Whether they
  come from the north or the south, from beyond the Channel or from
  the banks of the Rhine, from the Scheldt or the Danube, from the
  March or the Leitha, all Catholics of every country and every clime
  are brethren, members of the same family, all speak but one
  language, the lips of all pronounce the same Catholic prayer, and
  all offer to their Heavenly Father the same august sacrifice. Every
  Catholic convention is a symbol of this great, this universal
  society. And as in nature we admire the most astonishing variety,
  and the wonderful display of thousands of hues and tints, so in the
  Church we behold a gathering of countless tribes and nations,
  differing in their institutions, their customs, and in their
  application of the arts and sciences."

Some of my readers, perhaps, are impatient of the praise here lavished
on contemporaries. Fame, it is true, has ever dazzled mortal eyes, but
I am not now dealing with the miserable characters who consider fame
as merchandise that can be bought and sold, who are always panting for
honied words, and who never lose sight of themselves. No; I am in the
presence of Catholic men, purified by Catholic doctrine and
discipline, who hold fame to be vain trumpery. Claiming to be no
infallible judge of men, my aim has been to note down what I have seen
and heard, for I have been at no special pains to study the characters
of those here mentioned.



From The Month.


There are many circumstances where even an excess of caution may not
be injudicious, and few things can be more important than to ascertain
the veracity of historical facts. Therefore we would fain preface this
second episode drawn from the memoirs of Cardinal Consalvi, by
pointing out the grounds on which their authenticity rests. We pass
over the editor himself, Monsieur Crétineau-Joly, to arrive at the
account he gives of the manner in which these papers fell into his
possession. Written for the most part by the cardinal during his exile
at Rheims, they were hastily penned, and carefully concealed from the
French officials that surrounded him. When dying, Cardinal Consalvi
intrusted these important documents to friends on whom he could rely.
They have since been transmitted as a sacred deposit from one
fiduciary executor to another. The last clause of his will relates to
this matter, and runs thus:

  "My fiduciary heir (and those who shall succeed him in the
  administration of my property) will take particular care of my
  writings: on the conclave held at Venice in 1799 and 1800; on the
  concordat of 1801; on the marriage of the Emperor Napoleon with the
  Archduchess Marie-Louise of Austria; on the different epochs of my
  life and ministry. These five papers (of which some are far
  advanced, and I shall set about the others) are not to be published
  till after the death of the principal personages named therein. As
  the memoirs upon the conclave, the concordat, the marriage, and my
  ministry relate more especially to the Holy See and the pontifical
  government, my fiduciary heir will be solicitous to present them to
  the reigning pontiff; and he will beg the Holy Father to have these
  writings carefully preserved in the archives of the Vatican. They
  may serve the Holy See more than once; especially if the history of
  events therein related comes to be written, or if there were some
  false account to refute. As to the memoirs concerning the different
  epochs of my life, the extinction of my family leaving no one whom
  they may interest, these writings can remain in the hands of my
  fiduciary heir and his successors in the administration of my
  property (or they might go with the others to the archives of the
  Vatican if they are thought worth preserving). My only desire is,
  that if hereafter, as will probably be the case, the lives of the
  cardinals are continued, these pages written by me may then be made
  known. For I wish that nothing contrary to truth should be published
  concerning me; being desirous to preserve a good reputation, as is
  recommended by holy Scripture. With regard to the truth of the facts
  contained in my writings, it suffices me to say: _'Deus scit quia
  non mentior.'_

    "(Signed) E. Card. Consalvi."
    "_Rome, 1st August_, 1822."

In 1858 it was deemed that the time for publication had come. Monsieur
Crétineau-Joly was then staying at Rome; and the papers were confided
to him for that purpose by "those eminent personages who, through
gratitude or respect, had accepted the deposit of Consalvi's
manuscripts." Accordingly, a part did come out the following year, and
the remainder is now before the public. The part which appeared first,
embodied in "_L'Eglise Romaine en face de la Révolution,_" won for M.
Crétineau-Joly in 1861 a flattering brief from Pope Pius IX., which
heads the third edition of the work.


Nine years had rolled on since the concordat. Ten months after the
Pope's presence had given solemnity to his coronation, Napoleon caused
the French troops to occupy Ancona; Pius VII., having refused to
become virtually a French prefect, was deprived of his temporal
sovereignty, and then at last dragged from his capital to be
transferred a prisoner to Florence, Grenoble, and finally Savona.
Excommunication had been pronounced against those who perpetrated
these deeds of violence. Meanwhile, Napoleon, at the summit of earthly
grandeur, longed for an heir to whom he might transmit his vast
dominions. The repudiation of Josephine offered some difficulty to his
heart, we believe; but his strong will soon triumphed over that and
every other obstacle. Proud Austria stooped to court his preference.
Napoleon, disappointed in his wish for a Russian alliance, but in too
much haste to wait negotiations, let his choice fall with equal
pleasure on a daughter of the house of Hapsburg; Marie-Louise, just
then eighteen, came a willing bride to share the splendors of the
imperial throne. To prepare for her reception, a state comedy had been
enacted at the Tuileries, when Napoleon, holding his good and
well-beloved Josephine by the hand, read from a written paper his
heroic determination to renounce her for the public weal. Poor
Josephine could not get on so well; sobs choked her utterance when she
essayed to read her paper in turn. Convulsive fainting-fits had
followed when Napoleon first broached in private the resolve he had
taken, and called upon her to aid it by consenting to become, instead
of his wife, his best and dearest friend. But all that was over now.

One only difficulty had arisen, which even the imperious will of
Napoleon failed wholly to break. It was the same that had ever
thwarted him. He could destroy all temporal barriers to his ambition;
but the spiritual element would rise up and protest. How cut asunder
the religious tie that linked him to Josephine? For the Church's
blessing had been given to their union ere the Pope would consent to
perform the ceremony of the coronation. Full well Napoleon knew that
he could with an iron hand put down clamor for the present; but would
that dispel the feeling in men's consciences? would that suffice to
establish the legitimacy of a future heir to the throne?

M. Thiers gives a curious account of the whole transaction. Cardinal
Fesch, usually so pliant to all his nephew's wishes, appears to have
been the first to start the difficulty; M. Cambaérès, the chancellor,
transmitted his observations to Napoleon. The latter was highly
indignant, declaring that a ceremony which had taken place privately,
in the chapel of the Tuileries, without any witnesses, and with the
sole view of quieting Josephine's scruples and those of the Pope,
could not be binding. Finally, however, it was agreed to look at the
marriage religiously as well as civilly, and to dissolve both ties.
For both, annulment was preferred to the ordinary form of divorce, as
more honorable for Josephine; and a defect in procedure or a great
state reason were to constitute the grounds of dissolution. It was
resolved that no reference should be made to the Pope in any way, as
his feelings toward Napoleon under present circumstances could not be
friendly. The civil marriage had been easily dissolved by mutual
consent of the parties and for public reasons, as seen above, when
Napoleon and Josephine read their respective papers before the
assembled council. With the views just stated, a committee of seven
bishops was formed to pronounce on the religious tie. They declared
the marriage irregular; as having taken place without witnesses, and
without sufficient consent of the parties concerned. With regard to
the absence of witnesses, M. Thiers puts in a note: "It was through a
false indication given {14} by a contemporary manuscript that I before
mentioned MM. de Talleyrand and Berthier as having been present at the
religious marriage privately celebrated at the Tuileries on the eve of
Napoleon's coronation. The author of this manuscript held the facts
from the lips of the Empress Josephine, and had been led into error.
Official documents which I have since procured enable me to rectify
this assertion."

What more likely than that Josephine told the simple truth, and that
official papers were made to meet future contingencies? If it had not
been intended to annul the marriage by any means, why was the
certificate of it wrested from Josephine?

Agreeably to the decision of the bishops, it was resolved to pursue
the annulment of the marriage as defective in form before the diocesan
officialty in the first instance, and afterward before the
metropolitan authority. Canonical proceedings were quietly instituted,
and witnesses summoned. These witnesses were Cardinal Fesch, MM. de
Talleyrand, Berthier, and Duroc. The first was to testify as to the
forms observed; and the three others as to the nature of the consent
given by both parties concerned. Cardinal Fesch declared he had
received dispensations from the Pope authorizing the omission of
certain forms, and thus justified the absence of witnesses and of the
parish curé. MM. de Talleyrand, Berthier, and Duroc affirmed having
heard from Napoleon several times that he only intended to allow a
mere ceremony for the purpose of reassuring the Pope's conscience and
that of Josephine; but that his formal determination had ever been not
to complete his union with the empress, being unhappily convinced that
he must one day renounce her for the good of his empire.

A strange conscience is here manifested by Napoleon. Josephine does
not appear to have been summoned to tell her tale.

After this inquiry, the ecclesiastical authority recognized that there
had not been sufficient consent; but out of respect to the parties
this ground of nullity was not specially insisted on. The causes
assigned for dissolving the marriage rested on the absence of all
witnesses, and of the parish curé. The general dispensations granted
to Cardinal Fesch were not considered to have superseded these
necessities. M. Thiers says on this point, "En conséquence, le mariage
fut cassé devant les deux jurisdictions diocésaine et métropolitaine,
c'est à dire, en première et en seconde instances, avec le décence
convenable, et la _pleine observance du droit canonique!_ Napoleon
était donc` libre."

M. Thiers makes no reference to the Pope, who surely must be supposed
to have known whether the ceremony performed for the sole purpose of
allaying his and Josephine's scruples were perfectly valid by canon
law. It is not possible to admit that he could have insisted on the
same, and being present on the spot could yet have failed to ascertain
beyond doubt the religious legality of the marriage; more especially
as he could have at once removed the obstacle by a dispensation.

This topic must have been mentioned between the Pope and Cardinal
Consalvi; it is evident from the conduct of the latter that he and
many other cardinals considered the marriage with Josephine as binding
in a religious point of view. The character of Consalvi precludes the
possibility of supposing any petty motives for his opposition;
conscience alone could have dictated it. Evidently he yielded as far
as he could; and what he withheld from duty was with manifest peril to
himself, and, humanly speaking, even to the Church, whose interests
were so dear to him. As to the number of cardinals holding opposite
views, or at least acting as if they did, the weakness of human
nature, alas, and the selfishness of human interests, too well explain
that {15} circumstance. Grave historians and writers of genius do not
always take sufficient account of _conscience_ in their estimate of
men and things, and thence flow many errors. Those who are politicians
also, from their wide knowledge of human vices, fall still more
readily into this mistake. Thus Napoleon probably never believed the
Pope to be in earnest, of at least his mind could not hold such an
idea long together. To himself state policy was all, or nearly all.
His negotiations with the Holy See, his appreciations of Consalvi, all
bear the stamp of that starting-point; to him it was a trial of
strength in will, or of skill in diplomacy: he ignored conscience. In
the same way, a mind eminently lucid as that of M. Thiers judges facts
in a very different manner than he would do if he could see that with
some minds conscience is the spring of action. If this were not the
case, he could not, while speaking of the Pope with due respect, pass
over his motives so slightly; nor would he construe as he does
Consalvi's conduct with regard to the marriage and that of the other
_black cardinals_. The opinions of such men deserved to raise a doubt
in the mind of the historian, and to lead to investigation that might
have had other results. We purposely lay stress on this matter because
M. Thiers is popular with a large class of readers, who justly admire
his talent, but who erroneously consider him a fair exponent on
ecclesiastical affairs. He does respect religion; but evidently fails
to apprehend the idea of men constantly swayed by duty and conscience;
whose judgments may err, as all things human do, but whose
supernatural principle of action ever lives.

Toward the close of January, 1810, the conclusion of a matrimonial
alliance to take place between Napoleon and the Archduchess
Marie-Louise was made public in Paris. The ceremony was to be
performed by proxy at Vienna in the early part of March; the Archduke
Charles being chosen to represent Napoleon on this occasion, and
Berthier was the ambassador extraordinary named to ask formally the
hand of the princess. The subsequent fêtes at Paris were to vie in
splendor with those given at Vienna. Napoleon wished to surround
himself with all the members of the Sacred College; a large number had
already been summoned to Paris soon after the Pope's captivity; they
had been ordered to partake in the festivities of the capital, and we
regret to say that they complied. Rome, it must not be forgotten, was
now called a French provincial town; Napoleon was progressing on to
become the emperor of the West, with the Pope, the spiritual father of
Christendom, as his satellite. The other cardinals in Rome were called
to Paris. Some found pretexts for delaying obedience; Cardinals
Consalvi and di Pietro replied that they could not think of leaving
without the Pope's permission, but would immediately refer to him, at
the same time declining the pension offered in Paris. After the lapse
of a few days an express order enjoined them to quit Rome within
twenty-four hours. They alleged that no answer had yet arrived from
the Pope. But at the expiration of the period fixed, French soldiers
visited their houses to carry them off by force. Yielding to violence
they departed, and reached Paris together on the 20th January, 1810.

Twenty-nine cardinals, including Fesch, were then assembled in the
French capital. How they should act with regard to the new marriage
became soon a subject of grave consultation for them. Consalvi and di
Pietro had not long arrived when it was publicly announced. Napoleon
seemed disposed to treat them with courtesy. Consalvi had his audience
six days after his arrival. Five other cardinals, new comers also,
were presented at the same time. They were ranged together on one
side, while the other cardinals remained opposite. Further on were the
nobles, ministers, kings. {16} queens, princes, and princesses. When
the emperor appeared, Cardinal Fesch stepped forward and began
presenting the five. "Cardinal Pignatelli," said he. "Neapolitan,"
replied the emperor, and passed on. "Cardinal di Pietro," continued
Fesch. The emperor stopped a moment, and said, "You have grown fat; I
remember having seen you here with the Pope at my coronation."
"Cardinal Saluzzo," said Fesch, presenting the third. "Neapolitan,"
replied the emperor, and walked on. "Cardinal Desping," said Fesch, as
the fourth saluted. "Spanish," replied the emperor. "From Majorca,"
cried Desping, in alarm. But Napoleon had already reached Consalvi,
and ere Cardinal Fesch could say the name, he exclaimed, in the
kindest tone, and standing still, "Oh, Cardinal Consalvi; how thin you
have become! I should hardly have recognized you." "Sire," replied
Consalvi, "years accumulate. Ten have passed since I had the honor of
saluting your majesty." "That is true," resumed Napoleon; "it is now
almost ten years since you came for the concordat. We made that treaty
in this very hall; but what purpose has it served? All has vanished in
smoke. Rome would lose all. It must be owned, I was wrong to displace
you from the ministry. If you had continued in that post, things would
not have been carried so far."

Listening only to the fear of having his actions misconstrued by the
public, Consalvi instantly replied with energy, "Sire, if I had
remained in that post, I should have done my duty." Napoleon looked at
him fixedly, made no answer, and then going backward and forward
through the half-circle formed by the cardinals, began a long
monologue, enumerating a number of grievances against the Pope and
against Rome for not having adhered to his will by refusing to adopt
the system offered. At length, being near Consalvi, he stopped, and
said a second time, "No, if you had remained at your post, things
would not have gone so far." Again Consalvi replied, "Your majesty may
believe that I should have done my duty." Napoleon gave the cardinal
another fixed glance, and then without reply recommenced his walks,
continuing his former discourse. At last he stopped near Cardinal di
Pietro, and said for the third time, "If Cardinal Consalvi had
remained secretary of state, things would not have gone so far."
Consalvi was at the other end of the little group of five, and need
not have answered; but earnest to exonerate himself from all
suspicion, he advanced toward Napoleon, and seizing his arm,
exclaimed, "Sire, I have already assured your majesty that had I
remained in that post, I should certainly have done my duty." The
emperor no longer containing himself, and with eyes steadily bent on
Consalvi, burst forth into these words, "Oh! I repeat it, your duty
would not have allowed you to sacrifice spiritual to temporal things."
After this he turned his back on Consalvi, and going over to the
cardinals opposite, asked if they had heard his words. Then returning
to the five, he observed that the College of Cardinals was now nearly
complete in Paris, and that they would do well to see among themselves
if there was anything to propose or regulate concerning Church
affairs. "Let Cardinal Consalvi be of the committee," added Napoleon;
"for if, as I suppose, he is ignorant of theology, he knows well the
science of politics."

At a second and third audience, Napoleon showed similar kindness to
Consalvi, always asking after his health, and remarking that he was
getting fatter now. The cardinal only answered by deep salutations.

Principally through Consalvi's influence, the cardinals, in a
collective letter addressed to the emperor, declined acting in any way
while separated from their head, the Pope. Napoleon had angrily torn
their letter to pieces; but even this opposition to his will had not
changed his courtesy {17} toward Consalvi, as seen above. He was bent
on creating a schism between them and the Pope. Fesch, his ready
instrument, proposed several steps as beneficial to religion, but the
majority of cardinals refused to do anything. Unlike many of his
colleagues, Consalvi held aloof from all society. Beside the
prohibition of the Pope, who at Rome had forbidden the members of the
Sacred College to assist at festivities while the Church was in
mourning, he considered it unworthy conduct for them to take part in
amusements while their head remained in captivity, or to seem to court
one who had brought such calamities on the Holy See.

While invited to discuss ecclesiastical matters in committee for
presentation to the emperor, the cardinals were not by any means
requested to give an opinion on the new marriage. But it became very
necessary that they should have one as the time approached for the
arrival of Marie-Louise, and for the celebration of the marriage
ceremonies in Paris.

She reached Compiègne on the 27th of March. Napoleon, to spare her the
embarrassment of a public meeting, had surprised her on the road, and
they entered the little town together. A few days after they proceeded
to St. Cloud. Four ceremonies were to take place. First there was to
be a grand presentation on the 31st of March, at St. Cloud, of all the
bodies in the state, the nobles and other dignitaries. The next
morning the civil marriage was to be celebrated also at St Cloud. The
2d of April was fixed for the grand entrance of the sovereigns into
Paris, and for the solemnity of the religious marriage in the chapel
of the Tuileries; the following morning another presentation of the
state bodies and the court was to take place before the emperor and
the new empress seated on their thrones.

Twenty-seven cardinals had taken counsel together; for Fesch, as
grand-almoner to the emperor, was out of the question, and Caprara was
dying. They had decided, after deliberate research, that matrimonial
cases between sovereigns belong exclusively to the cognizance of the
Holy See, which either itself pronounces sentence at Rome, or else
through the medium of the legates names local judges for instituting
the affair.

According to Consalvi's account, the diocesan officialty of Paris on
this occasion refused at first to intervene, on the ground of
incompetency; but the emperor caused competency to be declared by a
committee of bishops assembled at Paris, and presided over by Cardinal
Fesch. The words, however, "_declared competent,_" were not eventually
inserted in the documents drawn up of the meeting; it was pretended
instead that access could not be had to the Pope. But this pretended
impossibility could of course arise only from the will of Napoleon.

Consalvi assures us that the preamble used by the committee in the
first instance ran thus:

"The officialty, being declared competent, and without derogating from
the right of the sovereign pontiff, to whom access is for the moment
forbidden, proclaims null and void the marriage contracted with the
Empress Josephine, the reasons for such decision being stated in the
sentence." But when it was remarked how prejudicial this avowal would
be, the government made it disappear from among the acts of the
ecclesiastical curia. For it had been previously arranged that all
papers relative to this affair should be submitted to government.
According to general report in Paris, some of the papers were burnt,
and others changed. A person belonging to the officialty succeeded,
however, in secretly saving a part, and especially the beginning of
the sentence, which was as given above.

Consalvi does not so much as name the validity or invalidity of the
marriage; the point to establish for him was that the right of
cognizance {18} belonged solely to the Holy See. The incident he
mentions of the papers destroyed has no other importance than as
showing how conscience at first pronounced and how a strong hand
silenced its expression.

Thirteen cardinals resolved to brave any consequences rather than
consent to a dereliction of duty; for their oath, when raised to the
purple, binds them to maintain at all hazards the rights of the
Church. The names of these thirteen were: Cardinals Mattei,
Pignatelli, della Somaglia, di Pietro, Litta, Saluzzo, Ruffo Scilla,
Brancadoro, Galeffi, Scotti, Gabrielli, Opizzoni, and Consalvi. The
other fourteen held different shades of opinion, and only agreed in
deciding not to oppose the emperor.

The sole means by which the thirteen could protest, under the
circumstances, was not to sanction the new marriage by appearing at
the ceremonies. This resolve was accordingly taken, and the fourteen
were apprised. Mattei, the oldest cardinal among the thirteen, called
upon most of the fourteen to acquaint them with the resolution; other
members of the thirteen likewise spoke of it to their colleagues; but
no result was produced on the minds of the fourteen. To the shame of
the latter it must be said that they afterward untruly declared
themselves ignorant of the line of conduct which the thirteen had
intended to adopt. Consalvi positively asserts that such was not the
case. The thirteen spoke with the caution commanded by prudence on so
delicate a matter, not seeking ostensibly to prevent the others from
following their own opinions, and anxious to avoid giving any pretext
for the accusation of exciting a feeling against the government. But
this reserve did not prevent them from clearly expressing their
intention to uphold the rights of the Pope and of the Holy See by
abstaining from all participation in the marriage ceremonies.

Though called upon by duty to act in the way mentioned, the thirteen
cardinals naturally wished to avoid, as much as possible, wounding
Napoleon. With this view Mattei was deputed to seek an interview with
Fesch, for the purpose of informing him what course they felt obliged
to pursue. At the same time Mattei gave him to understand that all
publicity might be avoided, or any bad effect on the public obviated,
by addressing partial, instead of general, invitations to the
cardinals. This was to be done with regard to the senate and the
legislative body, and, indeed, the smallness of the enceinte offered a
plausible pretext; for it was impossible that all entitled to appear
on the occasion could be present. Cardinal Fesch evinced great
surprise and anger, endeavoring to reason Mattei out of this view; but
finding it was of no use, he promised to speak to the emperor, who was
then at Compiègne.

According to Fesch's account, Napoleon flew into a violent passion on
learning the decision come to by the thirteen; but he declared that
they would never dare to carry out their plot, and utterly rejected
the idea of not inviting all the members of the Sacred College.

At the proper time a special invitation reached each cardinal. There
was no possibility of escape. To feign illness or invent a pretext
they rightly deemed would be unworthy.

Nevertheless, anxious as they were to avoid offence, when they came to
consider more closely the nature of the different ceremonies, it was
considered by some that they might, without failing in duty, assist at
the two presentations that were to take place before and after the
marriages. Consalvi was among those opposed to this view on grounds of
honor at least; but, not to provoke any further schism in their ranks,
the minority yielded, and this mode of proceeding was decided on. Both
marriages were to be eschewed; but they would assist at both
presentations. The cardinals hoped thus to prove that they did all
{19} they possibly could to please Napoleon consistently with their
sense of duty. It was also considered highly desirable to shield the
fourteen from remark as much as could be, for it was a grievous matter
to right-minded men to see the honor and dignity of the Sacred College
thus abased.

Accordingly, on the evening fixed, all the cardinals went to St Cloud.
Together with the other dignitaries, they were in the grand gallery
waiting the arrival of Napoleon and his new empress, when Fouché, the
minister of police, came up. Consalvi had been very intimate with him,
but having paid scarcely any visits since his return to Paris, from
the motives stated above, they had not hitherto met. Fouché drew him
aside, and asked with much cordiality and interest if it were true
that several cardinals refused to be present at the emperor's

Consalvi was silent at first, not wishing to name any one in
particular. But when Fouché insisted, saying that, as minister of
police, he knew of course all about it, and only asked through
politeness, Consalvi replied that he belonged to the number.

"Oh, what do you say?" exclaimed Fouché. "The emperor was speaking of
it this morning, and in his anger named you; but I affirmed that it
was not likely you should be of the set."

Fouché then pointed out the dangerous consequences of such a
proceeding, saying that the non-intervention of the cardinals would
seem to blame the state, the emperor, and even to attack the
legitimacy of the future succession of the throne. He tried to
persuade Consalvi to be present himself at leasts or if the whole
thirteen would not come to the civil marriage, to attend, however, the
religious ceremony. Consalvi could not of course consent; but he told
the efforts they had made to avoid invitations for all, and promised,
at Fouché's request, to repeat this conversation to the twelve.

Their discourse was interrupted by the appearance of the emperor and
empress. Napoleon came in holding Marie-Louise by the hand, and he
pointed out each person to her by name as he drew near. On approaching
the members of the Sacred College, he exclaimed, "Ah, the cardinals!"
and presented them, one after the other, with great courtesy, naming
each, and mentioning some qualification. Thus Consalvi was designated
as he who arranged the concordat.

It was said afterward that Napoleon's kindliness had been intended to
win them over.

They all bowed in return, without speaking. When this ceremony was
over, the thirteen returned to Paris and met at the house of Cardinal
Mattei. Consalvi then related his conversation with Fouché; they saw
clearly what there might be to apprehend, but none wavered in the
resolution taken.

The following day, the civil marriage was celebrated at St Cloud. The
thirteen cardinals abstained from appearing. Of the fourteen, eleven
were present: one was ill, and two, seized with tardy misgiving, said
they were.

Monday, the 2d of April, had been fixed for the triumphal entrance of
the sovereigns into Paris, and for the religious marriage in the
chapel of the Tuileries. A successful representation of the arch of
triumph was made; afterward reproduced in the one at the top of the
Champs Elysées. Napoleon passed under it, with Marie-Louise at his
side, in a carriage that afforded a fair view of both to the
spectators. Arrived at the gate of the Tuileries, on the Place de la
Concorde, they alighted, and he led her through the gardens till they
arrived at the chapel of the palace, prepared for the nuptial

It was crowded densely, and many more persons longed to enter, but
there were thirteen vacant seats!

It had been hoped that Fouché's words would produce some effect, and
{20} that the thirteen cardinals might, at least, be induced to attend
the religions marriage. Their seats had been left up to the last
moment; but as Napoleon drew near, they were hastily removed. His eye,
however, fell immediately on the group of cardinals, always
conspicuous from their red costume, and as he marked the smallness of
their number, anger flashed from his countenance.

Indeed, only twelve cardinals, including Fesch, were present One was
really too ill to go, and two others, as before, pretended sickness.
But, as they wrote to this effect, they were considered as absent from
accident. And they encouraged this version.

During both these days and nights, the thirteen remained at home,
carefully abstaining, as became their position, from all semblance of
participation in any rejoicings.

On the morrow was to take place the final ceremony of presentation to
both sovereigns seated on their thrones. All the cardinals went, and,
according to injunction, in full costume. Two hours passed waiting for
the doors of the throne-room to be opened.

Then the stream began to move toward the spot in the middle of the
grand gallery that connects the Tuileries with the Louvre, where
Napoleon and Marie-Louise were seated on their respective thrones,
surrounded by the members of the imperial family and officers of

The crowd entered slowly, one by one, according to the rule of
precedence prescribed, and each individual, stopping before the
throne, made a profound obeisance, passing out afterward by the door
of the saloon beyond.

In conformity with French etiquette at that time, the senators were
first introduced; and Fesch had the littleness to go in with them,
rather than with the Sacred College. After these followed the
councillors of state and the legislative body, and then came the turn
of the cardinals. But at this moment, Napoleon, with imperious
gesture, beckoned an officer toward him, and gave a hasty order to
have all the cardinals who had not been present at the marriage
immediately expelled from the ante-chamber, as he should not
condescend to receive them. The messenger was precipitately quitting
the hall, when Napoleon, with rapid change of thought, called him
back, and ordered that only Cardinals Opizzoni and Consalvi should be
turned out But the officer, confused, did not clearly seize this
second order, and imagining that the two cardinals named were to be
more particularly designated, acted accordingly.

The scene that followed may be conceived. It rises up vividly. The
order for expulsion was as publicly intimated as it had been publicly
given; and scores of eager eyes turned on the thirteen culprits so
ignominiously dismissed. The report of what was coming got whispered
from hall to hall, and flew on to the numerous groups that thronged
even the vestibule and staircase; if the buzz ceased as the cardinals
drew near, it followed swiftly on their receding steps, while they
traversed each apartment. Friends began to tremble for their personal
safety: the bloody tragedy of Vincennes rose up in remembrance to many
an anxious heart.

Their equipages had disappeared in the confusion of the day. The
Parisian crowd were astounded that morning to mark thirteen rich
scarlet dresses wending about in search of conveyances or homes.

Within the palace, meanwhile, precedence, contrary to custom, had been
given the ministers; but after them the other cardinals were at length
introduced. As each, in turn, drew near the thrones, and, not feeling
very pleasantly we may believe, made his respectful salutation.
Napoleon was giving way to a rapid flow of violent language. Sometimes
he addressed the empress, or sometimes those standing near. The Sacred
College, as a body, came in for its share of abuse; but two cardinals
were special objects {21} of reproachful epithets. "He might spare the
others," said Napoleon, "as obstinate theologians full of prejudice;
but Cardinals Consalvi and Opizzoni he never could forgive." Opizzoni
was ungrateful, owing, as he did, to him (Napoleon) the archbishopric
of Bologna, and the cardinal's hat; but Consalvi was the most guilty
of all. "Consalvi," cried the emperor, warming as he went on, "does
not act from theological prejudice: he is incapable of that; but he
hates me for having caused his fall from the ministry. And this is now
his revenge. He is a deep politician, and he seeks now to lay a subtle
snare, whereby hereafter to attack the legitimacy of a future heir to
the throne."

Marie-Louise, accustomed to the stalely etiquette of Austria, must
have been rather surprised at this outburst. Perhaps her own destiny,
as bride of that crowned soldier of fortune, did not then look quite
so brilliant to her. It is easy to fancy courtiers around with their
varied shades of amaze, horror, and fear at such delinquency, and its
consequences, painted on their faces.

Consalvi tells us in his memoir on the marriage, and also in that of
his private life, that the fury of Napoleon on the day of the
religious ceremony had been so intense, that on coming out from chapel
he actually ordered three cardinals to be shot, afterward confining
the sentence to Consalvi alone. And the cardinal each time says that
he probably owed his life to the intervention of Fouché.

But in a note which M. Crétineau-Joly mentions as detached from the
memoirs, Consalvi writes thus of Napoleon: "In his fits of
anger,--often more feigned than real, especially at first,--he would
threaten _to have persons shot,_ as he frequently did with regard to
myself; but I am persuaded that he never would have signed the order
for execution. More than once I have heard his devoted followers and
intimate confidants relate that the murder of the Duke d'Enghien had
been a surprise rather than a deliberate act of will. I should not be
astonished at the truth of this, for it was a useless crime, leaving
only shame and remorse, which Bonaparte might easily have spared

The contradiction in these passages is remarkable. M. Crétineau-Joly
does not give the date of the note, so we are reduced to conjecture.
It seems likely to have been written at a later period, when the
downfall of Napoleon would naturally call forth from Consalvi the
deepest charity and most lenient interpretations. The two memoirs, it
will be remembered, were penned during the cardinal's captivity at

The day after their expulsion, those among the cardinals who were
bishops had orders to resign their sees immediately, under pain of
imprisonment. They signed the deed as required, but with the proviso
of the Pope's consent. At eight o'clock on the same evening each one
received a short note from the minister of public worship, enjoining
him to wait on that functionary in an hour's time, for the purpose of
hearing the emperors' orders.

The whole thirteen met in the minister's ante-chamber, and were
introduced together to his cabinet. Fouché was with him, and from a
kindly intention, says Consalvi. Both seemed grieved at the business
they had to transact.

As soon as Fouché perceived Consalvi, he exclaimed,

"Ah, cardinal, I warned you the consequences would be terrible. What
pains me most is that you should be of the number."

Consalvi thanked him for his sympathy, but said he was prepared for
all that might follow.

The thirteen were then made to sit down in a circle, and the minister
of public worship began a long discourse, which could not much have
benefitted the culprits, as only three understood French. The
substance of it was that they had committed a {22} state crime, and
were guilty of treason, having conspired against the emperor. The
proof of this lay in the secrecy they had observed toward him (the
minister) and toward the other cardinals. They ought to have spoken to
him as their superior, and he would have enlightened them with regard
to their erroneous idea of the privative right belonging to the Pope
in matrimonial cases between sovereigns. Their crime, he said, might
have the most serious consequences on the public tranquillity, unless
the emperor succeeded in obviating them, for their mode of acting had
tended to nothing less than to cast doubts on the legitimacy of the
succession to the throne. He concluded by declaring that the emperor,
judging the cardinals to be rebels guilty of conspiracy, had ordered
them to be informed:

1. That they were from that moment deprived of all their property,
ecclesiastical and patrimonial, for the sequestration of which
measures had been already taken.

2. That his majesty no longer considered them as cardinals, and
forbade them henceforth to wear any ensigns of that dignity.

3. That his majesty reserved to himself the right of afterward
deciding with regard to their persons.

And the minister gave them to understand that a criminal action would
be brought against some.

Even going back as fully as we can to the ideas of the times, there is
something equally startling and absurd in the notion of a lay minister
of state undertaking to enlighten princes of the church on matters of
canon law, coolly naming himself as their superior, and treating them
to a long homily on their duties and misdemeanors. The same
pretensions are doubtless reproduced in all revolutionary times; but
still the absurdity strikes us forcibly as we read this account.

Consalvi replied that they were erroneously accused of conspiracy and
rebellion--crimes unworthy of the purple, and also of their individual
characters. No secret, he said, had been made of their opinion to the
other cardinals, though it had been expressed without seeking to gain
proselytes. If they had not communicated with the minister, they had
nevertheless spoken quite openly to Cardinal Fesch, their own
colleague and the emperor's uncle, begging him to lay their
determination, founded solely on motives of conscience, before
Napoleon. Consalvi also explained how they endeavored to avoid all the
blame now laid to their charge by requesting partial invitations,
which request, if complied with, would have prevented their views from
being made public. The other two cardinals who could speak French
likewise expressed themselves in similar terms.

Both ministers appeared convinced, and, regretting the emperor had not
himself heard their defence, suggested that they should write it out
for his perusal. No difficulty was made in complying with this
proposal. The ministers then said that the cardinals must not,
however, bring forward the real motive of their absence, namely, the
Pope's right, as that was just what irritated Napoleon; but lay the
cause to sickness, or some excuse of that kind. The cardinals declined
taking this course, as incompatible with their duty.

Here we must remark that the whole scene appears to us got up to make
them yield at last; but Consalvi, ever charitable, says not a word to
that effect.

One of the ministers then tried to make out a draft of a letter for
the emperor that should be satisfactory to both parties; and one of
the cardinals had the imprudence to copy these rough sketches, for the
purpose of comparing them and seeing afterward what could be done. The
minister insisted much on having the paper then and there drawn up, as
Napoleon was going to travel, and would leave Paris immediately. But
Consalvi, pleading his colleagues' ignorance of the French language,
{23} succeeded at length in obtaining consent for them to retire
together and deliberate among themselves.

It was eleven o'clock when they withdrew; and some of the cardinals
had the further imprudence to assure the ministers that the
expressions used by the latter had been faithfully copied.

As soon as Consalvi was alone with his colleagues and could speak
freely, he showed them the full meaning of the French terms suggested,
and the impropriety, to say the least, of using them. All agreed to
hold staunchly to their duty. But now appeared the further difficulty,
created by having copied the ministers' words, which it would thus be
impossible to seem to forget. Fouché was to see Napoleon soon after
leaving them, and would doubtless hasten to assure him that the
cardinals were writing a letter conformable to his wishes. Thus
Napoleon, prepared for submission, would give way to tenfold anger on
finding the reverse.

The letter was dictated by conscience alone, but its expressions were
as much as possible tempered by prudence. Every word was carefully
weighed; and five hours passed in drawing it up. By its tenor, they
sought to exculpate themselves from all suspicion of revolt and
treason, saying that the real cause of their absence was because the
Pope was excluded from the matter; that they had not pretended thereby
to institute themselves judges, or cast any doubts among the public
either on the validly of the first marriage, or the legitimacy of the
children that might follow the second. In conclusion, they assured
Napoleon of their submission and obedience, without making any request
for the restoration of their property or their purple. The thirteen
signed by order of seniority in the cardinalate.

Cardinal Litta immediately conveyed this document to the minister of
public worship, who pronounced himself tolerably satisfied. But
Napoleon quitted Paris the next day sooner than had been anticipated,
and without giving the audience to the minister which had been agreed
on. Consequently the latter could not give the letter then, and he
informed the cardinals that they must therefore conform to the orders
already received. Accordingly they laid aside the ensigns of their
dignity, and hence arose the designation of _black_ and _red_
cardinals. Their property was immediately confiscated, and their
revenues, contrary to custom, were thrown into the public treasury.

After a short excursion in the Netherlands, Napoleon returned to
Paris. Meanwhile the cardinals had put down their carriages, and hired
more modest abodes, better suited to their fallen fortunes.
Contradictory rumors were afloat abroad as to their fate. Two months
and a half passed ere any change took place.

But on the 10th of June each cardinal received a note from the
minister of public worship, appointing a time for him to call; two
cardinals being designated for each successive hour. Cardinals
Consalvi and Brancadoro were those summoned for the first hour. When
they reached his cabinet, the minister informed them that they were to
set out for Rheims in twenty-four hours, and to remain there until
further orders should be given. Passports were in readiness. All the
other cardinals successively received a similar sentence; the only
difference lay in the place of abode. They were exiled by twos, and
care was taken to separate those supposed to be intimate. The minister
offered to each cardinal fifty louis for the expenses of his journey;
some accepted, and others declined; Consalvi being among the latter.
Soon after their arrival in the towns designated, each cardinal had an
intimation from the minister that a monthly pension of 250f. would be
duly paid. Consalvi refused to profit by this allowance, and he thinks
the others did the same. On the 10th of January, 1811, both he and his
{24} companion received a note from the sub-prefect of Rheims,
requesting them to call and give information on certain orders that
had arrived from the supreme authority in Paris. The two cardinals
went. The sub-prefect then informed them that he was required to ask
what sums they had received for their subsistence since their exile at
Rheims, through what conveyance or persons, from whom, and to what
amount Consalvi was able to answer that he had not accepted a penny
from any one. "But how then do you live, since the government has
seized all your property?" "My banker at Rome sends the necessary sums
through his correspondent at Paris. Under other circumstances I would
have borrowed from my friends."

This measure of the government was caused by irritation on learning
that charitable persons had united to make up a general fund every
month for the support of the cardinals, and it was wished to put a
stop to the proceeding. Consalvi concludes the memoirs of his private
life about this time, expressing a fear that the business mentioned
above will not end with the interrogatory, but may bring about
disastrous consequences. He also says, "We live in exile; foregoing
all society, as becomes our situation and that of the Holy See and the
sovereign pontiff our head. The red cardinals, I am told, remain in
Paris, and go much in the world, but are not esteemed for their late

It is curious to contract with the preceding account the manner in
which M. Thiers disposes of this same episode. "On the day of the
emperor's marriage," says that historian, "thirteen out of
twenty-eight cardinals failed to be present at the ceremony. The
motive, which they dared not assign, but which it was desired to make
the public understand, was that, without the Pope, Napoleon could not
divorce, and thence, the first marriage still subsisting, the second
was irregular. This motive was unfounded, since no divorce had taken
place (for in effect divorce being forbidden by the Church could only
have been pronounced by the Pope), but simply annulment of the
marriage with Josephine, pronounced by the ordinary after all the
degrees of ecclesiastical jurisdiction had been exhausted."  [Footnote 1]

  [Footnote 1: M. Thiers here falls into a grave error: divorce being
  contrary to the law of God, no Pope can pronounce one. The question
  was whether Josephine were lawfully married or not.]

In reality, however, this conduct of the thirteen cardinals, acting in
conformity with their head, Pope Pius VII., though cut off from all
communication with him, was the protest of the Church against temporal
despotism in things spiritual. The Church was in chains, but God had
left her a living voice to proclaim her rights. Consalvi never for one
instant quits his ground--the Church's right of judgment--to give a
shadow of personal opinion on the matter in question. It is a fine
spectacle also to see him with his few colleagues, deserted by so many
of their own body, quietly discussing what degree of excommunication
Napoleon had incurred, whether all contact was forbidden, while they
inhabited his very capital, and knew well the stem nature of that
inexorable will.

The black cardinals continued to inhabit their different places of
exile until Napoleon, working on the weakness and the affections of
the aged pontiff, drew from him that semblance of a second concordat
dated the 25th of January, 1813. Then, restored to liberty, they
hastened to the feet of Pius VII.; and found him overwhelmed with
grief at the concessions he had made, at what he called his guilt.
Truly he had but yielded in his feebleness to the unceasing
persuasions of the red cardinals, backed by Napoleon's promises in
favor of the Church, and to the charm exercised by that mighty genius
when he stooped to court affection. The proviso made that the new
concordat, to become binding, should first be submitted to the Sacred
College assembled, {25} happily afforded the opportunity of annulling
it. That was fully and worthily done by the papal letter addressed to
the emperor on the 24th of March following.

When the course of events in Europe brought about such a change in his
own position, Napoleon, still powerful notwithstanding, began to wish
for a reconciliation with the Holy See. On the 23d of January, 1816,
Pius VII. was allowed to set out for Rome, restored to his paternal
sovereignty. Strangely, however, Consalvi was not permitted to
accompany him. He received instead a note from the minister of public
worship, informing him that orders would shortly be transmitted
concerning himself, the execution of which admitted neither appeal nor
yet delay.

And accordingly, two days after the Pope's departure, a letter came
from the Duc de Rovigo, minister of police, telling Consalvi that he
was condemned to another exile in the town of Béziers, and was to set
out immediately for that destination in the strictest incognito, and
escorted during the whole journey by an officer of gendarmerie.

Nothing more is said of this incident. Consalvi does not carry his
memoirs beyond 1812. Two notes found among his correspondence, and
signed by the functionaries above named, reveal the orders for this
second exile. Napoleon abdicated on the 4th of April, 1816. On the
19th of May, in the same year, Pius VII. officially recalled Consalvi
to his office of secretary of state.

Thus did Providence terminate the struggle between the spiritual and
temporal powers; thus closed for Consalvi the exile consequent on his
opposition to the imperial marriage.

On the very day that restored Consalvi to his councils, Pius VII.
learned that all the nations of Europe refused to receive within their
territories the proscribed family of Napoleon. Rome opened her gates.

Madame Mère, as she was called, the mother of Napoleon, wrote thus to
Consalvi, 27th May, 1818:

  "I wish and I ought to thank your eminence for all you have done in
  our favor since the burden of exile has fallen on my children and
  myself. My brother, Cardinal Fesch, did not leave me ignorant of the
  generous way in which you received the request of _mom grand et
  malheureux proscrit de St. Hélène_. He said that on learning the
  emperor's prayer, so just and so Christian, you had hastened to
  interpose with the English government, and to seek out priests both
  worthy and able. I am truly the mother of sorrows; and the only
  consolation left me is to know that the Holy Father forgets the
  past, and remembers solely his affection for us, which he testifies
  to all the members of my family.

  "My sons, Lucian and Louis, who are proud of your unchanging
  friendship toward them, have been much touched likewise by all that
  the Pope and your eminence have done, unknown to us, to preserve our
  tranquillity when menaced by the different powers of Europe. We find
  support and an asylum in the pontifical states only; and our
  gratitude is as great as the benefit. I beg your eminence to place
  the expression of it at the feet of the holy pontiff, Pius VII. I
  speak in the name of all my proscribed family and especially in the
  name of him now dying by inches on a desert rock. His holiness and
  your eminence are the only persons in Europe who endeavor to soften
  his misfortunes, or who would abridge their duration. I thank you
  both with a mother's heart,--and remain always, eminence, yours very
  devotedly and most gratefully,

Another letter, from the ex-king of Holland, father of the present
emperor of the French, addressed to Cardinal Consalvi, still further
demonstrates the charity shown by Rome, and suggests many reflections.
With these extracts from Consalvi's {26} correspondence as a sequel,
we shall close our episode of the imperial marriage; the circumstances
they recall form a not uninstructive commentary on an event that
seemed to place Napoleon at such a high point of worldly greatness.

  "Eminence,--Following the advice of the Holy Father and of your
  eminence, I have seen Mgr. Bernetti, who is specially charged with
  the affair in question; and he, with his usual frankness, explained
  the nature of the complaints made by foreign powers against the
  family of the Emperor Napoleon. The great powers, and principally
  England, reproach us with always conspiring. They accuse us of being
  mixed up, implicitly or explicitly, with all the plots in existence;
  they even pretend that we abuse the hospitality granted us by the
  Pope to foment divisions in the pontifical states, and stir up
  hatred against the august person of the sovereign.

  "I was fortunately able to furnish Mgr. Bernetti with proofs to the
  contrary; and he will himself tell you the effect produced on his
  mind by my words. If the emperor's family, owing so much to Pope
  Pius XII. and to your eminence, had conceived the detestable design
  of disturbing Europe, and if it had the means of so doing, the
  gratitude that we all feel toward the Holy See would evidently
  arrest us on such a course. My mother, brothers, sisters, and uncle
  owe too much respectful gratitude to the sovereign pontiff and to
  your eminence to draw down new disasters on this city, where, while
  proscribed by the whole of Europe, we have been received and
  sheltered with a paternal goodness rendered yet more touching by
  past injustice. We are not conspiring against any one, and still
  less against God's representative on earth. We enjoy in Rome all the
  rights of citizens; and when my mother learned in what a Christian
  manner the Pope and your eminence were avenging the captivity of
  Fontainebleau and the exile of Rheims, she could only bless you in
  the name of her _grand et malheureux mort_, shedding sweet tears for
  the first time since the disasters of 1814.

  "To conspire against our august and sole benefactor would be an
  infamy that has no name. The family of Bonaparte will never merit
  such a reproach. I convinced Mgr. Bernetti of it, and he will
  himself be our surety with your eminence. Deign then to listen to
  his words, and to grant us the continuance of your favor, together
  with the protection of the Holy Father.--In this hope, I am,
  eminence, your very respectful and most devoted servant and friend,

    "L. DE SAINT-LEU."
    "_Rome, 30th Sept_. 1821."



From Once A Week.


I read this incident when a mere girl in a very stupid old novel
founded upon it, which I never could succeed in meeting with again.
The preface stated that in some church in England there yet remained
the monument of the knight with his noble one-armed wife beside him. I
should be glad if any of your readers could tell me where this
monument is to be seen, and the real names (which I have forgotten) of
the knight and lady.

  'Twas in the grand heroic days,
    When Coeur de Lion reigned and fought;
  An English knight ta'en in those frays
    To Sultan Saladin was brought.

  The sultan sat upon his throne,
    His courtiers stood around;
  And emir, prince, and padisha
    Bent lowly to the ground.

  They served him upon bended knee--
    "To hear is to obey;"--
  For the fierce and cruel Moslem race
    An iron hand must sway.

  The monarch gazed on each stem face;
    "Ye Moslem chiefs are brave;
  But I know a braver man than ye,
    Bring forth the Christian slave!"

  The slave was brought, and at a sign
    The scimitar waved high,
  But the English captive gazed unmoved,
    With calm unshrinking eye.

  Then spoke the sultan: "Hugh de Vere,
    I've need of men like thee,
  And thou shalt be the first man here,
    In this land, after me.

  "Thou shalt have gold, and gems, and land,
    Palaces shall be thine.
  And thou shalt wed a queenly bride,
    And be a son of mine.

  "Only forsake thy fathers' faith,
    Mah'med and God adore,
  And forget thy love and fatherland.
    Which thou shalt see no more."

  Then Hugh de Vere obeisance made;--
    "Since I must make reply,
  I will not change my love or faith,
    Far liever would I die.

  "I have a God who died for me.
    His soldier I am sworn.
  Shall I, whose shoulder bears the cross,
    Upon the cross bring scorn?

  "I have a love, a gentle girl.
    Whom I love as my wife;
  I cannot bear a Moslem name.
    Nor wed a Moslem wife."

  "Bethink thee now," the sultan said;
    "How knowest thou that the maid
  Is not now wed, since thy return
    Hath been so long delayed?

  "Fickle and false is woman's heart,
    It changes like the sky;
  The showers that fall so fast to-night
    To-morrow' sun will dry.

  "Nor--trust me--e'er was maiden yet
    Constant as is the dove,
  Who dies of grief for her lost mate,
    And knows no second love."

  Then at the monarch's feet bowed low
    The saintly frères who came
  To ransom slaves, bound by their vow,
    For Jesu's holy name.

  And at his footstool wealth untold
    With lavish hands they pour:
  "His bride sends thee her gems and gold;
    Sir Hugh de Vere restore!"

  The sultan spoke: "The other knights
    And men may go with thee.
  But not for gold or jewels bright
    Shall Hugh de Vere go free.

  "I love him with a brother's love,
    His love I hope to win.
  And in this land raise him above
    All men save Saladin.

  "What is a woman's love to mine?
    A hundred slaves I'll give,
  Let him his Christian faith resign,
    And in my shadow live.

  "His lady-love sends pearls and gold,
    She'd give them for a shawl,
  But she must give a dearer thing
    Before I yield my thrall.
  "I'll try how Christian maidens love--
    This answer to her bear,
  'Thy faith and fealty to prove,
    Give what is far more dear.

  "'This is the ransom I demand,
    No meaner thing I'll take,
  Thy own right arm and lily hand
    Cut off for thy love's sake."

  "Return, good frères," Sir Hugh then said,
    "To my betrothed bride,
  And speak of me henceforth as dead,
    Since here I must abide.

  "For rather would I die this day
    Beneath the paynim swords,
  Than ye should bear Agnes de Bray
    The sultan's cruel words.

  "For well I know her faithful heart
    Both arm and life would give
  To ransom mine;--and will not prove
    Her death, that I may live."

  Then mournfully the ransom sent
    The good frères took once more.
  And with the captives they had freed
    Sailed to the English shore.

  And Earl de Bray's castell they sought,
    And to fair Agnes told,
  How that her lover could not be
    Ransomed for gems or gold.

  And that the cruel sultan asked,--
    Nor meaner thing would take,--
  Her own right arm and lily hand,
    Cut off for her love's sake.

  A shudder ran through all who heard,
    Her mother shrieked aloud,
  Her father, crimsoning, clutched his sword,
    And death to Moslems vowed.

  Her little sister to her ran,
    And clasped her tightly round:
  "Sure, sister, such a wicked man
    Cannot on earth be found?"

  But Agnes smoothed the child's long hair
    And kissed her, then spoke low,
  "That cruel is the ransom asked.
    My dear ones, well I know.
  "But did not God for ransom give
    His own beloved Son?
  And do not churls and nobles give
    Their lives for king and throne?

  "Has not my lord and father bled
    By Coeur de Lion's side?
  And would he bid his daughter shirk
    Duty--whate'er betide?

  "Am I not Hugh de Vere's betrothed,
    Fast pledged to be his wife?
  Do not I owe him fealty,
    Even though it cost my life?

  "What is my life? Long days and years
    In vain repining spent,
  And orisons to God to end
    My dear love's banishment.

  "And he _has heard_. At last my prayers
    Have reached up to God's throne
  God gives me back my long lost one,
    Nor leaves me sad and lone.

  "Only, he asks a sacrifice,
    A proof my love is pure:
  For such great gain, a little pain.
    And shall I not endure?"

* * * * *

  Once more the Sultan Saladin
    Sat in his royal court,
  At his right hand stood Hugh de Vere
    Grave-eyed and full of thought.

  A herald came. "Sultan, our lord,
    The Christians' holy men
  Who come to ransom captive slaves,
    An audience crave again."

  The friars came, and, bowing low,
    They placed before the throne
  A silver casket richly chased:
    And spoke in solemn tone.

  "Monarch, to whom women are slaves,
    Toys of an idle hour,
  Learn in a nobler faith than thine
    Love's purity and power.

  "The cruel ransom thou didst ask
    For Hugh de Vere here take,
  His love's right arm and lily hand
    "Cut off for her love's sake."
  Then Hugh de Vere, beside himself,
    The casket seized, and said,
  "O cruel monks, why told ye her?
    I bade ye call me dead.

  "O fair sweet arm! O dear white hand!
    Cut off for my poor sake!"
  And to his breast prest it and sobbed,
    As if his heart would break.

  But Saladin the casket oped,
    And lo! embalmed there lay
  The fair white arm and lily hand
    Sent by Agnes de Bray.

  And as he gazed his tears flowed down,
    His nobles also wept
  "Oh I would ere I such words had said
    I'd with my fathers slept!"

  The lily hand full reverently
    And like a saint's he kissed.
  "O gentle hand! what noble heart
    Thee owned, I never wist.

  "I never dreamed that woman lived
    Who would, to save her lord,
  Thus freely give her own right arm
    And hand unto the sword.

  "Mah'med and God witness for me,
    I loved Sir Hugh de Vere!
  And thought if I this ransom asked
    I should retain him here.

  "Fair arm, fair hand, and true brave love!
    My kingdom I'd resign--
  Richer than any king of earth
    In such a love as thine!

  "Take, Hugh de Vere, thy freedom, won
    So nobly by thy love;
  Take gems, and silks, and gold,--all vain
    Saladin's grief to prove.

  "Tell her I yield my selfish love:
    Well may she claim thy life!
  She who was such a noble love
    Will be a noble wife!

  "Unloose the sails, make no delay,
    Depart ere close the day.
  While I among my precious things
    Thy ransom stow away.

  "That, 'mid my treasure placed, it may
    To future ages prove
  How holy Christians' plighted troth,
    How pure their maidens' love!"


From Chamber's Journal.


There are some competent artistic observers who contend that bells
were the origin, the cause, the ruling motive, of one of the most
important parts of a Christian church--perhaps _the_ most important,
in regard to external appearance. The Rev. J. H. Sperling, in a paper
read recently before the Architectural Institute, dwells at
considerable length on the influence of the turret, campanile, or
bell-tower in determining the character of a church. As a means of
summoning the faithful to mass (there were no Protestant churches,
because no Protestants, in those days), or to bid them pray wherever
they might be, a bell was needed with a sound that would reach to a
distance; and this could only be insured by placing it in a tower at
some elevation. The Gothic architects made everything contribute to
the design of their cathedrals and churches; and this elevation of the
bell was just the thing to call forth their ingenuity. They made the
bell-tower one of the chief features in their design. It was often
entirely detached from the building, and was known generally as the
campanile. Examples of this are observable at Canterbury and
Chichester cathedrals, at Beccles, at Ledbury, and at West Walton in
Norfolk. Salisbury cathedral had originally a campanile; but modern
wiseacres, who thought they knew better than the men of old, removed
it. The central towers of cathedrals and churches were intended as
lanterns to let in light, not as turrets to contain bells; this was a
later innovation. Many towers have been altered from their original
purpose to convert them into bell-towers, but injuriously--as at
Winchester and Ely. Mr. Sperling, as a matter of usefulness as well as
of style, advocates the detached or semi-detached campanile; and
recommends architects to direct their attention more frequently to
this matter.

Another way in which church bells manifest, if not a scientific or
artistic, at least a historical value, is in their connection with the
saints of the Catholic Church; they are still existing records of a
very old ecclesiastical custom. The bell of a church was frequently,
if not generally, named after the patron saint of that church; and if
there were more bells than one, the lowest in tone was named after the
patron saint, and the others after saints to whom altars, shrines, or
chapels within the edifice were dedicated. Probably, in such case,
each bell was appropriated to the service of its own particular saint;
for the use of many bells in a _peal_ is comparatively modern. At
Durham cathedral, and at the church of St Bartholomew the Great near
Smithfield, are (or were recently) examples of a family of bells
receiving names bearing special relation to the particular fabric for
which they were intended.

Archaeologists claim for church bells a certain value in regard to the
inscriptions which they nearly always bear, and which serve as so many
guide-posts directing to facts belonging to past ages. Each great
bell-founder (and many of them belonged to monastic institutions) had
his own particular style of ornamentation, and his own favorite
inscription, monogram, or epigraph. Sometimes it was only his own
name; sometimes a name and a date; sometimes a pious ejaculation. The
towns of Norwich, Lynn, Colchester, Salisbury, etc., had all
celebrated families of bell-founders, in the days when the later
Gothic cathedrals and churches were built. {33} The earliest known
_dated_ bell is at Fribourg, bearing the year 1258, and the
inscription: _"O Rex Gloriae, veni cum pace; me resonante pia populo
succurre Maria."_ The oldest in England is supposed to be that at
Duncton in Sussex, dated 1319. London can boast one a little over four
centuries old, at All Hallows Staining, Mark Lane. The inscriptions on
the bells, in the days when saints patronized them, were mostly in
Latin, in most cases including the entreaty, _"Ora pro nobis_" (Pray
for us). Sometimes the mottoes adverted to the many uses which church
bells subserved, such as:

  "Laudo Deum verum, plebem voco, congrego clerum,
  Defunctos ploro, pestem fugo, festa decoro."

Even this did not exhaust the list; for we meet with an enumeration of
nearly twenty purposes answered by church bells--some of which we
should be little disposed to recognize in these scientific days of
ours. The following is not an actual motto on a bell, but an elegy on
the subject:

  "En ego Campana, nunquam denuntio vana,
  Laudo Deum verum, plebem voco, congrego clerum.
  Defunctos plango, vivos voco, fulmina frango,
  Vox mea, vox vitae, voco vos, ad sacra venite.
  Sanctos collaudo, tonitrua fugo, funera claudo,
  Funera plango, fulgura frango, Sabbatha pango,
  Excito lentos, dissipo ventos, paco cruentos."

Occasionally, some of the more peculiar of these uses were expressed
in English:

  "Sometimes joy, sometimes sorrow.
  Marriage to-day, and Death to-morrow."

They generally lose their point when they lose their Latinity.

The mottoes on old bells, other than those which were dictated by the
reverential feeling of the middle ages, comprise instances of vanity,
ignorance, and silliness, such as would hardly be expected in these
matters. Sometimes a kind of moral aphorism is attempted, with more or
less success.

  "Mankind, like us, too oft are found
  Possessed of nought but empty sound.

  When backward rung, I tell of fire;
  Think how the world shall thus expire.

  When souls are from their body torn,
  'Tis not to die, but to be born."

One, very short, bids us to

  "Embrace trew musick."

A bell-founder named Pleasant used to put all kinds of punning mottoes
on his bells suggested by his name. Some record the financial virtues
of the persons who supplied the money for casting the bell:

  "I'm given here to make a peal,
  And sound the praise of Mary Neale."

  "All ye who hear my solemn sound.
  Thank Lady Hopton's hundred pound."

  "Robert Forman collected the money for casting this bell:
  I'll surely do my part as well."

The name of the founder is sometimes supplanted by that of the
churchwarden, or they may appear in companionship.

  "John Martin of Worcester he made wee,
  Be it known to all that do wee see."

  "John Draper made, as plainly doth appeare.
  This bell was broake and cast againe wich
      tyme churchwardens were,
  Edward Dixon for the one who stode close to his tacklin.
  And he that was his partner then was Alexander Tacklyn."

The rhymster was evidently driven to his wits' end by the name of
Tacklyn. Some had a touch of loyalty in them:

  "God save the Church,
  Our Queen, and Realme,
  And send us peace in Xt."

The following are examples of a more or less childish class, marvels
to find perpetuated in hard metal:

  "My sound is good, my shape is neat:
  Perkins made me all complete."

  "I am the first, although but small,
  I will be heard above you all."

  "I sound aloud from day to day:
  My sound hath praise, and well it may."

  "I ring to sermon with a lusty boom,
  That all may come, and none may stay at home."

  "Pull on, brave boys; I am metal to the backbone,
  I'll be hanged before I'll crack."

The letters of the inscription are not, as some persons may suppose,
cut or engraved on the metal by hand: they are formed in _intaglio_ or
sunk in the sand of the mould, and thus appear in relief on the
outside of the bell when cast. What can be done in this way by that
strange people the {34} Chinese may be seen in the British Museum; we
might search long enough to find an English bell equal in elaborate
ornamentation to the Chinese bell there deposited.

The musical _tone_ of a bell unquestionably depends on the scientific
principles of acoustics as applied to music. The pitch of any one bell
is determined conjointly by the size and the thickness. Of two bells
equally large, the thicker gives the higher note; of two bells equally
thick, the smaller gives the higher note. But then bell-founders look
to the _quality_ of the tone as well as to the pitch; and on this
point there is much divergence of opinion among them. Concerning the
metal used, some combination of copper and tin predominates in nearly
all church bells; generally from two to three times as much copper as
tin. Small additions of other metals are occasionally made, according
to the theoretical views of the founder. The popular belief that
silver improves the tone of a bell, is pronounced by Mr. Sperling and
Mr. Denison to be a mistake; if added in large quantity, it would be
as bad as so much lead; if in small quantity, it does neither good nor
harm. Whether there is or is not really silver in two well-known
bells, called the "Acton Nightingale" and the "Silver Bell" of St
John's College, Cambridge, it is believed by these authorities that
the sweetness of the tone is due to other causes. A feeling of piety
probably influenced the wealthy persons who, in old days, were wont to
cast silver into the furnace containing the molten bell-metal. Mr.
Sperling thinks that the old bells were, as a rule, better than the
modern, by having more substance in them--obtaining depth and fulness
of tone by largeness in height and diameter, rather than by
diminishing the thickness at the part where the hammer or clapper
strikes. "Nothing is more easily starved than a church bell." A
long-waisted bell (high in the sides) is considered to give forth a
more resonant tone than a shallow or low waist, because there is more
metal to act as a kind of sounding-board; but a lower bell is easier
to ring in a peal; hence, as Sperling thinks, a reason for the
difference in the richness of tone in old and modern bells. There are
indications that the old founders sometimes tuned a set of bells in
what is called the _minor_ mode, the source of much that is tender and
plaintive in Scotch and Irish melodies; but in our days they are
always in the _major_ mode. Where the ringing is done by clock-work,
the sounds of several bells constitute a _chime_--where by hand, a
_peal_--but in either case the actual tone or note of each bell is
fixed beforehand. It is by many persons believed that the quality of
the tone is improved by age, owing to some kind of molecular change in
the metal; this is known to be the case in some old organs, and in
instruments of the violin class, in the metal of the one and the wood
of the other; and so far there is analogy to support the opinion. For
good peals of bells, the founders generally prefer D or E as the note
for the tenor or largest bell.

As to largeness in a bell, its intention bears relation rather to
_loudness_ than to _pitch_, as a means of throwing the sound to a
great distance. This is the reason for the mighty bells that we are
told of--St. Paul's weighing something like 13,000 lbs.; Antwerp,
16,000 lbs.; Oxford, 17,000 lbs.; Rome, 18,000 lbs.; Mechlin, 20,000
lbs.; Bruges, 23,000 lbs.; York, 24,000 lbs.; Cologne, 25,000 lbs.;
Montreal, 29,000 lbs.; Erfurt, 30,000 lbs.; "Big Ben," at the Houses
of Parliament, 31,000 lbs.; Sens, 34,000 lbs.; Vienna, 40,000 lbs.;
Novgorod, 69,000 lbs.; Pekin, 119,000 lbs.; Moscow, 141,000 lbs.; and,
giant of all the giants, another Moscow bell weighing 192 tons, or
430,000 lbs. Our own Big Ben is more than twice as heavy as our own
St. Paul's bell, which used to be regarded as one of our wonders, and
its sound travels much further; but whether its quality of tone is
equal, is a point on which opinions differ. {35} The history of the
two Big Bens must be more or less familiar to most of our readers--how
that three chief commissioners of works, and two architects, and three
bell-founders, and two bell-doctors, quarrelled year after year; how
that both the Bens cracked, and got into disgrace; how that one of
them recovered its voice again; and how that we have paid the piper to
the tune of something like four thousand pounds for the two Big Bens
and the four smaller bells. If a musical reader wishes to know, he may
be told that the four quarter-bells give out the notes B, E, F++, G++,
and that Big Ben's tone is E, an octave below the first E. Remember,
when Big Ben is heard six miles off, it is half a minute behind time,
seeing that sound takes about half a minute to travel that distance.

As to _bell-ringing,_ the adepts insist upon it that this is a
science; and they give it the name of _campanology._ We all know, ever
since we learnt about permutation and combination at school, that if
there are six, eight, ten, or any number of distinct things, we may
arrange them in an enormous number of ways, each way differing from
every other. The things in this case are bells of different tones; and
according to the order in which they are struck by the hammer or
clapper so many changes may we produce. Out of the almost infinite
number of these changes, campanologists select certain groups which to
their ear seem most musical and agreeable; and these changes are known
by the names of their proposers or inventors, just as we speak of a
work by a great artist. It is not clearly known whether change-ringing
began earlier than the seventeenth century; but it is certain that the
art is practised much more in England than in any other country. There
are peals from two or three to ten or twelve bells. Sixteen of twelve
bells, and fifty of ten bells, are mentioned in the books as peals now
existing in England. The largest peals now in England are at Bow
church, Exeter, and York, each of ten bells; at Bow church and at York
they vary from eight hundredweights to fifty-three hundredweights
each; at Exeter from eight to sixty-seven hundredweights. From these
weights, it must be evident that it is no small labor for men to pull
such bells for several hours at a time. Just as the achievements of
celebrated pedestrians and race-horses are placed upon record, so are
the fraternity proud to refer to the bell-ringing exploits of their
crack pullers. Twenty-four changes per minute are frequently reached.
We are told that in 1787, 5,040 changes were rung in three hours and a
quarter; and that on other occasions there were 6,876 changes rung in
four hours and a quarter, 7,000 in four hours, 10,008 in six hours and
three quarters, 14,224 in eight hours and three quarters, and (the
_magnum opus_) 40,320 changes rung by thirteen men in twenty-seven
hours, working in relief gangs. In one of the old churches, North
Parret in Somerset, the belfry contains a set of rhyming rules,
purporting that a six-pence fine shall be imposed on the ringers for
cursing or swearing, for making a noise or telling idle stories, for
keeping on their hats, for wearing spurs, or for overturning the bell.
This overturning does sometimes occur, even to the loss of life. One
ringer was killed about the time when his brother was drowned; and the
following delectable epitaph records the double catastrophe:

  "These 3 youths were by misfortun serounded;
  One died of his wound, and the other was drownded."

Whether bell-pinging is really a science, or whether it is only an
ingenious art, as most people would prefer to call it, certainly the
technical terms are most profuse and puzzling. Let the reader make
what he can out of the following, taken at random from one of the
books on the subject: Treble lead, plain work, course, call word,
reverse method, direct method, double, method, balance, hold up, cut
down, following, handstroke, rounds, {36} backstroke, plain hunt,
touches, course ends, hunting up, hunting down, place making, dodging,
double dodging, Bob doubles, singles, observation, grandsire doubles,
slow course, principle, Bob minor, double Bob minor, treble Bob,
superlative surprise, wrong way, Bob triple, tittums. Bob caller, Bob
major, double Bob major, treble Bob major, Bob caters, grandsire
caters, Bob royals, Bob cinques, Bob maximus, treble Bob maximus. Bob
certainly seems to be in the ascendant here. When the reader has
marvelled at these funny names, let him try to understand the
directions for ringing one particular set of changes: "Call two Bobs
on 9, O, x; bring them round. Or, if the practitioner pleases, he may
call the tenth and eleventh to make the ninth's place; the former will
be a six before the course end comes up. Then a Bob when the tenth and
eleventh dodge together behind completes it. In this course the bells
will be only one course out of the tittums"--which it is very
satisfactory to hear. Once more; and here we would ask whether the
directions do not suggest the idea of a damsel going through a sort of
country-dance with seven swains all rejoicing in the name of Bob?
"When the seventh has been quick, call a Bob when she dodges the right
way behind, which will make her quick again; then, if the sixth goes
up before the seventh, keep her behind with Bobs, until the seventh
comes up to her; but if the sixth does not go up before the seventh,
call her the right way behind again, and the sixth is sure to be up
before her the next time." After a little more of these extraordinary
evolutions--"If not out of course, Bob with the seventh down quick
till the fourth comes home; if out of course, a single must be called
when the seventh goes down quick, to put them right. But if it happens
that the fourth is before the fifth comes home, call when the seventh
does her first whole term, and down quick with a double." And we hope
that they lived happy ever afterward.


From The Month


  Roll on by tower and arch, autumnal river;
  And ere about thy dusk yet gleaming tide
  The phantom of dead day hath ceased to glide,
  Whisper it to the reeds that round thee quiver--
  Yea, whisper to those ivy-bowers that shiver
  Hard by on gusty choir and cloister wide:
  "My bubbles break; my weed-flowers seaward glide:
  My freshness and my mission last for ever!"
  Young moon, from leaden tomb of cloud that soarest,
  And whitenest those hoar elm-trees, wrecks forlorn
  Of olden Airedale's hermit-haunted forest,
  Speak thus: "I died; and lo, I am reborn!"
  Blind, patient pile, sleep on in radiance! Truth
  Fails not; and faith once more shall wake in endless youth.




From The Month.





One day there was a great deal of company at Mistress Wells's house,
which was the only one I then haunted, being as afore said, somewhat
sickened of society and diversions. The conversation which was mostly
ministered amongst such as visited there related to public affairs and
foreign countries, and not so much as in some other houses to private
scandals and the tattle of the town. The uncertainty I was in
concerning my father's present abode and his known intent soon to
cross over the sea from France worked in me a constant craving for
news from abroad, and also an apprehensive curiosity touching reports
of the landing of seminary priests at any of the English ports. Some
would often tarry at Mr. Wells's house for a night who had lately come
from Rheims or Paris, and even Rome, or leastways received letters
from such as resided in those distant parts. And others I met there
were persons who had friends at court; and they often related
anecdotes of the queen and the ministers, and the lords and ladies of
her household, which it also greatly concerned me to hear of, by
reason of my dearest friend having embarked her whole freight of
happiness in a frail vessel launched on that stormy sea of the court,
so full of shoals and quicksands, whereby many a fair ship was daily
chanced to be therein wrecked.

Nothing notable of this kind had been mentioned on the day I speak of,
which, howsoever, proved a very notable one to me. For after I had
been in the house a short time there came there one not known, and yet
it should seem not wholly unknown to me; for that I did discover in
his shape and countenance something not unfamiliar, albeit I could not
call to mind that I had ever seen this gentleman before. I asked his
name of a young lady who sat near to me, and she said she thought he
should be the elder brother of Mr. Hubert Rookwood, who was lodging in
the house, and that she heard he tabled there also since he had come
to town, and that he was a very commendable person, above the common
sort, albeit not one of such great parts as his brother. Then I did
instantly take note of the likeness between the brothers which had
made the elder's face not strange to me, as also perhaps that one
sight of him I had at Bedford some years before. Their visages were
very like; but their figures and mostly their countenances different.
I cannot say wherein that great differency did lie; but methinks every
one must have seen, or rather felt it. Basil was the tallest and the
handsomest of the twain. I will not be so great a prodigal of time as
to bestow it on commendations of his outward appearance whose inward
excellences were his chiefest merit. Howsoever, I be minded to set
down in this place somewhat touching his appearance; as it may so
happen that some who read this history, and who have known and loved
Basil in his old years, should take as much pleasure in reading as I
do in writing the description of his person, and limning as it were
the resemblance of him at a period in this history wherein the
hitherto separate currents of his life and mine do meet, like a noble
river {38} and a poor stream, for to flow onward in the same channel.

Basil Rookwood was of a tall stature, and well-proportioned shape in
all parts. His hair of light brown, very thickly set, and of a sunny
hue, curled with a graceful wave. His head had many becoming motions.
His mouth was well-made, and his lips ruddy. His forehead not very
high, in which was a notable dissemblance from his brother. His nose
raised and somewhat sharply cut. His complexion clear and rosy; his
smile so full of cheer and kindliness that it infected others with
mirthfulness. He was very nimble and active in all his movements, and
well skilled in riding, fencing, and dancing. I pray you who have
known him in his late years, can you in aught, save in a never-altered
sweetness mixing with the dignity of age, trace in this picture a
likeness to Basil, your Basil and mine?

I care not, in writing this plain showing of mine own life, to use
such disguises as are observed in love-stories, whereby the reader is
kept ignorant of that which is to follow until in due time the course
of the tale doth unfold it. No, I may not write Basil's name as that
of a stranger. Not for the space of one page; nay, not with so much as
one stroke of my pen can I dissemble the love which had its dawn on
the day I have noted. It was sudden in its beginnings, yet steady in
its progress. It deepened and widened with the course of years, even
as a rivulet doth start with a lively force from its source, and,
gathering strength as it flows, grows into a broad and noble river. It
was ardent but not idolatrous; sudden, as I have said, in its rise,
but not unconsidered. It was founded on high esteem on the one side,
on the other an inexpressible tenderness and kindness. Religion,
honor, and duty were the cements of this love. No blind dotage; but a
deathless bond of true sympathy, making that equal which in itself was
unequal; for, if a vain world should have deemed that on the one side
there did appear some greater brilliancy of parts than showed in the
other, all who could judge of true merit and sound wisdom must needs
have allowed that in true merit Basil was as greatly her superior whom
he honored with his love, as is a pure diamond to the showy setting
which encases it.

Hubert presented to me his brother, who, when he heard my name
mentioned, would not be contented till he had got speech of me; and
straightway, after the first civilities had passed between us, began
to relate to me that he had been staying for a few days before coming
to town at Mr. Roper's house at Richmond, where I had often visited in
the summer. It so befel that I had left in the chamber where I slept
some of my books, on the margins of which were written such notes as I
was wont to make whilst reading, for so Hubert had advised me, and his
counsel in this I found very profitable; for this method teaches one
to reflect on what he reads, and to hold converse as it were with
authors whose friendship and company he thus enjoys, which is a source
of contentment more sufficient and lasting than most other pleasures
in this world.

Basil chanced to inhabit this room, and discovered on an odd by-shelf
these volumes so disfigured, or, as he said, so adorned; and took such
delight in the reading of them, but mostly in the poor reflections an
unknown pen had affixed to these pages, that he rested not until he
had learnt from Mr. Roper the name of the writer. When he found she
was the young girl he had once seen at Bedford, he marvelled at the
strong impulse he had toward her, and pressed the venerable gentleman
with so many questions relating to her that he feared he should have
wearied him  but his inquiries met with such gracious answers that he
perceived Mr. Roper to be as well pleased with the theme of his
discourse as himself, and as glad to set {39} forth her excellences (I
be ashamed to write the words which should indeed imply the speaker to
have been in his dotage, but for the excuse of a too great kindness to
an unworthy creature) as he had to listen to them. And here I must
needs interrupt my narrative to admire that one who was no scholar,
yea, no great reader at any time, albeit endowed with excellent good
sense and needful information, should by means of books have been
drawn to the first thoughts of her who was to enjoy his love which
never was given to any other creature but herself. But I pray you,
doth it not happen most often, though it is scarce to be credited,
that dissemblance in certain matters doth attract in the way of love
more than resemblance? That short men do choose tall wives; lovers of
music women who have no ear to discern one tune from another; scholars
witless housewives; retired men ambitious helpmates; and gay ladies
grave husbands? This should seem to be the rule, otherways the
exception; and a notable instance of the same I find in the first
motions which did incline Basil to a good opinion of my poor self.

But to return. "Mistress Sherwood," quoth Basil, "Mr. Roper did not
wholly praise you; he recited your faults as well as your virtues."

I answered, it did very much content me he should have done so, for
that then more credit should be given to his words in that wherein he
did commend me, since he was so true a friend as to note my defects.

"But what," quoth he, archly smiling, "if the faults he named are such
as pleased me as well as virtues?"

"Then," I replied, "methinks, sir, the fault should be rather in you
than in her who doth commit them, for she may be ignorant, or else
subject to some infirmity of temper; but to commend faults should be a
very dangerous error."

"But will you hear," quoth he, "your faults as Mr. Roper recited

"Yea, willingly," I answered, "and mend them also if I can."

"Oh, I pray you mend them not," he cried.

At which I laughed, and said he should be ashamed to give such wanton
advice. And then he:

"Mr. Roper declares you have so much inability to conceal your
thoughts that albeit your lips should be forcibly closed, your eyes
would speak them so clearly that any one who listed should read them."

"Methinks," I said, willing to excuse myself like the lawyer in the
gospel, "that should not be my fault, who made not mine own eyes."

"Then he also says, that you have so sharp an apprehension of wrongs
done to others, that if you hear of an injustice committed, or some
cruel treatment of any one, you are so moved and troubled, that he has
known you on such occasions to shed tears, which do not flow with a
like ease for your own griefs. Do you cry mercy to this accusation,
Mistress Sherwood?"

"Indeed," I answered, "God knoweth I do, and my ghostly father also.
For the strong passions of resentment touching the evil usage our
Catholics do meet with work in me so mightfully, that I often am in
doubt if I have sinned therein. And concerning mine own griefs, they
have been but few as yet, so that 'tis little praise I deserve for not
overmuch resentment in instances wherein, if others are afflicted, I
have much ado to restrain wrath."

"Ah," he said, "methinks if you answer in so true and grave a manner
my rude catechizing. Mistress Sherwood, I be not bold enough to
continue the inventory of your faults."

"I pray you do," I answered; for I felt in my soul an unusual liking
for his conversation, and the more so when, leaving off jesting, he
said, "The last fault Mr. Roper did charge you with was lack of
prudence in matters wherein prudence is most needed in these days."


"Alas!" I exclaimed; "for that also do I cry mercy; but indeed, Master
Rookwood, there is in these days so much cowardice and time-serving
which doth style itself prudence, that methinks it might sometimes
happen that a right boldness should be called rashness."

Raising my eyes to his, I thought I saw them clouded by a misty dew;
and he replied, "Yea, Mistress Constance, and if it is so, I had
sooner that myself and such as I have a friendship for should have to
cry mercy on their death-beds for too much rashness in stemming the
tide, than for too much ease in yielding to it. And now," he added,
"shall I repeat what Mr. Roper related of your virtues?"

"No," I answered, smiling. "For if the faults he doth charge me with
be so much smaller than the reality, what hope have I that he should
speak the truth in regard to my poor merits?"

Then some persons moving nearer to where we were sitting, some general
conversation ensued, in which several took part; and none so much to
my liking as Basil, albeit others might possess more ready tongues and
a more sparkling wit. In all the years since I had left my home, I had
not found so much contentment in any one's society. His mind and mine
were like two instruments with various chords, but one key-note, which
maintained them in admirable harmony. The measure of our agreement
stood rather in the drift of our desires and the scope of our
approval, than in any parity of tastes or resemblance of disposition.
Acquaintanceship soon gave way to intimacy, which bred a mutual
friendship that in its turn was not slow to change into a warmer
feeling. We met very often. It seemed so natural to him to affection
me, and to me to reciprocate his affection, that if our love began
not, which methinks it did, on that first day of meeting, I know not
when it had birth. But if it be difficult precisely to note the
earliest buddings of the sweet flower love, it was easy to discern the
moment when the bitter root of jealousy sprang up in Hubert's heart.
He who had been suspicious of every person whose civilities I allowed
of, did not for some time appear to mislike the intimacy which had
arisen betwixt his brother and me. I ween from what he once said, when
on a later occasion anger loosened his tongue, that he held him in
some sort of contempt, even as a fox would despise a nobler animal
than himself. His subtle wit disdained his plainness of speech. His
confiding temper he derided; and he had methinks no apprehension that
a she-wit, as he was wont to call me, should prove herself so witless
as to prefer to one of his brilliant parts a man notable for his
indifferency to book learning, and to his smooth tongue and fine
genius the honest words and unvarnished merits of his brother.

Howsoever, one day he either did himself notice some sort of
particular kindness to exist between us, or he was advertised thereof
by some of the company we frequented, and I saw him fix his eyes on us
with so arrested a persistency, and his frame waxed so rigid, that
methought Lot's wife must have so gazed when she turned toward the
doomed city. I was more frighted at the dull lack of expression in his
face than at a thousand frowns or even scowls. His eyes were reft of
their wonted fire; the color had flown from his lips; his always pale
cheek was of a ghastly whiteness; and his hand, which was thrust in
his bosom, and his feet, which seemed rooted to the ground, were as
motionless as those of a statue. A shudder ran through me as he stood
in this guise, neither moving nor speaking, at a small distance from
me. I rose and went away, for his looks freezed me. But the next time
I met him this strangeness of behavior had vanished, and I almost
misdoubted the truth of what I had seen. He was a daily witness, for
several succeeding weeks, of what neither Basil nor I {41} cared much
to conceal--the mutual confidence and increasing tenderness of
affection, which was visible in all our words and actions at that
time, which was one of greater contentment than can be expressed. That
summer was a rare one for fineness of the weather and its great store
of sun-shiny days. We had often pleasant divertisements in the
neighborhood of London, than which no city is more famous for the
beauty of its near scenery. One while we ascended the noble river
Thames as far as Richmond, England's Arcadia, whose smooth waters,
smiling meads, and hills clad in richest verdure, do equal whatsoever
poets have ever sung or painters pictured. Another time we disported
ourselves in the gardens of Hampton, where, in the season of roses,
the insects weary their wings over the flower-beds--the thrifty bees
with the weight of gathered honey--and the gay butterflies, idlers as
ourselves, with perfume and pleasure. Or we went to Greenwich Park,
and underneath the spreading trees, with England's pride of shipping
in sight, and barges passing to and fro on the broad stream as on a
watery highway, we whiled away the time in many joyous pastimes.

On an occasion of this sort it happened that both brothers went with
us, and we forecasted to spend the day at a house in the village of
Paddington, about two miles from London, where Mr. Congleton's sister,
a lady of fortune, resided. It stood in a very fair garden, the gate
of which opened on the high road; and after dinner we sat with some
other company which had been invited to meet us under the large cedar
trees which lined a broad gravel-walk leading from the house to the
gate. The day was very hot, but now a cooling air had risen, and the
young people there assembled played at pastimes, in which I was
somewhat loth to join; for jesting disputations and framing of
questions and answers, an amusement then greatly in fashion, minded
one of that fatal encounter betwixt Martin Tregony and Thomas
Sherwood, the end of which had been the death of the one and a fatal
injury to the soul of the other. Hubert was urgent with me to join in
the arguments proposed; but I refused, partly for the aforesaid
reason, and methinks, also, because I doubted that Basil should acquit
himself so admirably as his brother in these exercises of wit, wherein
the latter did indeed excel, and I cared not to shine in a sport
wherein he took no part. So I set myself to listen to the disputants,
albeit with an absent mind; for I had grown to be somewhat thoughtful
of late, and to forecast the future with such an admixture of hope and
fear touching the issue of those passages of love I was engaged in,
that the trifles which entertained a disengaged mind lacked ability to
divert me. I ween Polly, if she had been then in London, should have
laughed at me for the symptoms I exhibited of what she styled the
sighing malady.

A little while after the contest had begun, a sound was heard at a
distance as of a trampling on the road, but not discernible as yet
whether of men or horses' feet. There was mixed with it cries of
hooting and shouts, which increased as this sort of procession (for so
it should seem to be) approached. All who were in the garden ran to
the iron railing for to discover the cause. From the houses on both
sides the road persons came out and joined in the clamor. As the crowd
neared the gate where we stood, the words, "Papists--seditious
priests--traitors," were discernible, mixed with oaths, curses, and
such opprobrious epithets as my pen dares not write. At the hearing of
them the blood rushed to my head, and my heart began to beat as if it
should burst from the violence with which it throbbed; for now the mob
was close at hand, and we could see the occasion of their yells and
shoutings. About a dozen persons were riding without bridle or spur or
other furniture, on lean and bare horses, which were fastened {42} one
to the other's tails, marching slowly in a long row, each man's feet
tied under his horse's belly and his arms bound hard and fast behind
him. A pursuivant rode in front and cried aloud that those coming
behind him were certain papists, foes to the gospel and enemies to the
commonwealth, for that they had been seized in the act of saying and
hearing mass in disobedience to the laws. And as he made this
proclamation, the rabble yelled and took up stones and mud to cast at
the prisoners. One man cried out, "Four of them be vile priests." O ye
who read this, have you taken heed how, at some times in your lives,
in a less space than the wink of an eye, thought has outrun sight? So
did mine with lightning speed apprehend lest my father should be one
of these. I scanned the faces of the prisoners as they passed, but he
was not amongst them; however I recognized, with a sharp pain, the
known countenance of the priest who had shriven my mother on her
death-bed. He looked pale and worn to a shadow, and hardly able to sit
on his horse. I sunk down on my knees, with my head against the
railings, feeling very sick. Then the gate opened, and with a strange
joy and trembling fear I saw Basil push through the mob till he stood
close to the horse's feet where the crowd had made a stoppage. He
knelt and took off his hat, and the lips of the priests moved, as they
passed, for to bless him. Murmurs rose from the rabble, but he took no
heed of them. Till the last horseman had gone by he stood with his
head uncovered, and then slowly returned, none daring to touch him.
"Basil, dear Basil!" I cried, and, weeping, gave him my hand. It was
the first time I had called him by his name. Methinks in that moment
as secure a troth-plight was passed between us as if ten thousand
bonds had sealed it. When, some time afterward, we moved toward the
house, I saw Hubert standing at the door with the same stony rigid
look which had frighted me once before. He said not one word as I
passed him. I have since heard that a lady, endowed with more
sharpness than prudence or kindness, had thus addressed him on this
occasion: "Methinks, Master Hubert Rookwood, that you did perform your
part excellently well in that ingenious pastime which procured us so
much good entertainment awhile ago; but beshrew me if your brother did
not exceed you in the scene we have just witnessed, and if Mistress
Sherwood's looks do not belie her, she thought so too. I ween his
tragedy hath outdone your comedy." Then he (well-nigh biting his lips
through, as the person who related it to me observed) made answer: "If
this young gentlewoman's taste be set on tragedy, then will I promise
her so much of it another day as should needs satisfy her."

This malicious lady misliked Hubert, by reason of his having denied
her the praise of wit, which had been reported to her by a third
person. She was minded to be revenged on him, and so the shaft
contained in her piercing jest had likewise hit those she willed not
to injure. It is not to be credited how many persons have been ruined
in fortune, driven into banishment, yea, delivered over to death, by
careless words uttered without so much as a thought of the evil which
should ensue from them.

And now upon the next day Basil was to leave London. Before he went he
said he hoped not to be long absent, and that Mr. Congleton should
receive a letter, if it pleased God, from his father; which, if it
should be favorably received, and I willed it not to be otherwise,
should cause our next meeting to be one of greater contentment than
could be thought of.

I answered, "I should never wish otherwise than that we should meet
with contentment, or will anything that should hinder it." Which he
said did greatly please him to hear, and gave him a comfortable hope
of a happy return.


He conversed also with Mistress Ward touching the prisoners we had
seen the day before, and left some money with her in case she should
find means to see and assist them, which she strove to do with the
diligence used by her in all such managements. In a few days she
discovered Mr. Watson to be in Bridewell, also one Mr. Richardson in
the Marshalsea, and three laymen in the Clink. Mr. Watson had a sister
who was a Protestant, and by her means she succeeded in relieving his
wants, and dealt with the gaolers at the other prisons so as to convey
some assistance to the poor men therein confined, whose names she had
found out.

One morning when I was at Kate's house Hubert came there; and she, the
whole compass of whose thoughts was now circled in her nursery, not
minding the signs I made she should not leave us alone, rose and said
she must needs go and see if her babe was awake, for Hubert must see
him, and he should not go away without first he had beheld him walk
with his new leading-strings, which were the tastefullest in the world
and fit for a king's son; and that she doubted not we could find good
enough entertainment in each other's company, or in Mr. Lacy's books,
which must be the wittiest ever written, if she judged by her
husband's fondness for them. As soon as the door was shut on her,
Hubert began to speak of his brother, and to insinuate that my
behavior to himself was changed since Basil had come to London, which
I warmly denied.

"If," I said, "I have changed--"

"_If_," he repeated, stopping my speaking with an ironical and
disdainful smile, and throwing into that one little word as he uttered
it more of meaning than it would seem possible it should express.

"Yes!" I continued, angered at his defiant looks. "Yes, if my behavior
to you has changed, which, I must confess, in some respects it has,
the cause did lie in my uncle's commands, laid on me before your
brother's coming to London. You know it, Master Rookwood, by the same
token that you charged me with unkindness for not allowing of your
visits, and refusing to read Italian with you, some weeks before ever
he arrived."

"You have a very obedient disposition, madam," he answered in a
scornful manner, "and I doubt not have attended with a like readiness
to the behest to favor the _elder_ brother's suit as to that which
forbade the receiving of the younger brother's addresses."

"I did not look upon you as a suitor," I replied.

"No!" he exclaimed, "and not as on a lover? Not as on one whose lips,
borrowing words from enamored poets twenty times in a day, did avow
his passion, and was entertained on your side with so much good-nature
and apparent contentment with this mode of disguised worship, as
should lead him to hope for a return of his affection? But why
question of that wherein my belief is unshaken? I know you love me,
Constance Sherwood, albeit you peradventure love more dearly my
brother's heirship of Euston and its wide acres. Your eyes deceived
not, nor did your flushing cheek dissemble, when we read together
those sweet tales and noble poems, wherein are set forth the dear
pains and tormenting joys of a mutual love. No, not if you did take
your oath on it will I believe you love my brother!"

"What warrant have you, sir," I answered with burning cheek, "to
minister such talk to one who, from the moment she found you thought
of marriage, did plainly discountenance your suit?"

"You were content, then, madam, to be worshipped as an idol," he
bitterly replied, "if only not sued for in marriage by a poor man."

My sin found me out then, and the hard taunt awoke dormant pangs in my
conscience for the pleasure I had taken and doubtless showed in the
disguised professions of an undisguised admiration; but anger yet
prevailed, {44} and I cried, "Think you to advance your interest in my
friendship, sir, by such language and reproaches as these?"

"Do you love my brother?" he said again, with an implied contempt
which made me mad.

"Sir," I answered, "I entertain for your brother so great a respect
and esteem as one must needs feel toward one of so much virtue and
goodness. No contract exists between us; nor has he made me the tender
of his hand. More than that it behoves you not to ask, or me to

"Ah! the offer of marriage is then the condition of your regard, and
love is to follow, not precede, the settlements, I' faith, ladies are
very prudent in these days; and virtue and goodness the new names for
fortune and lands. Beshrew me, if I had not deemed you to be made of
other metal than the common herd. But whatever be the composition of
your heart, Constance Sherwood, be it hard as the gold you set so much
store on, or, like wax, apt to receive each day some new impress, I
will have it; yea, and keep it for my own. No rich fool shall steal it
from me."

"Hubert Rookwood," I cried in anger, "dare not so to speak of one
whose merit is as superior to thine as the sun outshines a

"Ah!" he exclaimed, turning pale with rage, "if I thought thou didst
love him!" and clenched his hand with a terrible gesture, and ground
his teeth. "But 'tis impossible," he added bitterly smiling. "As soon
would I believe Titania verily to doat on the ass's head as for thee
to love Basil!"

"Oh!" I indignantly replied, "you do almost constrain me to avow that
which no maiden should, unasked, confess. Do you think, sir, that
learning and scholarship, and the poor show of wit that lies in a
ready tongue, should outweigh honor, courage, and kindliness of heart?
Think you that more respect should be paid to one who can speak, and
write also, if you will, fair sounding words, than to him who in his
daily doings shows forth such nobleness as others only inculcate, and
God only knoweth if ever they practise it?"

"Lady!" he exclaimed, "I have served you long; sustained torments in
your presence; endured griefs in your absence; pining thoughts in the
day, and anguished dreams in the night; jealousies often in times
past, and now--"

He drew in his breath; and then not so much speaking the word
"despair" as with a smothered vehemence uttering it, he concluded his
vehement address.

I was so shaken by his speech that I remained silent: for if I had
spoken I must needs have wept. Holding my head with both hands, and so
shielding my eyes from the sight of his pale convulsed face, I sat
like one transfixed. Then he again: "These be not times, Mistress
Sherwood, for women to act as you have done; to lift a man's heart one
while to an earthly heaven, and then, without so much as a thought, to
cast him into a hellish sea of woes. These be the dealings which drive
men to desperation; to attempt things contrary to their own minds, to
religion, and to honesty; to courses once abhorred--"

His violence wrung my heart then with so keen a remorse that I cried
out, "I cry you mercy, Master Rookwood, if I have dealt thus with you;
indeed I thought not to do it. I pray you forgive me, if unwittingly,
albeit peradventure in a heedless manner, I have done you so much
wrong as your words do charge me with." And then tears I could not
stay began to flow; and for awhile no talk ensued. But after a little
time he spoke in a voice so changed and dissimilar in manner, that I
looked up wholly amazed.

"Sweet Constance," he said, "I have played the fool in my customable
fashion, and by such pretended slanders of one I should rather incline
to commend beyond his deserts, if that were possible, than to give him
vile terms, have sought--I cry you {45} mercy for it--to discover your
sentiments, and feigned a resentment and a passion which indeed has
proved an excellent piece of acting, if I judge by your tears. I pray
you pardon and forget my brotherly device. If you love Basil--as I
misdoubt not he loves you--where shall a more suitable match be found,
or one which every one must needs so much approve? Marry, sweet lady;
I will be his best man when he doth ride to church with you, and cry
'Amen' more loudly than the clerk. So now dart no more vengeful
lightnings from thine eyes, sweet one; and wipe away the pearly drops
my unmannerly jesting hath caused to flow. I would not Basil had
wedded a lady in love with his pelf, not with himself."

"I detest tricks," I cried, "and such feigning as you do confess to. I
would I had not answered one word of your false discourse."

Now I wept for vexation to have been so circumvented and befooled as
to own some sort of love for a man who bad not yet openly addressed
me. And albeit reassured in some wise, touching what my conscience had
charged me with when I heard Hubert's vehement reproaches, I
misdoubted his present sincerity. He searched my face with a keen
investigation, for to detect, I ween, if I was most contented or
displeased with his late words. I resolved, if he was false, I would
be true, and leave not so much as a suspicion in his mind that I did
or ever had cared for him. But Kate, who should not have left us
alone, now returned, when her absence would have been most profitable.
She had her babe in her aims, and must needs call on Hubert to praise
its beauty and list to its sweet crowing. In truth, a more winsome,
gracious creature could not be seen; and albeit I had made an
inpatient gesture when she entered, my arms soon eased hers of their
fair burthen, and I set to playing with the boy, and Hubert talking
and laughing in such good cheer, that I began to credit his passion
had been feigning, and his indifferency to be true, which contented me
not a little.

A few days afterward Mr. Congleton received a letter, in the evening,
when we were sitting in my aunt's room, and a sudden fluttering in my
heart whispered it should be from Basil's father. Mine eyes affixed
themselves on the cover, which had fallen on the ground, and then
travelled to my uncle's face, wherein was a smile which seemed to say,
"This is no other than what I did expect." He put it down on the
table, and his hand over it. My aunt said he should tell us the news
he had received, to make us merry; for that the fog had given her the
vapors, and she had need of some good entertainment.

"News!" quoth he. "What news do you look for, good wife?"

"It would not be news, sir," she answered, "if I expected it."

"That is more sharp than true," he replied. "There must needs come
news of the queen of France's lying-in; but I pray you how will it be?
Shall she live and do well? Shall it be a prince or a princess?"

"Prithee, no disputings, Mr. Congleton," she said. "We be not playing
at questions and answers."

"Nay, but thou dost mistake," he cried out, laughing. "Methinks we
have here in hand some game of that sort if I judge by this letter."

Then my heart leapt, I knew not how high or how tumultuously; for I
doubted not now but he had received the tidings I hoped for.

"Constance," he said, "hast a mind to marry?"

"If it should please you, sir," I answered; "for my father charged me
to obey you."

"Good," quoth he. "I see thou art an obedient wench. And thou wilt
marry who I please?"

"Nay, sir; I said not that."

"Oh, oh!" quoth he. "Thou wilt marry so as to please me, and yet--"

"Not so as to displease myself, sir," I answered.

"Come," he said, "another question. {46} Here is a gentleman of
fortune and birth, and excellent good character, somewhat advanced in
years indeed, but the more like to make an indulgent husband, and to
be prudent in the management of his affairs, hath heard so good a
report from two young gentlemen, his sons, of thy abilities and proper
behavior, that he is minded to make thee a tender of marriage, with so
good a settlement on his estate in Suffolk as must needs content any
reasonable woman. Wilt have him, Conny?"

"Who, sir?" I asked, waxing, I ween, as red as a field-poppy.

"Mr. Rookwood, wench--Basil and Hubert's father."

Albeit I knew my uncle's trick of jesting, my folly was so great just
then, hope and fear working in me, that I was seized with fright, and
from crimson turned so white, that he cried out:

"Content thee, child! content thee! 'Tis that tall strapping fellow
Basil must needs make thee an offer of his hand; and by my troth,
wench, I warrant thee thou wouldst go further and fare worse; for the
gentleman is honorably descended, heir-apparent to an estate worth
yearly, to my knowledge, three thousand pounds sterling, well disposed
in religion, and of a personage without exception. Mr. Rookwood
declares he is more contented with his son's choice than if he married
Mistress Spencer, or any other heiress; and beshrew me, if I be not
contented also."

Then he bent his head close to mine ear, and whispered, "And so art
thou, methinks, if those tell-tale eyes of thine should be credited.
Yea, yea, hang down thy head, and stammer 'As you please, sir!' And
never so much as a _Deo gratias_ for thy good fortune! What thankless
creatures women be!" I laughed and ran out of the room before mine
aunt or Mistress Ward had disclosed their lips; for I did long to be
in mine own chamber alone, and, from the depths of a heart over full
of, yea overflowing with, such joy as doth incline the knees to bend
and the eyes to raise themselves to the Giver of all good--he whom
all other goodness doth only mirror and shadow forth--pour out a hymn
of praise for the noble blessing I had received. For, I pray you,
after the gift of faith and grace for to know and love God, is there
aught on earth to be jewelled by a woman like to the affection of a
good man; or a more secure haven for her to anchor in amid the present
billows of life, except that of religion, to which all be not called,
than an honorable contract of marriage, wherein reason, passion, and
duty do bind the soul in a triple cord of love?

And oh! with what a painful tenderness I thought in that moving hour
on mine own dear parents--my mother, now so many years dead; my
father, so parted from his poor child, that in the most weighty
concernment of her life--the disposal of her in marriage--his consent
had to be presumed; his authority, for so he had with forecasting care
ordained, being left in other hands. But albeit a shade of melancholy
from such a retrospect as the mind is wont to take of the past, when
coming events do cast, as it should seem, a new light on what has
preceded them, I could not choose but see, in this good which had
happened to me, a reward to him who had forsaken all things--lands,
home, kindred, yea his only child, for Christ's dear sake. It minded
me of my mother's words concerning me, when she lay dying, "Fear not
for her."

I was somewhat loth to return to mine aunt's chamber, and to appear in
the presence of Kate and Polly, who had come to visit their mother,
and, by their saucy looks when I entered, showed they were privy to
the treaty in hand. Mine aunt said she had been thinking that she
would not go to church when I was married, but give me her blessing at
home; for she had never recovered from the chilling she had when Kate
was married, and {47} had laid abed on Polly' wedding-day, which she
liked better. Mistress Ward had great contentment, she said, that I
should have so good an husband. Kate was glad Basil was not too fond
of books, for that scholars be not as conversable as agreeable
husbands should be. Polly said, for her part, she thought the less wit
a man had, the better for his wife, for she would then be the more
like to have her own way. But that being her opinion, she did not
wholly wish me joy; for she had noticed Basil to be a good thinker,
and a man of so much sense, that he would not be ruled by a wife more
than should be reasonable. I was greatly pleased that she thus
commended him, who was not easily pleased, and rather given to despise
gentlemen than to praise them. I kissed her, and said I had always
thought her the most sensible woman in the world. She laughed, and
cried, "That was small commendation, for that women were the
foolishest creatures in the world, and mostly such as were in love."

Ah me! The days which followed were full of sweet waiting and pleasant
pining for the effects of the letter mine uncle wrote to Mr. Rookwood,
and looking for one Basil should write himself, when licence for to
address me had been yielded to him. When it came, how unforeseen, how
sad were the contents! Albeit love was expressed in every line, sorrow
did so cover its utterance, that my heart overflowed through mine
eyes, and I could only sigh and weep that the beginning of so fair a
day of joy should have set in clouds of so much grief. Basil's father
was dead. The day after he wrote that letter, the cause of all our
joy, he fell sick and never bettered any more, but the contrary: time
was allowed him to prepare his soul for death, by all holy rites and
ghostly comforts. One of his sons was on each side of his bed when he
died; and Basil closed his eyes.


Basil came to London after the funeral, and methought his sadness then
did become him as much as his joyfulness heretofore. His grief was
answerable to the affection he had borne unto his father, and to that
gentlemen's most excellent deserts. He informed Mr. Congleton that in
somewhat less than one year he should be of age, and until then his
wardship was committed to Sir Henry Stafford. It was agreed betwixt
them, that in respect of his deep mourning and the greater commodity
his being of age would afford for the drawing up of settlements, our
marriage should be deferred until he returned from the continent in a
year's time. Sir Henry was exceeding urgent he should travel abroad
for the bettering as he affirmed of his knowledge of foreign
languages, and acquirement of such useful information as should
hereafter greatly benefit him; but methinks, from what Basil said, it
was chiefly with the end that he should not be himself troubled during
his term of guardianship with proceedings touching his ward's
recusancy, which was so open and manifest, no persuasions dissuading
him from it, that he apprehended therefrom to meet with difficulties.

So with heavy hearts and some tears on both sides, a short time after
Mr. Rookwood's death, we did part, but withal with so comfortable a
hope of a happy future, and so great a security of mutual affection,
that the pangs of separation were softened, and a not unpleasing
melancholy ensued. We forecasted to hold converse by means of letters,
of which he made me promise I should leastways write two for his one;
for he argued, as I always had a pen in my hand, it should be no
trouble to me to write down my thoughts as they arose, but as for
himself, it would cost him much time and labor for to compose such a
letter as it would content me to receive. But herein he was too
modest; {48} for, indeed, in everything he wrote, albeit short and
mostly devoid of such flowers of the fancy as some are wont to scatter
over their letters, I was always excellently well pleased with his
favors of this kind.

Hubert remained in London for to commence his studies in a house of
the law; but when my engagement with his brother became known, he left
off haunting Mr. Lacy's house, and even Mr. Wells's, as heretofore.
His behavior was very mutable; at one time exceedingly obliging, and
at another more strange and distant than it had yet been; so that I
did dread to meet him, not knowing how to shape mine own conduct in
his regard; for if on the one hand I misliked to appear estranged from
Basil's brother, yet if I dealt graciously toward him I feared to
confirm his apprehension of some sort of unusual liking on my part
toward himself.

One month, or thereabouts, after Basil had gone to France, Lady Surrey
did invite me to stay with her at Kenninghall, which greatly delighted
me, for it was a very long time then since I had seen her. The reports
I heard of her lord's being a continual waiter on her majesty, and
always at court, whereas she did not come to London so much as once in
the year, worked in me a very uneasy apprehension that she should not
be as happy in her retirement as I should wish. I long had desired to
visit this dear lady, but durst not be the first to speak of it. Also
to one bred in the country from her infancy, the long while I had
spent in a city, far from any sights or scents of nature, had created
in me a great desire for pure air and green fields, of which the
neighborhood of London had afforded only such scanty glimpses as
served to whet, not satisfy, the taste for such-like pleasures. So
with much contentment I began my journey into Norfolk, which was the
first I had taken since that long one from Sherwood Hall to London
some years before. A coach of my Lord Surrey's, with two new pairs of
horses, was going from the Charter-house to Kenninghall, and a
chamber-woman of my lady's to be conveyed therein; so for conveniency
I travelled with her. We slept two nights on the road (for the horses
were to rest often), in very comfortable lodgings; and about the
middle of the third day we did arrive at Kenninghall, which is a place
of so great magnitude and magnificence, that to my surprised eyes it
showed more like unto a palace, yea, a cluster of palaces, than the
residence of a private though illustrious nobleman. The gardens which
we passed along-side of, the terraces adorned with majestic trees, the
woods at the back of the building, which then wore a gaudy dress of
crimson and golden hues,--made my heart leap for joy to be once more
in the country. But when we passed through the gateway, and into one
court and then another, methought we left the country behind, and
entered some sort of city, the buildings did so close around us on
every side. At last we stopped at a great door, and many footmen stood
about me, and one led me through long galleries and a store of empty
chambers; I forecasting in my mind the while how far it should be to
the gardens I had seen, and if the birds could be heard to sing in
this great house, in which was so much fine tapestry, and pictures in
high-gilt frames, that the eye was dazzled with their splendor. A
little pebbly brook or a tuft of daisies would then have pleased me
more than these fine hangings, and the grass than the smooth carpets
in some of the rooms, the like of which I had never yet seen. But
these discontented thoughts vanished quickly when my Lady Surrey
appeared; and I had nothing more to desire when I received her
affectionate embrace, and saw how joyful was her welcome. Methought,
too, when she led me into the chamber wherein she said her time was
chiefly spent, that its rich adornment became her, who had verily a
queenly beauty, and a {49} presence so sweetly majestic that it alone
was sufficient to call for a reverent respect from others even in her
young years. There was an admirable simplicity in her dress; so that I
likened her in my mind, as she sat in that gilded room, to a pare fair
diamond enchased in a rich setting. In the next chamber her
gentlewoman and chambermaids were at work--some at frames, and others
making of clothes, or else spinning; and another door opened into her
bed-chamber, which was very large, like unto a hall, and the canopy of
the bed so high and richly adorned that it should have beseemed a
throne. The tapestry on the wall, bedight with fruits and flowers,
very daintily wrought, so that nature itself hath not more fair hues
than therein were to be seen.

"When my lord is not at home, I mislike this grand chamber, and do lie
here," she said, and showed me an inner closet; which I perceived to
be plainly furnished, and in one corner of it, which pleased me most
for to see, a crucifix hung against the wall, over above a
kneeling-stool. Seeing my eyes did rest on it, she colored a little,
and said it had belonged to Lady Mounteagle, who had gifted her with
it on her death-bed; upon which account she did greatly treasure the
possession thereof.

I answered, it did very much content me that she should set store on
what had been her grandmother's, for verily she was greatly indebted
to that good lady for the care she had taken of her young years; "but
methinks," I added, "the likeness of your Saviour which died for you
should not need any other excuse for the prizing of it than what
arises from its being what it is, his own dear image."

She said she thought so too; but that in the eyes of Protestants she
must needs allege some other reason for the keeping of a crucifix in
her room than that good one, which nevertheless in her own thinking
she allowed of.

Then she showed me mine own chamber, which was very commodious and
pleasantly situated, not far from hers. From the window was to be seen
the town of Norwich, and an extensive plain intersected with trees;
and underneath the wall of the house a terrace lined with many fair
shrubs and strips of flower-beds, very pleasing to the eye, but too
far off for a more familiar enjoyment than the eyesight could afford.

When we had dined, and I was sitting with my lady in her dainty
sitting-room, she at her tambour-frame, and I with a piece of
patch-work on my knees which I had brought from London, she began
forthwith to question me touching my intended marriage, Mr. Rookwood's
death, and Basil's going abroad, concerning which she had heard many
reports. I satisfied her thereon; upon which she expressed great
contentment that my prospects of happiness were so good; for all which
knew Basil thought well on him, she said; and mostly his neighbors,
which have the chiefest occasions for to judge of a man's disposition.
And Euston, she thought, should prove a very commendable residence,
albeit the house was small for so good an estate; but capable, she
doubted not, of improvements, which my fine taste would bestow on it;
not indeed by spending large sums on outward show, but by small
adornments and delicate beautifying of a house and gardens, such as
women only do excel in; the which kind of care Mr. Rookwood's seat had
lacked for many years. She also said it pleased her much to think that
Basil and I should agree touching religion, for there was little
happiness to be had in marriage where consent doth not exist in so
important a matter. I answered, that I was of that way of thinking
also. But then this consent must be veritable, not extorted; for in so
weighty a point the least shadow of compulsion on the one side, and
feigning on the other, do end by destroying happiness, and virtue
also, which is more urgent. She made no answer; and I then asked her
if she {50} liked Kenninghall more than London, and had found in a
retired life the contentment she had hoped for. She bent down her head
over her work-frame, so as partly to conceal her face; but how
beautiful what was to be seen of it appeared, as she thus hid the
rest, her snowy neck supporting her small head, and the shape of her
oval cheek just visible beneath the dark tresses of jet-black hair!
When she raised that noble head methought it wore a look of becoming,
not unchristian, pride, or somewhat better than should be titled
pride; and her voice betokened more emotion than her visage betrayed
when she said, "I am more contented, Constance, to inhabit this my
husband's chiefest house than to dwell in London or anywhere else.
Where should a wife abide with so much pleasure as in a place where
she may be sometimes visited by her lord, even though she should not
always be so happy as to enjoy his company? My Lord Arundel hath often
urged me to reside with him in London, and pleaded the comfort my Lady
Lumley and himself, in his declining years, should find in my filial
care; but God helping me--and I think in so doing I fulfill his
will--naught shall tempt me to leave my husband's house till he doth
himself compel me to it; nor by resentment of his absence lose one day
of his dear company I may yet enjoy."

"O my dear lady," I exclaimed, "and is it indeed thus with you? Doth
my lord so forget your love and his duty as to forsake one he should
cherish as his most dear treasure?"

"Nay, nay," she hastily replied; "Philip doth not forsake me; a little
neglectful he is" (this she said with a forced smile), "as all the
queen's courtiers must needs be of their wives; for she is so
exacting, that such as stand in her good graces cannot be stayers at
home, but ever waiters on her pleasure. If Philip doth only leave
London or Richmond for three or four days, she doth suspect the cause
of his absence; her smiles are turned to frowns, and his enemies
immediately do take advantage of it. I tried to stay in London one
while this year, after Bess was married; but he suffered so much in
consequence from the loss of her good graces when she heard I was at
the Charter-house, that I was compelled to return here."

"And hath my lord been to see you since?" I eagerly asked.

"Once," she answered; "for three short days. O Constance, it was a
brief, and, from its briefness, an almost painful joy, to see him in
his own princely home, and at the head of his table, which he doth
grace so nobly; and when he went abroad saluted by every one with so
much reverence, that he should be taken to be a king when he is here;
and himself so contented with this show of love and homage, that his
face beamed with pleasant smiles; and when he observed what my poor
skill had effected in the management of his estates, which do greatly
suffer from the prodigalities of the court, he commended me with so
great kindness as to say he was not worthy of so good a wife."

I could not choose but say amen in mine own soul to this lord's true
estimation of himself, and of her, one hair of whose head did, in my
thinking, outweigh in merit his whole frame; but composed my face lest
she should too plainly read my resentment that the like of her should
be so used by an ungrateful husband.

"Alas," she continued, "this joy should be my constant portion if an
enemy robbed me not of my just rights. 'Tis very hard to be hated by a
queen, and she so great and powerful that none in the compass of her
realm can dare to resent her ill treatment. I had a letter from my
lord last week, in which he says if it be possible he will soon visit
me again; but he doth add that he has so much confidence in my
affection, that he is sure I would not will him to risk that which may
undo him, if the queen should hear of it. 'For, Nan,' he writes, 'I
resemble a man scrambling up unto a slippery rock, who, if he {51}
gaineth not the topmost points, must needs fall backward into a
precipice; for if I lose but an inch of her majesty's favor, I am like
to fall as my fathers have done, and yet lower. So be patient, good
Nan, and bide the time when I shall have so far ascended as to be in
less danger of a rapid descent, in which thine own fortunes would be

She folded this letter, which she had taken out of her bosom, with a
deep sigh, and I doubt not with the same thought which was in mine own
mind, that the higher the ascent, the greater doth prove the peril of
an overthrow, albeit to the climber's own view the further point doth
seem the most secured. She then said she would not often speak with me
touching her troubles; but we should try to forget absent husbands and
lovers, and enjoy so much pleasure in our mutual good company as was
possible, and go hawking also and riding on fine days, and be as merry
as the days were long. And, verily, at times youthful spirits assumed
the lead, and like two wanton children we laughed sometimes with
hearty cheer at some pleasantry in which my little wit but fanciful
humor did evince itself for her amusement. But the fair sky of these
sunshiny hours was often overcast by sudden clouds; and weighty
thoughts, ill assorting with soaring joylity, wrought sad endings to
merry beginnings. I restrained the expression of mine own sorrow at my
father's uncertain fate and Basil's absence, not to add to her
heaviness; but sometimes, whilst playing in some sort the fool to make
her smile, which smiles so well became her, a sharp aching of the
heart caused me to fail in the effort; which when she perceived, her
arm was straightway thrown round my neck, and she would speak in this

"O sweet jester! poor dissembler! the heart will have its say, albeit
not aided by the utterance of the tongue. Believe me, good Constance,
I am not unmindful of thy griefs, albeit somewhat silent concerning
them, as also mine own; for that I eschew melancholy themes, having a
well-spring of sorrow in my bosom which doth too readily overflow if
the sluices be once opened."

Thus spake this sweet lady; but her unconscious tongue, following the
current of her thoughts more frequently than she did credit, dwelt on
the theme of her absent husband; and on whichever subject talk was
ministered between us, she was ingenious to procure it should end with
some reference to this worshipped object. But verily, I never
perceived her to express, in speaking of that then unworthy husband,
but what, if he had been present, must needs have moved him to regret
his negligent usage of an incomparable, loving, and virtuous wife,
than to any resentment of her complaints, which were rather of others
who diverted his affections from her than of him, the prime cause of
her grief. One day that we walked in the pleasaunce, she led the way
to a seat which she said during her lord's last visit he had commended
for the fair prospect it did command, and said it should be called "My
Lady's Arbor."

"He sent for the head-gardener," quoth she, "and charged him to plant
about it so many sweet flowers and gay shrubs as should make it in
time a most dainty bower fit for a queen. These last words did, I
ween, unwittingly escape his lips, and, I fear me, I was too shrewish;
for I exclaimed, 'O no, my lord; I pray you let it rather be
_un_fitted for a queen, if so be you would have me to enjoy it!' He
made no answer, and his countenance was overcast and sad when he
returned to the house. I misdoubted my hasty speech had angered him;
but when his horse came to the door for to carry him away to London
and the court, he said very kindly, as he embraced me, 'Farewell, dear
heart! mine own good Nan!' and in a letter he since wrote he inquired
if his orders had been obeyed touching his sweet countess's


I always noticed Lady Surrey to be very eager for the coming of the
messenger which brought letters from London mostly twice in the week,
and that in the untying of the strings which bound them her hand
trembled so much that she often said, "Prithee, Constance, cut this
knot. My fingers be so cold I have not so much patience as should
serve to the undoing thereof."

One morning I perceived she was more sad than usual after the coming
of this messenger. The cloud on her countenance chased away the joy I
had at a letter from Basil, which was written from Paris, and wherein
he said he had sent to Rheims for to inquire if my father was yet
there, for in that case he should not so much fail in his duty as to
omit seeking to see him; and so get at once, he trusted, a father and
a priest's blessing."

"What ails you, sweet lady?" I asked, seeing her lips quiver and her
eyes to fill with tears.

"Nothing should ail me," she answered more bitterly than was her wont.
"It should be, methinks, the part of a wife to rejoice in her
husband's good fortune; and here is one that doth write to me that my
lord's favor with the queen is so great that nothing greater can be
thought of: so that some do say, if he was not married he would be
like to mount, not only to the steps, but on to the throne itself.
Here should be grand news for to rejoice the heart of the Countess of
Surrey. Prithee, good wench, why dost thou not wish thy poor friend

I felt so much choler that any one should write to my lady in this
fashion, barbing with cruel malice, or leastways careless lack of
thought, this wanton arrow, that I exclaimed in a passion it should be
a villain had thus written. She smiled in a sad manner and answered:

"Alas, an innocent villain I warrant the writer to be, for the letter
is from my Bess, who has heard others speak of that which she doth
unwittingly repeat, thinking it should be an honor to my lord, and to
me also, that he should be spoken of in this wise. But content thee;
'tis no great matter to hear that said again which I have had hints of
before, and am like to hear more of it, maybe."

Then hastily rising, she prepared to go abroad; and we went to a lodge
in the park, wherein she harbored a great store of poor children which
lacked their parents; and then to a barn she had fitted up for to
afford a night's lodging to travellers; and to tend sick
people--albeit, saving herself, she had no one in her household at
that time one half so skilful in this way as my Lady l'Estrange. I
ween this was the sole place wherein her thoughts were so much
occupied that she did for a while forget her own troubles in curing
those of others. A woman had stopped there the past night, who, when
we went in, craved assistance from her for to carry her to her native
village, which was some fifteen miles north of Norwich. She was
afraid, she said, for to go into the town; for nowadays to be poor was
to be a wicked person in men's eyes; and a traveller without money was
like to be whipt and put into the stocks for a vagabond, which she
should die of if it should happen to her, who had been in the service
of a countess, and had not thought to see herself in such straits,
which she should never have been reduced to if her good lady had not
been foully dealt with. Lady Surrey, wishing, I ween, by some sort of
examination, to detect the truth of her words, inquired in whose
service she had lived.

"Madam," she answered, "I was kitchen maid in the Countess of
Leicester's house, and never left her service till she was murthered
some years back by a black villain in her household, moved by a
villain yet more black than himself."

"Murthered!" my lady exclaimed. "It was bruited at the time that lady
had died of a fall."

"Ay, marry," quoth the beggar, {53} shaking her head, "I warrant you,
ladies, that fall was compassed by more hands than two, and more minds
than one. But it be not safe for to say so; as Mark Hewitt could
witness if he was not dead, who was my sweetheart and a scullion at
Cumnor Place, and was poisoned in prison for that he offered to give
evidence touching his lady's death which would have hanged some which
deserved it better than he did--albeit he had helped to rob a coach in
Wales after he had been discharged, as we all were, from the old
place. Oh, if folks dared to tell all they do know, some which ride at
the queen's side should swing on a gibbet before this day

Lady Surrey sat down by this woman; and albeit I pulled her by the
sleeve and whispered in her ear to come away--for methought her talk
was not fitting for her to hear, whose mind ran too much already on
melancholy themes--she would not go, and questioned this person very
much touching the manner of Lady Leicester's life, and what was
reported concerning her death. This recital was given in a homely but
withal moving manner, which lent a greater horror to it than more
studied language should have done. She said her lady bad been ill some
time and never left her room; but that one day, when one of her lord's
gentlemen had come from London, and had been examining of the house
with the steward for to order some repairing of the old walls and
staircases, and the mason had been sent for also late in the evening,
a so horrible shriek was heard from the part of the house wherein the
countess's chamber was, that it frighted every person in the place, so
that they did almost lose their senses; but that she herself had run
to the passage on which the lady's bed-chamber did open, and saw some
planking removed, and many feet below the body of the countess lying
quite still, and by the appearance of her face perceived her to be
gone. And when the steward came to look also (this the woman said,
lowering her voice, with her hollow eyes fixed on Lady Surrey's
countenance, which did express fear and sorrow), "I'll warrant you, my
lady, he did wear a murtherer's visage, and I noticed that the corpse
bled at his approach. But methinketh if that earl which rides by the
queen's side, and treads the world under his feet, had then been nigh,
the mangled form should have raised itself and the cold dead lips
cried out, 'Thou art the man!' Marry, when poor folks do steal a
horse, or a sheep, or shoot the fallow-deer in a nobleman's park, they
straightway do suffer and lose their life; but if a lord which is a
courtier shall one day choose to put his wife out of his way for the
bettering of his fortunes, even though it be by a foul murther, no
more ado is made than if he had shot a pigeon in his woods."

Then changing her theme, she asked Lady Surrey to dress a wound in her
leg, for that she did hear from some in that place that she often did
use such kindness toward poor people. Without such assistance, she
said, to walk the next day would be very painful. My lady straightway
began to loosen the bandages which covered the sore, and inquired how
long a time it should be since it had been dressed.

"Four days ago," the beggar answered, "Lady l'Estrange had done her so
much good as to salve the wound with a rare ointment which had greatly
assuaged the pain, until much walking had inflamed it anew."

We both did smile; and my lady said she feared to show herself less
skilful than her old pupil; but if the beggar should be credited, she
did acquit herself indifferently well of her charitable task; and the
bounty she bestowed upon her afterward, I doubt not, did increase her
patient's esteem of her ability. But I did often wish that evening my
lady had not heard this woman's tale, for I perceived her to harp upon
it with a very notable persistency; and when I urged no credit should
attach itself to her {54} report, and it was most like to be untrue,
she affirmed that some similar surmises had been spoken of at the time
of Lady Leicester's death; and that Lord Sussex and Lord Arundel had
once mentioned, in her hearing, that the gypsy was infamed for his
wife's death, albeit never openly accused thereof. She had not taken
much heed of their discourse at the time, she said; but now it came
back into her mind with a singular distinctness, and it was passing
strange she should have heard from an eye-witness the details of this
tragedy. She should, she thought, write to her husband what the woman
had related; and then she changed her mind, and said she would not.

All my pleadings to her that she should think no more thereon were
vain. She endeavored to speak of other subjects, but still this one
was uppermost in her thoughts. Once, in the midst of an argument
touching the uses of pageants, which she maintained to be folly and
idle waste, but which I defended, for that they sometimes served to
exercise the wit and memory of such as contrive them, carrying on the
dispute in a lively fashion, hoping thus to divert her mind, she broke
forth in these exclamations: "Oh, what baneful influences do exist in
courts, when men, themselves honorable, abhor not to company with such
as be accused of foul crimes never disproved, and if they will only
stretch forth their blood-stained hands to help them to rise, disdain
not to clasp them!"

Then later, when I had persuaded her to play on the guitar, which she
did excellently well, she stopped before the air was ended to ask if I
did know if Lady Leicester was a fair woman, and if her husband was at
any time enamored of her. And when I was unable to resolve these
questions, she must needs begin to argue if it should be worse never
to be loved, or else to lose a husband's affection; and then asked me,
if Basil should alter in his liking of me, which she did not hold to
be possible, except that men be so wayward and inconstant that the
best do sometimes change, if I should still be glad he had once loved

"If he did so much alter," I answered, "as no longer to care for me,
methinks I should at once cast him out of my heart; for then it would
not have been Basil, but a fancied being coined by mine own
imaginings, I should have doted on."

"Tut, tut!" she cried; "thou art too proud. If thou dost speak truly,
I misdoubt that to be love which could so easily discard its object."

"For my part," I replied, somewhat nettled, "I think the highest sort
of passion should be above suspecting change in him which doth inspire
it, or resenting a change which should procure it freedom from an
unworthy thrall."

"I ween," she answered, "we do somewhat misconceive each one the
other's meaning; and moreover, no parallel can exist between a wife's
affection and a maiden's liking." Then she said she hoped the poor
woman would stay another day, so that she might speak with her again;
for she would fain learn from her what was Lady Leicester's behavior
during her sorrowful years, and the temper of her mind before her so
sudden death.

"Indeed, dear lady," I urged, "what likelihood should there be that a
serving-wench in her kitchen should be acquainted with a noble lady's

"I pray God," my lady said, "our meanest servants do not read in our
countenance, yea in the manner of our common and indifferent actions,
the motions of our souls when we be in such trouble as should only be
known to God and one true friend."

Lady Surrey sent in the morning for to inquire if the beggar was gone.
To my no small content she had departed before break of day. Some days
afterward a messenger from London brought to my lady, from Arundel
House, a letter from my {55} Lady Lumley, wherein she urged her to
repair instantly to London, for that the earl, her grandfather, was
very grievously sick, and desired for to see her. My lady resolved to
go that very day, and straightway gave orders touching the manner of
her journey, and desired her coach to be made ready. She proposed that
the while she was absent I should pay a visit to Lady l'Estrange,
which I had promised for to do before I left Norfolkshire; "and then,"
quoth my lady, "if my good Lord Arundel doth improve in his health, so
that nothing shall detain me at London, I will return to my
banishment, wherein my best comfort shall ever be thy company, good
Constance. But if peradventure my lord should will me to stay with
him" (oh, how her eyes did brighten! and the fluttering of her heart
could be perceived in her quick speech and the heaving of her bosom as
she said these words), "I will then send one of my gentlewomen to
fetch thee from Lynn Court to London; and if that should happen, why
methinks our meeting may prove more merry than our parting."

She then dispatched a messenger on horseback to Sir Hammond
l'Estrange's house, which did return in some hours with a very
obliging answer; for his lady did write that she almost hoped my Lady
Surrey would be detained in London, if so be it would not discontent
her, and so she should herself have the pleasure of my company for a
longer time, which was what she greatly desired.

For some miles, when she started, I rode with my lady in her coach,
and then mounted on a horse she had provided for my commodity, and,
accompanied by two persons of her household, went to Sir Hammond
l'Estrange's seat. It stood in a bleak country without scarce so much
as one tree in its neighborhood, but a store of purple heath, then in
flower, surrounding it on all sides. As we approached unto it, I for
the first time beheld the sea. The heath had minded me of Cannock
Chase and my childhood. I ween not what the sea caused me to think of;
only I know that the waves which I heard break on the shore had, to my
thinking, a wonderful music, so exceeding sweet and pleasant to mine
ears that one only sound of it were able to bring, so it did seem to
me, all the hearts of this world asleep. Yet although I listed
thereunto with a quiet joy, and mine eyes rested on those vasty depths
with so much contentment, as if perceiving therein some image of the
eternity which doth await us, the words which rose in my mind, and
which methinks my lips also framed, were these of Holy Writ: "Great as
the sea is thy destruction." If it be not that some good angel
whispered them in mine ear for to temper, by a sort of forecasting of
what was soon to follow, present gladness, I know not what should have
caused so great a dissimilarity between my then thinking and the words
I did unwittingly utter.

Lady l'Estrange met me on the steps of her house, which was small, but
such as became a gentleman of good fortune, and lacking none of the
commodities habitual to such country habitations. The garden at the
back of it was a true labyrinth of sweets; and an orchard on one side
of it, and a wood of fir-trees beyond the wall, shielded the shrubs
which grew therein from the wild sea-blasts. Milicent was delighted
for to show me every part of this her home. The bettering of her
fortunes had not wrought any change in the gentle humility of this
young lady. The attractive sweetness of her manner was the same,
albeit mistress of a house of her own. She set no greater store on
herself than she had done at the Charter-house, and paid her husband
as much respect and timid obedience as she had ever done her mistress.
Verily, in his presence I soon perceived she scarce held her soul to
be her own; but studied his looks with so much diligence, and framed
each word she uttered to his liking with so much {56} ingenuity, that
I marvelled at the wit she showed therein, which was not very apparent
in other ways. He was a tall man, of haughty carriage and
well-proportioned features. His eyes were large and gray; his nose of
a hawkish shape; his lips very thin. I never in any face did notice
the signs of so set a purpose or such unyielding lineaments as in this
gentleman. Milicent told me he was pious, liberal, an active
magistrate, and an exceeding obliging and indulgent husband; but
methought her testimony on this score carried no great weight with it,
for that her meekness would read the most ordinary kindnesses as rare
instances of goodness. She seemed very contented with her lot; and I
heard from Lady Surrey's waiting-maid (which she had sent with me from
Kenninghall) that all the servants in her house esteemed her to be a
most virtuous and patient lady; and so charitable, that all who knew
her experience her bounty. On the next day she showed me her garden,
her dairy, poultry-yard, and store-room; and also the closet where she
kept the salves and ointments for the dressing of wounds, which she
said she was every morning employed in for several hours. I said, if
she would permit me, I would try to learn this art under her
direction, for that nothing could be thought of more useful for such
as lived in the country, where such assistance was often needed. Then
she asked me if I was like to live in the country, which, from my
words, she hoped should be the case; and I told her, if it pleased
God, in one year I would be married to Mr. Rookwood, of Euston Hall;
which she was greatly rejoiced to learn.

Then, as we walked under the trees, talk ensued between us touching
former days at the Charter-house; and when the sun was setting amidst
gold and purple clouds, and the wind blew freshly from the sea, whilst
the barking of Sir Hammond's dogs, and the report of his gun as he
discharged it behind the house, minded me more than ever of old
country scenes in past time, my thoughts drew also future pictures of
what mine own home should be, and the joy with which I should meet
Basil, when he returned from the field-sports in which he did so much
delight. And a year seemed a long time to wait for so much happiness
as I foresaw should be ours when we were once married. "If Lady
l'Estrange is so contented," I thought, "whose husband is somewhat
churlish and stem, if his countenance and the reports of his neighbors
are to be credited, how much enjoyment in her home shall be the
portion of my dear Basil's wife! than which a more sweet-tempered
gentleman cannot be seen, nor one endued with more admirable qualities
of all sorts, not to speak of youth and beauty, which are perishable
advantages, but not without attractiveness."

Mrs. l'Estrange, an unmarried sister of Sir Hammond, lived in the
house, and some neighbors which had been shooting with him came to
supper. The table was set with an abundance of good cheer; and
Milicent sat at the head of it, and used a sweet cordiality toward all
her guests, so that every one should seem welcome to her hospitality;
but I detected looks of apprehension in her face, coupled with hasty
glances toward her husband, if any one did bring forward subjects of
discourse which Sir Hammond had not first broached, or did appear in
any way to differ with him in what he himself advanced. Once when Lord
Burleigh was mentioned, one of the gentleman said somewhat in
disparagement of this nobleman, as if he should have been to blame in
some of his dealings with the parliament, which brought a dark cloud
on Sir Hammond's brow. Upon which Milicent, the color coming into her
cheeks, and her voice trembling a little, as she seemed to cast about
her for some subject which should turn the current of this talk, began
to tell what a store of patients she had {57} seen that day, and to
describe them, as if seeking to stop the mouths of the disputants.
"One," quoth she, "hath been three times to me this week to have his
hands dressed, and I be verily in doubt what his station should be. He
hath a notable appearance of good breeding, albeit but poorly
apparelled, and his behavior and discourse should show him to be a
gentleman. The wounds of his hands were so grievously galled for want
of proper dressing, when he first came, I feared they should mortify,
and the curing of them to exceed my poor skill. The skin was rubbed
off the whole palms, as if scraped off by handling of ropes. A more
courageous patient could not be met with. Methought the dressing
should have been very painful, but he never so much as once did wince
under it. He is somewhat reserved in giving an account of the manner
in which he came by those wounds, and answered jestingly when I
inquired thereof. But to-morrow I will hear more on it, for I charged
him to come for one more dressing of his poor hands."

"Where doth this fellow lodge?" Sir Hammond asked across the table in
a quick eager manner.

"At Master Rugeley's house, I have heard," quoth his wife.

Then his fist fell on the table so that it shook.

"A lewd recusant, by God!" he cried. "I'll be sworn this is the popish
priest escaped out of Wisbeach, for whom I have this day received
orders to make diligent search. Ah, ah! my lady hath trapped the
Jesuit fox."

I looked at Milicent, and she at me. O my God, what looks those were!



From The Popular Science Review.


The migrations of animals--especially those of the feathered
tribe--constitute one of the most interesting and improving studies
that the admirer of nature can pursue. When naturalists were less
conversant with the movements of birds of passage, and knew little of
their habits and haunts, it used to be a favorite mode of accounting
for the regular disappearance of many species by attributing to them
what is the case with certain animals, namely, a torpid condition
during winter. It was affirmed that certain birds spent the cold
months at the bottom of lakes, and gravely asserted by an authority of
the last century that "swallows sometimes assemble in numbers,
clinging to a reed till it breaks and sinks with them to the bottom;
that their immersion is preceded by a song or dirge, which lasts more
than a quarter of an hour; that sometimes they lay hold of a straw
with their bills, and plunge down in society; and that others form a
large mass by clinging together by the feet, and in this manner commit
themselves to the deep." Irrespective of the ridiculous absurdity of
such assertions, and their want of corroborative evidence, we have the
recorded opinions of John Hunter and Professor Owen as to the
incompatibility of a bird's organism for such a mode of existence. In
all probability, the statement may have in part arisen from the
well-known circumstance that many birds of passage tarry in their
summer retreats until caught by the cold of winter, when individuals
may be found benumbed and senseless; {58} this is a common occurrence,
even with the swallows and other birds of northern India, where in the
cold months the temperature during night falls often to freezing,
whilst at midday it may range as high as 80° Fahr. in the shade. I
have also seen the green bee-eater and small warblers so mach affected
by a temperature of 40° on the banks of the Nile in Nubia as to be
scarcely able to fly from twig to twig. The effects of severe winters
on many of our indigenous as well as migratory birds have been
frequently exemplified by the numbers found dead in sheltered
situations, and especially if the cold sets in early, when
comparatively few birds of passage escape; for instance, the
corn-crake has been found in Britain during the winter months; we know
of one individual that was picked up on Christmas-day, crouching among
furze bushes, almost insensible from cold. The winter homes of
European birds of passage comprehend southern Europe, lower Egypt, and
the countries that lie between the desert and southern shores of the
Mediterranean, including the elevated lands of Tunis, Algeria, and
Morocco, which, although differing in physical features and, in some
respects, in climate, are, strictly speaking, but an extension of
Europe, for their flora and fauna are European. It is only when the
traveller crosses the Sahara, with its salt lakes and moving clouds of
sand, and gains the region of verdure beyond, that he enters on a new
zoological and botanical province. It is curious and instructive to
observe how well this statement accords with late geological
discoveries. From a series of ascertained facts the student of
physical science is enabled to speculate on a time when equatorial
Africa was divided from the northern portion of the continent by a
great sea, of which the Sahara formed the bed; it extended from the
Gulf of Cabes to Senegambia in the west, and was many hundred miles in
breadth. The Mediterranean sea did not then exist; therefore there was
no great obstacle to the southern migrations of animals until they
reached the shores of the great central African sea; but as there was
no desert in those days, there would be no hot winds to temper the
climates northward, and consequently we should expect to find traces
of more rigorous winters in central and southern Europe; and such have
been clearly proven by certain evidences, which were lucidly explained
by Sir Charles Lyell at the last meeting of the British Association.
Thus, although we may wonder at the extraordinary intelligence which
prompts the bird to cross the Mediterranean, we see at the same time
that it is going to no foreign land, where it will not meet friends to
cheer it, or food unsuited to its wants. The two great causes which
bring about the regular migrations of birds are either change of
climate or failure of food--most often both combined. Any ordinary
observer must have often remarked that the first effect of a decrease
in temperature in autumn is the sudden disappearance of many winged
and wingless insects, on which many soft-billed birds of passage
depend. At that season swallows, that seemed so full of life and
vigor, skimming over fields, threading along the lanes, or twittering
from straw-built sheds, are soon seen collecting in flocks, and
flitting about with a marked diminution in their activity--now
huddling together on the eaves of houses, or assembling in long lines
on the telegraph wires; another boreal blast, not yet sufficient to
turn the leaf, sends the whole flock southward, for they soon find
that there is no use facing the north from whence the cold puffs are
coming, whilst by holding in the direction of the sun, with the balmy
southern winds occasionally beckoning them to advance, they soon gain
the object of their desires. Thus flocks may be seen pursuing their
journey, and picking up a livelihood and more companions as they speed
their way over mountain, moor, field, city, or sea to {59} the sunny
climes and eternal sunshine of southern Europe and trans-Mediterranean
lands. The majority of migratory birds cross the latter sea during the
vernal and autumnal equinoxes; whilst a few, such as certain finches
and water birds, make their appearance on the islands and southern
shores throughout the winter; the latter, however, are in a great
measure dependent on the state of the weather, and their numbers
increase or decrease accordingly.

It is evident that such animals as the lapp, lemming, musk-ox, or
reindeer must push southward on the approach of winter. Their
migrations are by no means unexpected; nor would the mere land journey
of birds create amazement when we know the real causes; but to cross
the great inland sea anywhere, save at its entrance, must be
considered a great feat when performed by tiny warblers, and birds not
physically adapted for long flights; for instance, the willow warbler
or the land-rail, crossing the broadest parts of the Mediterranean,
must traverse at least six hundred miles. No doubt the heated winds
from the desert exert a great influence in determining the route to be
taken by migratory birds, especially in the countries that come
directly under their operation; and at no seasons are their presence
more apparent than during the spring and autumn; for not only then do
they blow their greatest violence, but are also most keenly felt by
contrast with the previous hot or cold months. Thus the winds that
beckon the bird in autumn to come southward, drive it back again to
Europe in spring. Much, however, depends on the constitutional powers
of the individual species, which vary greatly in members of the same
family; for instance, the little chiffchaff often makes its appearance
in England as early as the middle of March, whilst its congener, the
willow warbler, is seldom seen before the end of April; the spotted
fly-catcher and night-jar arrive toward the end of May, and depart
again early in September. Bird migrations may be said to be either
complete or partial; some birds totally abandon Europe during winter,
and take up their residence in north Africa; others repair merely to
the more genial climates of the south of Europe; whilst many remain,
but in diminished numbers, throughout the year, the majority resorting
to milder temperatures. For example, the swallow tribe leave Europe
entirely; the wagtails have their winter homes among the oases of the
desert and on the banks of the Nile, whilst a few tarry in southern
Europe, and with their brethren in spring push northward. A good many
stone-chats spend the winter in Britain, whilst the majority move
southward; not so with their close ally, the whin-chat, which
disappears entirely during the cold season, and, with the migratory
portion of the last-named species, seeks the more genial climates of
north Africa. Thus, in all probability, there are individual
stone-chats that have alternately braved the cold of the north and the
more cheerful winter of the Sahara; for we cannot suppose that there
is a set that invariably stop in the north, and another that constancy
leave at the approach of winter. At all events, here is displayed a
flexibility of constitution often considered characteristic of man
alone. Although the regular birds of passage maintain much exactitude
with reference to their arrivals and departures, others seem to err
greatly when compelled by weather or other causes to trust to their
own intelligence in guiding them from place to place; even many
migratory species far exceed the bounds of their usual resorts, and
certain individuals, not known to be migratory, have found their way
across the whole continent of Europe. A good example of the latter is
seen in the late irruption of Pallas's sand-grouse from north-western
Asia, so well illustrated by Messrs. Moore and Newton, in the "Ibis."
The short-toed lark seldom {60} migrates beyond the northern shores of
the Mediterranean, yet finds itself often in Britain, and caught
either in gales, or wandering unknowingly northward; occasional
individuals of the Egyptian vulture from Spain, the Griffon vulture
and spotted eagle from the mountains of central Europe, and the
spotted cuckoo from north Africa. Moreover, several American species
have been recorded, chiefly water birds, which, of course, are better
adapted to brave the dangers of the deep. Certain birds--to wit, the
redbreast, song-thrush, and black-bird--do not leave the north of
Europe, whilst many of their brethren of Italy and the neighboring
countries make regular annual migrations to Africa and the islands. To
account for this remarkable anomaly, it will be observed that the
robin of the south is far less omnivorous than its northern compeer,
and is not nearly so familiar in its habits--like the warblers, it
depends almost entirely on insect food; consequently, when that fails,
it has no alternative but to push southward, and participating, like
other species, in climatic effects, it would doubtless follow a like
route; and much the same with the thrushes, as they depend in a great
measure on fruits for their winter subsistence. When the grapes of the
south are gathered, having no holly-berries, mountain ash, or haws to
draw on for their winter wants, they would naturally disperse;
probably many fly northward as well; for all the thrushes that cross
the Mediterranean during winter are but an infinitesimal part of what
frequent Italy and the south of Europe in summer. No doubt much
depends on the nature of the locality, whether favorable or otherwise;
and wherever a complete or only partial failure of food has taken
place, so accordingly will the species depart or remain. Moreover,
what has just been remarked in connection with the stone-chat, might
be applied again to the robins and thrushes of southern Europe:
supposing one of either hatched in Italy, and after several years'
migrations to the oasis of the desert, should deviate on one occasion
from its accustomed course and fly northward, and spend the winter in
northern Europe,--with the example of the resident individuals before
it, no doubt the robin would soon pick up crumbs at the kitchen door,
and the thrushes crowd with their indigenous brethren on the
holly-trees, and, becoming climatized, remain in their adopted
countries ever afterward. Although we have no direct proof that such
occurrences actually take place, there is nothing in the bird's
constitution to preclude such a supposition; and not only that, but we
know in the case of Pallas's sand-grouse, and many other accidental
visitors, that they have at once adapted themselves to the food
afforded by the country, although perfectly new to them. How far such
influences, acting on generations and for long periods, do effect the
external appearances or internal structure of a species, are points
not yet clearly determined; but doubtless, as the geographical
distribution and migrations of animals become better known, so will
many difficulties of that nature be cleared up. Of the vast hosts of
birds that cross the Mediterranean annually not a few perish on their
way, and their bodies are thrown up on the beach; many arrive only to
die, as we can testify from our own observations along the shores of
Malta, where we have picked up numerous warblers that had been either
drowned on their passage or died on the rocks, or had dashed
themselves at night against the fortifications and light-houses.

      "The beacon blaze illures
  The bird of passage, till he madly strikes
  Against it, and beats out his weary life."

The quail on its way to Europe in spring, or Africa in autumn, is
often borne back by a strong head-wind to the country it had just
left; and we have repeatedly noticed that a strong sirocco in
September scarcely ever fails in throwing abundance of quail {61} on
the southeast coast of Malta, in the same way that a powerful gregale
brings in many that had been bent on an opposite direction. We now
come to observe that extraordinary intelligence whereby swallows, for
instance, are enabled year after year to return to the same nest.
Taking into consideration the long absence, the dangers and
difficulties incident to the voyage, it seems incredible that any
animal not human can be capable, after nearly eight months' sojourn in
central Africa, to return in spring to a farm-yard in the midland
counties of England; and still more wondrous, as recorded in
"Yarrell's British Birds," that several swifts, undeniably marked,
returned not only for three years in succession, but one of the number
was caught in the same locality at the expiration of seven years.
Here, then, are displayed effects of memory and perception--in fine, a
wondrous manifestation of intellect, which, under the vague name of
instinct, has been applied, we think too indiscriminately, to
such-like mental phenomena among the lower animals.

None of the eagles of Europe seem to cross the great inland sea, or
perform regular migrations. The osprey and peregrine falcon wander
over the south of Europe and north Africa in increased numbers during
the winter months. Flocks of honey-buzzards, orange-legged falcons,
and lesser kestrels, together with numbers of marsh harriers,
kestrels, sparrow-hawks, and in a less proportion the hobby, merlin,
and Montagu's and Swainson's harriers, follow the migratory birds to
and from Africa--some in hot pursuit of the warblers and quail, which
they feed on when they cannot procure more choice food. Thus flocks of
hawks may be seen hovering over the fields in spring, and along the
southern shores of the Mediterranean, where the birds of passage are
assembling before they commence their voyage northward,--all driven
hence by the hot blasts of the desert, which, under such local names
as harmattan, sirocco, kamsin, simoom, and samiel, soon wither
verdure, and compel birds of passage to turn their faces northward,
and fly with all speed to more genial climes. A naval officer informed
us that one spring evening, when a hundred miles off the coast of
Africa, the rigging of his vessel was covered by small birds, which
were seen arriving in scattered flocks from the south; among them were
many hawks and a few small-sized owls, possibly the Scop's eared owl,
which migrates in great numbers at that season. No sooner had the
little birds settled down on the yards than the hawks commenced to
prey on them, and were seen actually devouring their captives within a
few yards of the officers, who attempted to put a stop to the
slaughter by shooting the depredators, but in vain; they continued
pursuing the unfortunate small birds from rope to yard-arm and around
the vessel, until night put an end to the scene, when friend and foe
went to roost, and at break of day all sped their way northward.

The short-eared and Scop's owls are migratory species; both pass and
repass the Mediterranean in great numbers every spring and autumn, not
in flocks, but singly; the latter is much in request as an article of
food, and killed in several of the islands in large numbers; during
its passage through Malta dozens of this handsome little owl may be
seen in the poultry market. As beetles, moths, and the larger insects
constitute the favorite food of the Scop's owl, and bats enter largely
into the fare of its short-eared congener, it may be supposed neither
can have much inducement to prolong its stay in Europe after

The night-jar, although late in arriving in the north of Europe,
crosses the Mediterranean in March; the nocturnal habits of the bird,
by restricting its movements to night and twilight, will account for
its slow progress; it is also much esteemed by the natives {62} of the
south as an article of food. None of the swallow tribe are more exact
in their times of arrival and departure than the swifts, which seem to
proceed further southward than any of the others; whether from sudden
failure of food or change of climate, or both, it is seldom the black
swift tarries on its way; for, not content with the climate of the
southern shores of the great inland sea, it pushes on with little
delay to Abyssinia, Nubia, and even Timbuctoo. The Alpine swift passes
to and from Europe in small numbers; compared with the last-named
species, this is a hardy bird; we have seen it and the house marten
sporting around Alpine glaciers at the latter end of August, when
there was a hoar frost every night, and occasional heavy falls of
snow; many Alpine swifts spend the entire year on the Himalayan
ranges. The chimney, house, and sand swallows make their first
appearance in spring, and leave Europe in the order here given; none
seem to pass the winter in any of the islands, and on their arrival in
Africa move steadily southward to more genial regions. The rock
swallow and rufous swallow make regular migrations from Asia Minor to
south-eastern Europe, few venturing westward of Greece. Owing to the
strong N.E. winds that prevail during the cold months, and sweep along
the Mediterranean basin with great violence, many birds are blown from
one coast to another, and turn up in districts in every way
uncongenial to their habits and wants: thus are recorded by C. A.
Wright, Esq., in his admirable catalogue of "Birds observed in Malta,"
the appearance of the diminutive golden and fire-crested wrens among
the woodless tracts of these bare islands; supposing them to have come
from the nearest point of Sicily, they must have flown at least fifty
miles! Along the shores of the Mediterranean the approach of spring is
heralded by flocks of gaudy bee-eaters, which may be seen advancing
northward in scattered hosts emitting their characteristic call-note.
We have watched them approaching Malta during the calm and delightful
weather at that season, when a few, attracted by the verdure, would
break off from the rest and descend, whilst the majority continued
steering their course in a northerly direction. Luckless is the bird
wanderer that makes a temporary resting-place of Malta at any time,
especially on Sunday, for no sooner is an individual recognized than a
dozen guns are put in requisition, and soon the fair forms of the
bee-eater, oriole, etc., are seen stretched in rows on the benches of
the poulterer. The weird-like form of the hoopoe may constantly be
seen drifting before a south wind in spring, or hastening southward in
August, seldom in flocks, but so numerous that on one occasion, on a
projecting rock in the island of Gozo, we saw in the course of half an
hour no less than ten hoopoes arrive, one after another. None of the
woodpeckers, neither the creeper, nuthatch, nor the wren, seem to
migrate. The warblers no doubt constitute by far the greatest minority
of the birds of passage, and may be said to be most punctual in their
time of arrival and departure. As with other groups, many entirely
abandon their summer or winter residences at the migratory seasons,
whilst others leave a few stragglers behind. The sedge, willow,
garden, the chiffchaff, whitethroat, Sardinian, Dartford, subalpine,
Vieillot's warblers, and the blackcap annually cross and recross the
Mediterranean with undeviating regularity, some in enormous numbers,
especially the garden warbler and whitethroat, which being then plump
and in good condition are in great request, and constitute the
Italian's much relished _beccafico_. The nightingale appears in
considerable numbers and shares the same fate with the last-named
species. The two redstarts, wheatear, whin, and stone-chats, with the
redbreast, come and go to Africa regularly, leaving a few stragglers
on the islands during winter, which, {63} however, unite with their
brethren from north Africa in spring, when all proceed to Europe. The
blue-throated warbler repairs to Egypt in winter, from the
south-eastern countries of Europe and western Asia. A small migration
takes place of the russet and eared wheat-ears annually to southern
Europe in summer, and back again to the African deserts in autumn. As
the song thrush and blackbird are plentiful throughout the year along
the Atlas range, it is probable few of them return in spring, and
whatever do cross in autumn and winter remain with the residents. The
golden oriole passes through Malta regularly on its way northward, and
in small flocks returns to Africa immediately after the harvest and
fruit are collected in autumn. The ring ousel is also migratory; and
although a few missal thrushes and redwings appear on the islands and
southern shores during the cold season, neither can strictly speaking
be called birds of passage, as their numbers seem entirely dependent
on the state of the weather in Europe and local gales. The tree,
meadow, red-throated and tawny pipits cross and recross regularly, and
often in large flocks. The meadow pipit is another illustration of a
bird which remains all the year in northern Europe, but is migratory
in the southern parts. As soon as the hot weather has fairly set in in
Africa, flocks of the short-toed lark proceed to southern Europe and
distribute themselves over wastes; like other desert-living birds, it
is very sensible of cold, and accordingly quits Europe before the
regular migratory season. The sky, crested, and Calandral arks go
southward late in October and the following month; the two last-named
are extremely abundant in north Africa during winter. The woodlark
repairs to southern Europe during the winter, but a few also regularly
push further southward, and cross again in spring. The pied wagtail
and its northern variety, called after the late Mr. Yarrell, repair to
southern Europe on the approach of winter, and many also cross the
great inland sea and proceed a long way into Africa; we found the
former very common up the Nile to the second cataract. The grey
wagtail, although nowhere so common, follows the same course and
pushes northward at the same time with its congener in spring. The
yellow wagtails of Europe have been so frequently confounded and
misnamed, that until the student has carefully examined specimens of
each he will be almost sure to become confused. There is, first, the
yellow wagtail of the British islands, called also Ray's wagtail, that
migrates to the continent in winter, but we opine not to southern
Europe; this bird has been mistaken for the yellow wagtail of the
continent, first described by Linnaeus. Enormous flocks of the
last-named bird cross regularly to and from Africa annually: probably
not a straggler remains in either country after the migratory seasons
are over. We have repeatedly noticed varieties of this wagtail with
grey and black-colored heads, which many naturalists consider as
specific differences, whilst others appear to class them under the
head of a race or variety of the _Motacilla flava_ of Linnaeus. We are
enabled so far to strengthen the latter opinion, by the fact that in a
large series of skins collected from flocks of yellow wagtails during
their migrations across the Mediterranean, we could make out a gradual
transition from the one state of plumage to the other, and we
frequently found the grey, black, and olive-headed (or yellow wagtail
proper) all in one flock and constantly associating together, and with
the same call-note; the only difference was the call-note in autumn in
some was noticed to be harsher; these, however, we ascertained to be
birds of the year. The rook is migratory in south-eastern Europe, and
repairs to the delta of the Nile in large flocks; sometimes it is
driven by stress of weather to the islands of the mid and western
Mediterranean. {64} The northern portion of Africa is a favorite
resort for the starling in winter, when flocks may be constantly seen
all over the south of Europe; they quit, however, in spring and go
northward. The jay has been recorded as migratory, and said to
frequent north Africa, Malta, and Egypt. We cannot, however, find any
authentic confirmation of this statement. All the European flycatchers
cross the Mediterranean very punctually. The spotted bird is by far
the most numerous, next the pied, and in a much less proportion, the
white-necked flycatcher. The first has a very extensive geographical
range, embracing the whole continent of Africa and Europe, and breeds
in great numbers even in North Britain, where we have seen large
flocks in autumn pursuing their retrograde coarse southward. The
woodchat shrike seems to be the only representative of the family that
regularly leaves Europe in winter; its red-backed congener has been
said to migrate to north Africa. The finches are always late in
migrating in autumn, and leave north Africa long before the other
birds of passage; at all times much depends on the severity of the
weather, their numbers increasing or diminishing accordingly. No
doubt, like the thrushes and other species indigenous to temperate
climes, many individuals extend their range during the winter months,
not so much from failure of food, as the cold weather allows them to
wander over regions inimical to their constitutions and wants in
summer; from this cause and the state of the climate in north and mid
Europe, together with the transporting power of gales, may be
attributed the pretty regular appearance of flocks of the following
finches on the islands and southern shores of the great inland ocean.
The linnet is plentiful in Egypt and north Africa in winter; small
flocks of the chaffinch, greenfinch, goldfinch, common buntings,
sirinfinch, grosbeak, and ortolan may be seen among the tamarisk and
olive groves of north Africa at the same season, whilst a few solitary
individuals of the crossbill, scarlet grosbeak, reed and meadow
buntings, cirl and bramble finches, tree and rock sparrows, find their
way in winter to the islands and southern shores of the Mediterranean.
The cuckoo and wryneck are among the foremost birds of passage that
cross to and from Africa, and both seem to have much the same
geographical distribution. We have heard the cuckoo's welcome note
among the carol trees of Malta in March; in the north of Europe in
May; among the stunted birch trees on the confines of perpetual snow
on the Himalayan mountains in July; and often recognized its handsome
form among the orange groves on the torrid plains of India as late as

Many wood and stock pigeons migrate to Africa in winter; their
headquarters, however, would seem to be located in the south of
Europe; not so with the turtle dove, of which flocks of thousands may
be seen steering their course southward in autumn and _vice versa_ in
spring; very few, if any, remaining in Europe or in Africa at the
termination of their migrations. At these seasons they are caught in
great numbers, by means of clapnets and decoy birds. The quail
invariably flies within a few feet of the sea when crossing.

As soon as the cold weather has fairly set in along the shores of the
Mediterranean, a partial migration of the following plovers takes
place. The Norfolk plover disperses in winter over the islands, and
penetrates far south to central Africa. During November flights of
golden plovers arrive on the northern exposures of the Maltese
islands; also a few of the grey and a good many of the lapwing
plovers, all of which go to Africa. The dotterel, with its two-winged
allies, and the Kentish plover, pursue much the same course, perhaps
if anything more of all these pass in autumn than recross in spring,
for the reason that several of the species are resident {65} in
Africa, and extensively distributed over the entire continent. The
common heron and crane repair southward to the African lakes and
rivers, and may be seen during the winter months flying at great
heights; neither is attracted by the mere appearance of land, whist
the purple heron Egret squacco, night heron, little bittern, glossy
ibis, whimbrel, common and slender-billed curlews, fly at lower
levels, and tarry on the islands on their way.

The frosts of October and the following months drive across the inland
sea myriads of greenshanks, wood, the common and little sandpipers,
stilts, water-rails, the common, spotted Baillons, and little crakes,
and the coot. In smaller numbers come black-tailed godwits, common and
jack-snipes, common and spotted redshanks, marsh and green sandpipers,
with ruffs, the great snipe, knot, curlew sandpiper, dunlin turnstone.
Now and then the woodcock wanders across, but as a rule its migration
is mostly confined to the south of Europe. The Adriatic gull extends
its range over the western Mediterranean in winter. Many northern
gulls and terns, to wit, the herring, lesser, and black-backed gulls,
Sandwich, common, the little, the black, the white-winged, and the
whiskered terns, spread themselves over the sea, and wander up the
Nile and to the lakes of north Africa. Of the duck tribe nearly all go
north in spring. Among others, we have noticed the bean goose,
shoveller, shelldrake, mallard, pintail, gadwall, widgeon, teal,
gargany, and castaneous ducks; the red-breasted merganser, and the
cormorant; the crested, horned, eared, and little grebes.


Translated from Etudes Religieuses, Historiques et Littéraires, par
des Pères de la Compagnie de Jésus.


It is remarkable with what perseverance Protestants have ever labored
to bring about a reconciliation and union between themselves and the
schismatical churches of the East.

When one compares the terms between which it is desired to effect this
union, it is difficult to conceive of two which are more opposed, and
between which there is a more complete contrast. Protestants reject
the authority both of tradition and of the hierarchy; the veneration
of saints, images, and relics; outward ceremonial, and all that which
may be considered as composing the external side of religion. The
Greeks, on the contrary, so far from rejecting these, have rather
exaggerated their importance. It seems impossible that they should
ever reach a uniformity of sentiment; but yet the endeavor to effect
it has been steadily persevered in.

As far back as 1559 Melancthon tried to bring about an understanding
with Joseph II., the patriarch of Constantinople; and on sending him
the confession of Augsburg, he wrote, with rather more cunning than
fairness, "that the Protestants had remained {66} faithful to the Holy
Scriptures, to the dogmatic decisions of holy councils, and to the
teaching of Athanasius, Basil, Gregory, Epiphanius, etc., the fathers
of the Greek Church; that they rejected the errors of Paul of
Samosata, of the Manichees, and of all the heresiarchs condemned by
the Holy Church, as well as the superstitious practices introduced by
ignorant monks into the Latin Church, wherefore he besought the
patriarch to give no heed to the evil reports which were in
circulation against Protestants."

It seems the patriarch was not to be caught by these plausible
professions, for he made no reply. The Protestants were not
discouraged, and fifteen years later a fresh attempt was made by the
Lutheran university of Tübingen. The ambassador of the German emperor
at Constantinople was a Protestant, and had brought with him a
minister of his own denomination, named Gerlach. It was he who carried
on the negotiations between the university of Tübingen and the
Patriarch Jeremias. The whole of this correspondence is before the
public. The patriarch refutes the Protestant doctrines with great
ability and clearness, and concludes by requesting the professors of
Tübingen to trouble him no longer and to send him no more letters.
They were not to be discouraged by a trifle like this; but write what
they would, the patriarch made them no further reply. This negotiation
began in 1573 and lasted until 1581, but nothing came of it.

Fifty years after the Lutherans had failed, in their turn the
Calvinists made another effort, which seemed to promise better
success. The ambassadors of Holland, England, and Sweden took the most
active and energetic part in the matter. The patriarch, of
Constantinople, Cyril Lucar, himself a Calvinist at heart, so far from
opposing their designs, favored them with all his power. Success
seemed certain. After various vicissitudes Cyril Lucar died in 1638.
[Footnote 2] A few weeks after his death the synod of Constantinople
pronounced sentence of censure upon his propositions, and anathema
upon himself. In 1642 a second council was held under the Patriarch
Parthenius, who was very hostile both to Rome and to Catholics, which
confirmed the previous condemnation of Cyril. Among others, Peter
Mogila, metropolitan of Kief, signed this fresh censure. Last of all,
these condemnations of 1638 and 1642 were confirmed by a council held
at Jerusalem in 1672, over which the Patriarch Dositheus presided.

  [Footnote 2: He was thrown into the Bosphorus by the sultan, at the
  request of his brother bishops.--Ed. C.W.]

The creation of a bishopric at Jerusalem may be regarded, also, as an
attempt at reunion between the Protestants and the schismatic churches
of the East. Frederick William IV., king of Prussia, assisted by M. de
Bunsen, was the promoter of this idea, but it was too ingenious and
too complicated to be practical. It proposed to labor for the
conversion of the Jews; to prepare the way for the union of the
schismatical churches of the East with, the Anglican; and, by means of
the evangelical church of Prussia, to induce the various sects of
Protestantism to conform in matters of doctrine and discipline to the
Church of England. The archbishop of Canterbury favored the plan; but,
as was to be expected, there were many Protestants who were very far
from giving it their approbation. As to the Oriental Christians, they
were exceedingly astonished, as Dr. Bowring humorously related before
Parliament, at the arrival, not only of a bishop (_un vescovo_), but
of a lady-bishop (_una vescova_) and baby-bishops (_vescovini_). After
an existence of twenty years, no pretence is yet made that the
bishopric of Jerusalem has succeeded in effecting any reconciliation
whatever with the Oriental churches, or that it has in any measure
prepared the way for the uniting of {67} Protestantism itself. The
Anglican Church is herself more divided than ever, and demonstrates
more conclusively from year to year how impossible it is for her to
keep fast hold upon any creed whatever. Perhaps this manifestation of
internal division and doctrinal anarchy may contribute somewhat to
turn the eyes of Anglicans toward the ancient and immovable Church of
the East.

However this may be, we have before us in our own day a fresh attempt
at reunion about which we must say a few words. The facts are as
follows: Three or four years ago Dr. Troll,  [Footnote 3] bishop of
the Episcopalian Church in San Francisco, discovered that there were
in his diocese some four hundred persons belonging to the Greek
Church, who, while they recognized his authority up to a certain
point, yet refused to receive communion from his hands. Dr. Troll
referred the matter to the convention of the Episcopal Church in the
United States, who appointed a committee to examine and report on the
relation in which the two churches stood toward one another. The
Church of England took part in the investigation, and convocation met
at Canterbury in 1863, appointing a commission whose duty it should be
to have an understanding with the Episcopal Church in America and
co-operate with her. In the month of February, 1865, this commission
presented their report before convocation at Canterbury. The American
committee published a series of works designed to prepare the way for
union by making known the dogmas and rites of the Greco-Russian
Church. The English commission formed an association whose object it
was to make the Oriental churches known to Englishmen, and in turn to
make the Anglican Church understood by the Christians of the East. The
Anglican archbishop of Dublin, many other bishops of the same church,
and the archbishop of Belgrade, were among the patrons of this

  [Footnote 3: There is some mistake here. Dr. Kip is the Protestant
  Bishop of California.--Ed. C.W.]

In 1864, Dr. Young of New York made a visit to Russia, where he put
himself in communication with the more prominent members of the
Russian episcopate. The Episcopalian bishop of San Francisco visited
Georgia, Servia, and Bulgaria, and more recently Nice, where he
frequented the Russian chapel.

Messrs. Popof and Wassilief, chaplains of the Russian ambassadors at
London and Paris, were present at the sittings of the English
commission and took part in its deliberations. By the very last news
from America we are informed that _divine service_ [_i.e.,_mass.--Ed.]
was solemnly celebrated, according to the Oriental rite and in the
Sclavonic language, in one of the principal Episcopalian churches of
New York city. According to the American newspapers, the celebrant was
F. Agapius, recently come to America, having been appointed by the
Russian Church to the spiritual charge of his co-religionists in the
United States. The "Union Chrétienne," Paris paper, informs us that
Father Agapius Honcharenko is a deacon of the Russian Church who was
ordained priest by a bishop of the Greek Church, which ordination was
irregular; and that F. Agapius acted without any authority from the
Russian Church; and lastly, that he was associated with M. Alexander
Herzen at London and took part in the publication of the "Kolokol"
(the "Clock"). This last fact is of a character to make a deep
impression upon the members of the synod of St. Petersburg, but it is
not so clear that it exercised the same influence upon the mind of the
Americans. The "Union Chrétienne" appears to think that when this
valuable information about Agapius Honcharenko reaches New York, the
Episcopal Church will have nothing more to do with him. This is
possible, but as yet it is mere conjecture. However this may be, this
little incident is not calculated to {68} kindle in the synod of
Russia any great zeal for the proposed reunion.

The "Den" (Day), a periodical in Moscow, has also an account of the
celebration of this mass in New York, in its fourteenth number, 1865.
Evidently the Moscovite journal has none of the information as to this
individual, P. Honcharenko, which was given by the "Union Chrétienne;"
but it makes up for this by the important fact that although this
priest may have received no mission from the Russian Church, he was
endowed with at least equal power and authorization by the
metropolitan of Athens and the synod of the kingdom of Greece, which
is easy of explanation, since from Athens he embarked for America.

The April number, 1865, of the "Otetchestrennyja Sapiski," or
"Patriotic Annals," also speaks of the attempt at reunion, and it
repeats the conditions proposed by the theologians of the Episcopal
churches of England and America. These conditions no doubt constitute
matter of much interest, but as we have not been able to procure this
number of the St. Petersburg review, we can say nothing about them.

On the whole, up to the present time but one bishop of the Oriental
schismatic church has shown himself favorable to this project, viz.,
Monsignor Michel, archbishop of Belgrade, or, rather, metropolitan of
Servia, under which title he presides over the church in Servia. This
prelate made his theological studies at Kief, has held the see of
Belgrade since 1859, and is not yet forty years of age. Those persons
whose privilege it has been to have access to him, represent him as a
man of a high order of intelligence, very pleasing and attractive in
his personal appearance, dignified in his manners, and very exemplary
in his life. If one may rely upon the testimony of Protestant
travellers who have been in communication with him, it would appear
that he has shown himself very favorable to a reconciliation between
the Church of England and the schismatical churches of the East, and
that for his own part he would not hesitate to express in warm terms
his gratitude to the Protestants for their profitable investigations
regarding the Greek Church. In fine, it is possible that Monsignor
Michel might allow himself to be induced to take up again, in an
underhand way, the scheme of Cyril Lucar. This is no small
undertaking. Before it is possible to blend these two churches into
one, a perfect understanding must be had on a great number of points
which are of the highest importance. It will suffice to mention such,
_e.g._, as the mass, the sacraments, the procession of the Holy Ghost,
devotion to the Blessed Virgin and the saints, and the honor to be
paid to relics and images. In addition to these must be settled the
question as to the validity of the Anglican orders. As to Monsignor
Michel personally, he would have an additional difficulty to contend
with. Everybody knows that the people of Servia have very little
sympathy with the people of England, and they would undoubtedly
manifest very little inclination to follow their metropolitan should
he try to induce them to do so.

It must be admitted, however, that the endeavor to reunite the two
churches has far more hope of success in the nineteenth than it had
either in the sixteenth or seventeenth centuries. On the one hand, the
teaching of the Puseyites has spread widely among the Anglican clergy.
Men of distinction who have made their studies at Oxford and Cambridge
are beginning more and more to suspect that apostolicity is an
essential note of the church of Jesus Christ, and that it is very
difficult to discover this in a church which dates only from the time
of Henry VIII.; they are gradually giving up the principle of private
judgment, and are learning to appreciate more and more the value of
tradition, of the fathers, and of the general councils of the Church.
On the other hand, adherence to {69} orthodoxy has, in the East, lost
somewhat of its deep, sincere, and inflexible character. Some years
since we had occasion to show, in the pages of this review, that in
her theological teaching the Russian Church had been materially
affected by Protestant influence. This is no longer so in our own day,
if we may judge by the public writings of the Russian bishops, and
there has been a very general return to doctrines much more in harmony
with the traditions of the churches of the East. But at the same time
one must admit that rationalism and infidelity have made fearful
ravages in the East as well as in the West. Talk with young men from
Russia, Greece, Romania, and Servia who have made their studies in
either Russian or German universities, who have attended the course of
lectures given by professors from either Athens or Paris, and you will
see how feeble, cold, and wavering their faith has become. The result
has been a prevailing atmosphere, both intellectual and moral, which
enervates the firmness of convictions, and generates a certain laxity
in one's hold on the teachings of the faith. People have become more
ready to conform to public opinion, and I should be greatly surprised
if an attempt similar to that made by Cyril Lucar should find in the
East of to-day an equally universal and prompt condemnation.

Moreover, the working of Protestant missions in the East has not been
so completely unsuccessful as many persons are pleased to report As a
general thing Protestant missionaries are men of intelligence,
education, and good breeding; they make a thorough study of the
country in which they reside; they erect schools and printing presses,
and put in circulation a large number of books. It is impossible to
admit that all this can be absolutely without effect. These schools
and those books must be the germ of an influence which time cannot
fail to develop. I am very well assured that Protestantism has very
few attractions for the people of the East in any point of view, least
of all on the side of externals, and that the difficulty of making
Protestants of the people of the East would be very great; still, one
must not conclude from this that it would be impossible to bring about
a certain kind of union; that an arrangement might not be made which
would introduce a different spirit into the schismatical churches of
the East while they yet preserved their external form. I grant you the
liturgy of the East, eminently dogmatical as it is, would contrast
most singularly with Protestant notions; but remember, we are not now
speaking of Protestantism in its pure development, but of the Anglican
phase of it, and of Anglicanism leavened by Puseyism.

In conclusion, I have no faith myself in this attempt; but still a
person would have a false idea of the state of the case who should
regard the move as a purely fanciful one, and one unworthy the
attention of serious-minded men.

But, now, supposing this effort should be successful, have we
Catholics any cause for alarm? I think rather the contrary. The Church
of England is as clearly wanting in apostolicity as the Greek Church
is in catholicity. The one has need to link herself on to the chain of
past time; the other to extend her boundaries, that she may no longer
feel herself to be enclosed within a part of the world; that she may
not have the appearance of identifying herself with only a few of the
many races of men. Even admitting that by means of this alliance the
English could congratulate themselves upon having won back their title
to apostolicity, and the Greeks in turn theirs to catholicity, the
need of unity would be felt all the more, which neither can ever
attain to, apart from that rock upon which our Lord and Saviour Jesus
Christ has built his Church, and against which the gates of hell shall
never prevail.

J. GAGARIN.  [Footnote 4]

  [Footnote 4: F. Gagarin is a Russian prince, a convert from the
  Greek schism, and a member of the Society of Jesus.--Ed.]



From The Sixpenny Magazine.


  When the lessons and tasks are all ended,
    And the school for the day is dismissed,
  The little ones gather around me
    To bid me "good night," and be kissed.
  Oh, the little white arms that encircle
    My neck in their tender embrace;
  Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven,
    Shedding sunshine of love on my face.

  And when they are gone, I sit dreaming
    Of my childhood--too lovely to last--
  Of joy that my heart will remember
    While it wakes to the pulse of the past:
  Ere the world and its wickedness made me
    A partner of sorrow and sin,
  When the glory of God was about me,
    And the glory of gladness within.

  I ask not a life for the dear ones
    All radiant, as others have done;
  But that life may have just enough shadow
    To temper the glare of the sun;
  I would pray God to guard them from evil;
    But my prayer would bound back to myself:
  Ah, a seraph may pray for a sinner.
    But a sinner must pray for himself^

  I shall leave the old house in the autumn,
    To traverse its threshold no more;
  Ah! how I shall sigh for the dear ones
    That meet me each morn at the door;
  I shall miss the "good-nights" and the kisses,
    And the gush of their innocent glee;
  The group on the green, and the flowers
    That are brought every morning for me.


From The Lamp.




The next morning Winny presented herself at the breakfast-table,
looking more attractive and more tidily dressed, her rich glossy hair
better brushed and smoothed down more carefully than was usual at that
hour of the day. Her daily custom, like all other country girls who
had household concerns to look after, was not to "tidy herself up"
until they had been completed. She was not ignorant, however, of the
great advantage which personal neatness added to beauty gave a young
girl who had a cause to plead. And although the man upon whom she
might have to throw herself for mercy was her father, she was not slow
on this occasion to claim their advocacy for what they might be worth.
But she had also prayed to God to guide her in all her replies to the
parent whom she was bound to honor and obey, as well as to Love. She
had not contented herself with having set out her own appearance to
the best advantage, but she had also set out the breakfast-table in
the same way. The old blue-and-white teapot had been left on the
dresser, and a dark-brown one, with a figured plated lid, taken out of
the cupboard of Sunday china. Two cups and saucers, and plates "to
match," with two real ivory-hafted knives laid beside them. There was
also some white _broken_ sugar in a glass bowl, which Winny had won in
a lottery at Carrick-on-Shannon from a "bazaar-man." There was nothing
extraordinary in all this for persons of their means, though, to tell
the truth, it was not the every-day paraphernalia of their
breakfast-table. Winny had not been idle either in furnishing the
plates with a piping hot potato-cake, a thing of which her father was
particularly fond, and which she often gave him; but this one had a
few carraway-seeds through it, and was supposed to be better than
usual. Then she had a couple of slices of nice thin bacon fried with
an egg, which she knew he liked too. All this was prepared, and
waiting for her father, whose fatigue of the day before had caused him
to sleep over-long.

While waiting for him, it struck Winny that he must think such
preparations out of the common, and perhaps done for a purpose. Upon
reflection she was almost sorry she had not confined her
embellishments to her own personal appearance, and even that, she
began to feel, might have been as well let alone also. But she had
little time now for reflection, for she heard her father's step, as he
came down stairs.

She met him at the door, opening it for him.

"Good morrow, father," she said; "how do you find yourself to-day? I
hope you rested well after your long walk yesterday."

"After a while I did, Winny; but the tea you made was very strong, an'
I didn't sleep for a long time after I went to bed."

"Well, 'a hair of the hound,' you know, father dear. I have a good cup
for you now, too; it will not do you any harm in the morning when you
have the whole day before you. And I have a nice potato-cake for you,
for I know you like it."

"Troth I b'lieve you have, Winny; an' I smell the carraways that I
like. But, Winny, sure the ould blue teapot's not broken, is it?"


"No, father; but I was busy with the potato-cake this morning, and had
not time to wash it out last night, so I took out number one to give
it an airing; and I put down the other things to match."

The portion of this excuse which was true was far greater than that
which was not; and Winny, who as a general rule was truthful, was
satisfied with it--and, reader, so must you be.

"Never mind, Winny, you are mistress here, an' I don't want any
explanation; it wasn't that made me spake; but I'd be sorry th' ould
blue teapot was bruck, for we have it since afore you were well in
your teens. You're lookin' very well this mornin', Winny agra."

"Hush, father; eat your cake, and don't talk nonsense. There's an egg
that black Poll laid this morning, and here's some butter I finished
not five minutes before you came in yesterday evening. Shall I give
you some tea?"

"If you please, Winny dear." And the old man looked at his daughter
with undeniable admiration.

They then enjoyed a neat and comfortable breakfast, which indeed
neither of them seemed in a hurry to bring to an end. The old man was
constrained and silent, and left all the talk to Winny, who, it must
be admitted, never felt it more difficult to furnish conversation. Old
Ned looked at her once or twice intently, as if wondering at her being
much finer than usual; and then he looked at the breakfast gear; and
the expression of his face was as if he suspected something. These
looks, both at herself and the table, did not escape Winny's notice,
but she never met them, always interrupting any exclamation which was
likely to follow them with some question or remark of her own, such
as, "Do you like that cake, father?" "That is the muil cow's butter; I
always keep her milk by itself, and churn it in the small chum for
you, father; you said you liked it." "Here, Bully-dhu, is a piece of
cake for you."

With some such heterogeneous questions or remarks as these, she
managed to parry his looks, or at all events the observations which
were likely to follow them, and direct for the moment--ah, Winny, it
was only for the moment!--his thoughts from whatever was upon them,
and which Winny believed she knew right well.

But this suspense on both sides must come to an end. Old Ned, from his
conversation with Mick Murdock, had determined not to speak to his
daughter until he knew Tom had done so. But Winny did not know this,
and dreaded every moment a thunder-clap would come which she was
herself preparing for her father, and she was anxious, if it was only
for the sake of propriety, to tell her story unprovoked.

The old man now stood up from the table, saying he would be likely to
be out all day, as he was preparing to get down some wheat. But Winny,
when it came to the point, could only stammer out in a feeble voice,
that she wanted to speak to him before he went.

"Now's your time, Winny dear, for I have a great dale to do before
dinner-time; an' I must be off to the men."

"Father dear, I may as well tell you at once--I'm in trouble--about
--about--about--Tom--Murdock." And she threw her arms round his neck,
and laid her cheek upon his shoulder.

"An' is that all, mavourneen? Ah, Winny, Winny, I knew it would come
to this!--mavourneen macree, I knew it would. But there, Winny jewel,
don't be crying--don't be crying; sure you know I'm not the man to
cross your wishes; no--no, my own girl, I'd neither oppose you nor
force you for 'the world; aren't you the only one I have on airth? an'
sure isn't your happiness mine, Winny dear? There, Winny, don't cry;
sure you may do as you like, mavourneen macree, you may."

Winny knew that all this was uttered under a misconception, and it
gave her but little comfort. There was {73} _one_ part of it, however,
she would not forget.

"Oh, father," she sobbed out upon his breast, "Tom Murdock has asked
me to marry him." And the tears rolled down her cheeks.

"Why then, Winny dear, dhry up them tears; sure I know they're on my
account, at the thoughts of partin' me; but won't you be livin' at the
doore with me while I last? Isn't it what I always hoped an' prayed
for?--och, Winny, Winny, but you're the lucky girl this day, an' I'm
the lucky man, for it will add ten years to my life."

And he kissed her yielding lips over and over again. But she did not
speak; while the big tears continued to course themselves down her
pale but beautiful cheeks.

"Don't--don't, Winny asthore; don't be crying on my account; sure I
may say we'll not have to part at all. Mick an' I have it all settled,
mavourneen; he's to build you a grand new house where th' ould one
stan's, an' I'm to furnish it from top to toe; and Mick an' I will
live here, not three hundred yards from the pair of you. Oh, Winny,
Winny, but it's I is the happy man this day! There, don't be cryin', I
tell you; sure I would not gainsay you for the world;" and he kissed
her again. But still she did not speak.

"There, Winny, there; don't be sobbin' an' cryin', I tell you. Why,
what's the matther with you, Winny mavrone?"

"Oh, father, father, it never can be!" she exclaimed in broken sobs,
and clinging to his neck closer than ever.

"Nonsense, Winny! what's the matther, I say? why can't it be? Of
course you did not refuse Tom's offer?"

"I'd, father--indeed I did. I never can care for Tom Murdock; father,
I could never be happy with that man. Don't ask me to marry him."

"Is the girl mad? To be sure I will, Winny. There's but the two of you
in it an' with Mick's farm an' mine joined,--the leases are all as one
as 'free simple,'--you'd be as grand as many ladies an' gentlemen in
the county;" and he disengaged himself from her arms, and strode
toward the door.

Winny thought he was going; but he had no notion of it at so unsettled
a point. She rushed between him and the door.

"Father, don't go!" she cried; "for God's sake don't leave me that

"Winny, it's what I'm greatly surprised at you, so I am. My whole life
has been spent in puttin' together a dacent little fortun' for you; I
never had one on airth I loved but yourself an' your poor mother--God
rest her sowl! I never spoke a cross word to you, Winny jewel, since I
followed her to the grave, four days after you were born; an' now, in
my old days, when I haven't long to last, you're goin' to break my
heart, an' shorten them same. Oh, Winny, Winny, say it's only jokin'
you are, an' I'll forgive you, cruel as it was."

"No, father, I'm telling you the real truth; people seldom joke with
the tears running down their cheeks; look at them, father. I know all
you say is true; and indeed it will break my own heart to oppose you,
if you do not yield. But listen here, father dear; sure after all your
love and kindness to me for the last eighteen or twenty years, I may
say, you won't go now and spoil it all by crossing my happiness
without any necessity for it. Tom put all the grandeur and wealth
before me himself, that the joining of the two farms and marrying him
would bring to me. But it is no use, father; I never liked that man,
and I never can. Oh, don't ask me, father asthore; I'm contented and
happy as I am."

"Winny, I never found you out in a lie since you could first spake,
an' I'm sure you won't tell me one now. Listen to me, Winny. Tom
Murdock is a fine, handsome young fellow, an' {74} well to do in the
world, with a grand education, an' fit to hould his own anywhere; and
I say he's any young girl's fancy, or ought to be, at any rate. You
an' he have been reared at the doore with each other. What you are
yourself, Winny asthore, I need not say, for every one that sees you
knows it; and well they may, for sure you spake for yourself. It
seldom happens--indeed, Winny, I never knew it--that a boy an' girl
like you an' Tom, reared at the doore that way, fail but what they
take a likin' to each other. It seems Tom done his part, both as to
the likin' an' spakin', as he ought to do in both; but you, Winny,
have done neither. Now, Winny, I can't but think that's very strange,
an' I have but the one way to riddle it. Tell me now, honestly and
plainly, is there any one that cum afore Tom in his request? Answer me
that, Winny?"

"I win, father, honestly and truly. It is not that any one has come
between me and Tom that made me refuse him. The very thing that you
say, of our being reared at the door with one another, has made me
dislike him. I have seen too much of his ways, and heard too many of
his words, ever to like him, father; there is no use in trying to make
me, for I never can."

"But, Winny jewel, you have hardly answered my question yet. Are you
secretly promised, Winny, to any other young man that you're afeard I
wouldn't like? that's the plain question. The truth now, Winny,--the
truth, Winny!"

"No, father, certainly not. Tom Murdock is the only man that ever
asked me."

"Was there ever anything betune you an' young Lennon, Emon-a-knock, as
I have heard you call him myself?"

"Never, father; Emon never spoke to me upon such a subject, and
further than that, he has paid me less compliments and spoken less to
me upon any subject than fifty young men in the parish."

It so happened, however, that the name had hightened Winny's color,
and her father, looking at her with an admiring and affectionate
smile, said:

"Fifty, Winny! well, in throth, I don't wonder at it, or a hundred an'
fifty, if they were in the parish."

Winny took advantage of his smile.

"There, father dear, don't be angry with your poor colleen; she'll do
better than to marry riches with misery. Thank God, and you, father,
she will have more than enough without coveting Tom Murdock's share."
And she held up her beautiful lips, and looked in the old man's face
with eyes swimming in tears.

Old Ned had fought the battle badly, and lost it. He bent down his
head to meet his daughter's caress, and pressed her to his heart.

"There, Winny mavourneen," he exclaimed; "I have not loved you as the
apple of my eye, since your poor mother died, for me to thwart you
now. You shall never marry Tom Murdock except with your own free will
and consent, asthore. As you say, Winny dear, we neither want nor
covet his share. But sure, Winny dear, I thought you were for him all

"Oh, thank you, thank you a thousand times, father dear; that is so
like you. I knew you would not break your Winny's heart."

But Winny Cavana was too honorable, even toward the man she hated, to
tell her father of the conversation she had overheard between old
Murdock and his son at the gate. She had gained her cause without


Tom Murdock had no fixed purpose in anywhere he went after Winny
Cavana left him discomfited upon the road. He wandered on past Kate
Mulvey's, on toward Shanvilla, but not with any hope or wish to come
{75} across Edward Lennon. His intentions of "dealing with him" were
yet distant and undefined. What naturally occupied his thoughts was
the humiliation he felt at Winny Cavana having refused him. Although
he had complained to his father "that he did not think she was for
him," yet upon a due consideration of his personal appearance, and his
position in the country, he felt persuaded in his own mind that his
father was right, and that nothing was required to secure success but
to go boldly and straightforward to work. Tom had hinted to his
father, although the old man had not observed it, or if so, had taken
no notice of it, that there were more reasons than he was aware of for
his wishing to secure Winny Cavana's ready money at all events; and
his exclamation when his father spoke of only the interest, might have
awakened him to the dread, at least, that there really was some cause,
with which he was unacquainted, why he dwelt so much more on the
subject of her fortune than the land. The fact was so. Tom Murdock was
a worse young man than any one--except his immediate associates--was
aware of. In addition to his other accomplishments, perhaps I should
rather say his attributes, he possessed a degree of worldly cunning
which would have sufficed to keep any four ordinary young men out of
trouble. But he required it all, for he had four times more
villany--not to answer for, for it was unknown, but on his
conscience--than any young man of like age in the parish.

One great keeper of a secret--for the time being, at least--is plenty
of money. With plenty of money you can keep people in the dark, or
blind them with the brightness of the glare. You can keep them in the
country, or you can send them out of it, as circumstances require. You
can bribe people to be silent, or to tell lies, as you like. But a
villain who has not plenty of money cannot thrive long in his villany.
When his money fails, his character oozes out, until he becomes
finally exposed.

Tom Murdock had practically learned some of the above truths by his
experience in life, short as it was, better than anything he had
learned at Rathcash national school. The later part of it was what he
now feared, but did not wish to learn.

Tom could not have been in the habit of going to Dublin, to Armagh,
and Sligo (no one knew in what capacity), three or four times a year,
where he played cards and bet high, without money of his own;
supposing even that his expenses of the road (which was shrewdly
suspected) had been paid. He could not have sent half-a-dozen young
_friends_ to America, and compromised scores of actions ere they came
before a court of law, without money. He could not have kept a brace
of greyhounds, and a race-mare, at Church's hotel in
Carrick-on-Shannon, as "Mr. Marsden's," without money; and more money
in all these cases, from the secrecy which was required, than almost
the actual cost might involve. There were other smaller matters, too,
which increased the necessity for Tom Murdock to be always in
possession of some ready cash. This, from his position as heir to
Rathcashmore, and heir presumptive, if not apparent, to Rathcash
alongside of it, he had as yet found no difficulty in procuring upon
his own personal security; and to do him justice, he had hitherto
avoided mixing up his father's name or responsibility in any of his
borrowing transactions. Then there was the usurious interest which
these money-lenders, be they private or public, charge upon loans, to
be added to Tom's liabilities. If he was pressed by Paul, he robbed
Peter to pay him; and when (after long forbearance) he was pressed by
Peter, he robbed Paul back again. Upon all these and such-like
occasions, Winny Cavana's fortune, which he said would be paid down,
was the promptest guarantee he could hold out for payment; for {76}
ultimately, he said, they could not lose, as he must some day or other
"pop into the old chap's shoes," and in the meantime he was paying the
interest regularly.

Winny Cavana's instinct had not deceived her; but had she known
one-half as much as some of Tom Murdock's bosom friends could tell
her, she would have openly spurned him, and not have treated his
advances with even the forced consideration she had done.

He wandered on now toward Shanvilla, without, as we have seen, any
fixed purpose. Personally humiliated as he had been by Winny's refusal
of him, his thoughts dwelt more upon the fact that he could no longer
reckon upon her fortune to pay off the tormenting debts which were
every day pressing more heavily upon him; for he could not but believe
that her refusal of him would get abroad. The Peters had been robbed
often enough, and they would now let the Pauls fight their battle the
best way they could with Tom Murdock himself; they were safe now, and
they would keep themselves so. They had told Tom this,--"not that they
doubted him, but their money was now otherwise employed." Tom began to
fear, therefore, that an exposure must soon break out.

How could he face his father, too? He would undoubtedly lay his
failure to the score of his own impetuous and uncouth manner of
seeking her favor; for he had often charged him with both,
particularly toward Winny Cavana. One or two of his creditors had
given up even the pretence of being civil, and had sworn "they would
go to his father for payment, if not promptly settled with."

It was no great wonder if Tom wandered through the country with no
fixed purpose, and finally arrived, tired and ill-humored, at his
father's house.

The old man had missed him "from about the place" all the forenoon,
and had naturally set down his absence to the right cause. He had been
candid in his advice to his son, "to spake up bowldly, and at wanst,
to Winny;" and he was sincere in his belief that she would "take him
hoppin." This day, suspecting he was on the mission, he had "kep'
himself starvin'," and delayed the dinner for his return. He had
ordered Nancy Feehily to have "a young roast goose, an' a square of
bacon, an' greens, for dinner agen misther Tom cem home." He
anticipated "grand chuckling" over Tom's success, of which he made no
more doubt than he did of his own existence.

"At last, Tom a wochal, you're cum," he said, as his son entered the
door. "But where the sorra have you been? I think Winny's at home this
betther nor two hours, for I seen her going in. Well, Tom, you devil!
didn't I tell you how it id be?--_dhitidtch!_" he added, making an
extraordinary noise with his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and
giving his son a poke in the ribs with his forefinger.

"No, but did not I tell you how it would be? There, father! that
bubble's burst, and I'm sorry I ever made an _onshiough_ of myself."

"Faix, an', Tom, you must be an _onshiough_ if that bubble burst,
unless it's what you blew it out yourself. Di ye mane to say you spoke
to her plain, as I tould you to do, Tom avic?"

"As plain as the palm of my hand, father. I put the whole thing before
her in the kindest and fondest manner ever a man spoke. I told her how
my whole heart and soul was waiting for her this three or four years
past--God forgive me for the lie."

"Amen, Tom, if it was one; but maybe it wasn't, man. You're vexed now,
Tom agra; but it won't be so. I tell you she only wants to see if
you'll folly her up afther she giving you one refusal. What did she
say, agra?"

Here Nancy Feehily brought in the roast goose and square of bacon,
with a dish of smoking "Brown's fancies" {77} in their jackets, and a
check was given to the conversation. The old man, as he had said, had
"kep' himself starvin'," and Tom could not keep himself from a like
infirmity in his ramble through the country. He was not one of those
who permitted a mental annoyance to produce a physical _spite_ in
return; he did not, as they say, cut his nose to vex his face, nor
quarrel with his bread and butter; so, between them, they did ample
justice to Nancy Feehily's abilities as a cook.

"You don't mane to say she refused you, Tom?" said the old man, after
the girl had left, and while he was waiting for his son to cut him
another slice of bacon.

"She did, father; but let me alone about her now: I'll tell you no
more until I make myself a rousing tumbler of punch after dinner. She
shall not take away my appetite, at all events."

Nor did she. Tom never ate a better dinner in his life, and his father
followed his example. Old Mick had taken the hint, and said no more
upon the subject. There was nothing but helping of goose, and slices
of bacon, and cutting large smiling potatoes through the middle, with
a dangerous sound of the knife upon the cloth, until the meal was

Then, when the things had been removed, and Tom had made his rouser to
his satisfaction, and his father had done the same, Tom told him
precisely what had taken place between him and Winny Cavana.

Old Murdock listened with an attentive stare until his son had told
him all. He then put out his tongue and made another extraordinary
sound, but very different from the one already alluded to; and
exclaimed, "Bad luck to her impidence, say I!"

"And I say amen, father."

"Tell me, Tom, do you think that fellow Lennon is at the bottom of all
this? Did you put that to her?"

"I did, father, and she was not a bit puzzled or flustrificated about
him. She spoke of him free and easy; but she denied that there was
ever a word between them but common civility."

"An' maybe it's the thruth, Tom avic. You'll find anyhow that she'll
change her tune afther her father gets spakin' to her on the subject.
He'll be as stout as a bull, Tom; I know he will. He tould me he'd
never give in, and that he'd threaten to cut her fortun' off, and make
over his interest in the land to the church for charitable purposes,
if she tuck up the smallest notion of that pauper,--that scullion, he
called him. Don't be down about it, Tom. They say that wan swallow
makes no summer; an' I say, wan wild goose makes no winter. My advice
to you now, Tom, is, to wait a while; don't be goin' out at all,
neither here nor there for some time. I'll let on I don't know what
can be the matther with you; an' you'll see she'll come an' be hoppin'
round you like a pet robin."

"I hope you are right, father, but I don't think so; I never saw a
woman more determined in my life--she took her oath."

"Pshaw, Tom, that's nothin'. Don't torment yourself about it now; mark
my words, her father will soon bring her to her senses."

"I do not much care whether he does or does not as to herself; only
for that six hundred pounds, the most of which I want badly. I would
not envy any man that was tied to the like of her."

"Arra, Tom jewel, what would you want wid the most of six hundred
pounds; sure if you got it itself, you oughtn't to touch a penny of

Tom had not intended to say what he had said; it slipped out in his
vexation. But here his worldly cunning and self-possession came to his
aid, and he replied.

"Perhaps not, indeed, father; but there is a spot of land not far off
which will soon be in the market, I hear, and it would be no bad
speculation to buy it. I think it would pay six or seven per cent
interest." Tom knew his father's weakness for {78} a bit of land, and
was ready enough.

"Oh, that's a horse of another color, Tom. Arra, where is it? I didn't
hear of it."

"No matter now, father. I cannot get the money, so let me alone about
it. I wish the d--l had the pair of them."

"Whist, whist, Tom avic; don't be talking in that way. Sure af it's a
safe purchase for six per cent., the money might be to be had. Thanks
be to God, we're not behouldin' to that hussey's dirty drib for

Here a new light dawned upon Tom. Might he not work a few hundreds out
of his father in some way or other for this pretended purchase, and
then say that it would not be sold after all; and that he had relodged
the money, or lost it, or was robbed--or--or--something? The thought
was too vague as yet to take any satisfactory shape; but the result
upon his mind at the moment was, that his father was too wide awake to
be dealt with in that way.

"Well, father," he said, "I shall be guided by your advice in this
business still, although I have done no good by taking it to-day; but
listen to me now, father."

"An' welcome, Tom. I like a young man to have a mind of his own, an'
to be able to strike out a good plan; an' then, if my experience isn't
able to back it up, why I spake plainly an' tell him what I think."

"My opinion is, father, that I ought to go away out of this place
altogether for a while. You know I am not one that moping about the
house and garden would answer at all. I must be out and going about,
father, or I'd lose my senses."

This was well put, both in matter and manner, and the closing words
told with crowning effect. Tom had said nothing but the fact; such
were his disposition and habits that he had scarcely exaggerated the
effects of a close confinement to the premises, while of sound bodily

"Begorra, Tom, what you say is the rale thruth; What would you think
of going down to your aunt in Armagh for a start?"

"No use, father,--no use; I could be no better there than where I am.
Dublin, father, or the continent, for a month or six weeks, might do
me some good."

"Bedads, Tom, that id take a power of money, wouldn't it?"

"Whether you might think so or not, father, would depend upon what you
thought my health and happiness would be worth; here I cannot and will
not stay, that is one sure thing."

"Well, Tom, af she doesn't cum round in short, afther her father opens
out upon her, we'll talk it over, and see what you would want; but my
opinion is, you won't have to make yourself scarce at all--mind my

Here Tom fell into such a silent train of thought, that all further
conversation was brought to an end. Old Mick believed his son to be
really unhappy "about that impideut hussey;" and having made one or
two ineffectual efforts "to rouse him," he left him to his

At the moment they were fixed upon a few of his father's closing
words, "see what you'll want." "Want--want!" he repeated to himself.
"A dam' sight more than you'll fork out, old cock."

Old Mick busied himself about the house, fidgeting in and out of the
room--upstairs and downstairs; while Tom was silently arranging more
than one programme of matters which must come off if he would save
himself from ruin and disgrace.

His father had ceased to come into the room; indeed his step had not
been heard through the house or on the stairs for some time, and it
was evident he had gone to bed. But Tom sat for a full hour longer,
with scarcely a change of position of even hand or foot. At length,
with a sudden sort of snorting sigh, he stood up, stretched himself,
with a loud and weary moan, and went to his room.



From The Dublin Review.


_Souvenirs et Correspondance tirés des Papiers de Madame Récamier,_
Paris: Michel Lévy Frères. 1859.

We took occasion in our number of last January to trace the fortunes
of that distinguished lady who became consort of the greatest, though
not the best, of the kings of France. We saw her rise from obscurity
to eminence, without being giddy through her elevation; resisting the
fascinations of a licentious court; imbibing celestial wisdom from
hidden sources in proportion to the difficulties of her position;
exerting great influence without abusing the delicate trust; and at
length, bowed with age, retiring into the conventual seclusion of the
establishment her piety had reared, and there breathing her last amid
the love and admiration, the prayers and blessings, of a thousand

We have now another portrait to hang beside that of Frances de
Maintenon--the portrait of one who in some respects resembled her;
who, rising, like her, from an inferior condition, was courted by an
emperor, and betrothed, or all but betrothed, to a royal prince;
withstood innumerable temptations at a period of boundless corruption;
conciliated the esteem and friendship of the best and wisest men, and
then glided into the vale of years through the peaceful shade of the
Abbaye-aux-Bois. The first of these ladies was resplendent in talents,
the second in beauty; the one excelled in tact, the other in sweetness
and grace; the one in the sphere of politics and public life, the
other in the realm of letters and the private circle. If Madame de
Maintenon was the most admired, Madame Récamier was the most loved.
Each appeared under a sort of disguise, for one spoke and acted as if
she were not the wife of her own husband, and the other as if she were
the wife of him who was her husband only in name. Both have had
violent detractors; both are best known by their letters; and thus,
where they agreed and where they differed, they remind us of each
other. Of both France is proud, and both, as years pass on, are rising
into purer and brighter fame. At the same time it can by no means be
said of Madame Récamier, as it may most truly of Madame de Maintenon,
that religion was the one animating principle of her life; yet the
facts which we have to recount will show--not, indeed, that religion
supplied her with the main ends of her existence, but that it enabled
her in a corrupt age to follow the objects of her choice in habitual
submission to God's actual commandments.

Julie Bernard, the subject of the present memoir, was born at Lyons,
on the 4th of December, 1777. Her father, a notary of that city, was
remarkable for his handsome face and fine figure, and Madame Bernard
was a noted beauty. She had a passion for show, and during the long
illness which ended in her death in 1807, found her chief amusement in
dress and ornaments. When Julie was seven years old, her father was
appointed to a lucrative post in Paris, and left his little daughter
at Villefranche, under the care of an aunt. Here the first of her
numberless admirers, a boy of her own age, made a deep impression on
her susceptible mind, and here, too, she received her earliest
education in the convent of La Déserte. The memory of that hallowed
spot, its clouds of incense, its processions in the garden, its hymns
and flowers, abode with her, {80} she said, through life like a sweet
dream, and to the lessons there taught she ascribed her retention of
the faith amid the host of sceptical opinions she encountered in after
years. It was not without regret and tears that she bade farewell to
the abbess and sisters, and turned her face toward Paris and the
attractions of her parents' home. Nothing but accomplishments were
thought of to complete her education. The brilliant capital was to
supersede the "Déserte" in her affections, and her mother took great
pains to make Juliette as frivolous as herself. Her chief attention
was given to music, she was taught to play the harp and piano by the
first artists, and took lessons in singing from Boïeldieu. This was a
real gain, though in a different way from that which was intended. We
shall see further on how the skill thus acquired was afterward
employed in the service of religion, and how the habit of playing
pathetic airs and pieces soothed many a sad moment when she was old
and blind.

Her first contact with royalty was by accident. Her mother had taken
her to see a grand banquet at Versailles, to which, as in the days of
Louis XIV., the public were admitted as spectators. Juliette was very
beautiful, and the queen, struck by her appearance, sent one of her
ladies to ask that she might retire with the royal family. Madame
Royale was just of the same age as Juliette, and the two children were
measured together. Madame Royale also was a beauty, and not
over-pleased, it seems, by this close comparison with a girl taken out
of a crowd. How little could either foresee the strange fortunes that
awaited the other!

Madame Bernard, with her love of display, took a pride also in
gathering clever men around her. Laharpe, Lemontey, Barrère, and other
members of the legislative assembly, frequented her drawing-room, and
M. Jacques Récamier, an eminent banker of Paris, and son of a merchant
at Lyons, was a constant guest. His character was easy and jovial; he
wrote capital letters, spouted Latin, made plenty of money, spent it
fast, and was often the dupe of his generosity and good humor. He had
always been kind to Juliette, and had given her heaps of playthings.
When, therefore, in 1793, he asked her hand in marriage, she consented
without any repugnance, though Madame Bernard explained to her the
inconveniences which might arise from their disparity of age, habits,
and tastes--M. Récamier being forty-two and Juliette only fifteen. The
wedding took place; but their union is a mystery which has never been
solved with certainty. To her nominal husband she was never anything
but a daughter. Her niece, Madame Lenormant, says she can only attest
the fact, which was well known to all intimate friends, but that she
is not bound (_chargée_) to explain it. Madame M----, another
biographer, believes, as did many beside, that she was in reality M.
Récamier's daughter; that, living, as every one did during the reign
of terror, in fear of the guillotine, he wished to be able to leave
her his fortune in case of his death, and, in the meantime, to place
her in a splendid position; that Madame Récamier, made aware of her
real parentage, would of course be the last to reveal and publish her
mother's shame; and that this story, carefully borne in mind, explains
all the anomalies of her life.

To this strange alliance, however, is due the formation of the most
remarkable literary salon of the present age. It represented more
perfectly than any other those of the Hôtel Rambouillet and of Madame
de Sablé in the seventeenth century; of Madame Geoffrin, Madame
d'Houdetot, and Madame Suard, in the eighteenth;  [Footnote 5] and it
surpassed in solid attractions those of Madame de Staël at Coppet, and
of Madame d'Albany of {81} Florence, of which it was the contemporary.
She was herself its life, and diffused over it a charm no biographer
can seize. So young and fair, so fascinating yet so innocent, she
riveted every gaze, and attracted all hearts without yielding to any.
Like the coloring of a landscape which changes every hour, she defied
description, and found no adequate reflex save in the fond esteem and
faithful memory of those who knew her. Yet her nearest and dearest
friends felt that she was above them; and it might be said of her, as
Saint-Simon said of the Duchess de Bourgogne, that she walked like a
goddess on clouds. Her beauty made her popular, and she was talked of
everywhere; for the Parisians at this time, like refined pagans,
affected the worship of beauty under every form. She seemed,
therefore, by general consent, to have a natural mission to restore
society, which a series of revolutions had completely disorganized,
and her power of drawing people together and harmonizing what party
politics had unstrung, became more apparent every day. By birth she
belonged to the people, by tastes and manners to the aristocracy, and
had thus a double hold over those who, with republican principles,
were fast returning to early associations of rank and order.

  [Footnote 5: _"Causeries du Lundi,"_ par Sainte-Beuve. Tome i, pp.
  114, 115.]

It was a happy day when the churches were re-opened in Paris, and the
soft swelling notes of the _O Salutaris Hostia_ filled the crowded
fanes once more. It was as the paean of the faithful over the
scattered army of unbelief. Madame Récamier was in request. She held
the plate for some charitable object at Saint-Roch, and collected the
extraordinary sum of 20,000f. The two gentlemen who attended her could
scarcely cleave a way for her through the crowd. People mounted on
chairs, on pillars, and the altars of the side chapels, to see her. In
these days, dancing was her delight. She was the first to enter the
ball-room, and the last to quit it. But this did not last long. She
soon gave up the shawl-dance, for which she was famous, though nothing
could be more correct and picturesque than the movements she executed
while, with a long scarf in her hands, she made it by turns a sash, a
veil, and a drapery--drooping, fluctuating, gliding, attitudinizing,
with matchless taste. Her reign was absolute. In the promenades of
Longchamps, no carriage was watched like hers; and every voice
pronounced her the fairest.

Twice only in her life did she meet Bonaparte, and to most persons in
her position and at that period those moments would have proved fatal.
His eye was as keen for female charms as for weak points in the
enemy's line. He saw her first in 1797, during a triumphal fête given
at the Luxembourg palace in his honor. He had just returned from his
marvellous campaign in Italy and genius was reaping the laurels too
seldom bestowed on solid worth. Madame Récamier was not insensible to
his military prowess. She stood up to observe his features more
plainly, and a long murmur of admiration filled the hall. The young
conqueror turned his head impatiently. Who dared to divide public
attention with the hero of Castiglione and Rivoli? He darted a harsh
glance at his rival, and she sank into her seat. But the beautiful
vision rested in his memory. He saw her once again, about two years
later, and spoke with her. It was at a banquet given by his brother
Lucien, then minister of the interior. Madame Récamier as usual was
all in white, with a necklace and bracelets of pearls. The First
Consul paid her marked attention, and his words, though insignificant
in themselves, meant more than met the ear. His manners, however, were
simple and pleasing, and he held a little girl of four years old, his
niece, by the hand. He chid Madame Récamier for not sitting next him
at dinner, fixed his gaze on her during the music, sent Fouché to
express to her his admiring regard, and told her himself that he {82}
should like to visit her at Clichy. But Juliette, though respectful,
was discreet. Time flowed on; Napoleon became emperor, and from the
giddy height of the imperial throne bethought him of the incomparable
lady in white. He had a double conquest to make. Her château was the
resort of emigrant nobles who had returned to France, and whose
sympathies were all with the past. To break up her circle, to gain her
over to his interests, to enhance by her presence the splendor of his
dissolute court, were objects well worthy of his plotting, ambitious,
and unscrupulous nature. Fouché was again employed as tempter. He
remonstrated with her on the species of opposition to the emperor's
policy which was fostered in her salons, but found her little disposed
to make concessions, or avow any liking for the despot. His genius and
exploits, she admitted, had dazzled her at first, but her sentiments
had entirely changed since her friends had been persecuted, the Duc
d'Enghein put to death, and Madame de Staël driven into exile. In
spite of these frank avowals, which were equally respectful and
fearless, Fouché persisted in his design, and in the park around
Madame Récamier's elegant retreat, urged her, in the emperor's name,
to accept the post of _dame du palais_ to the empress. His majesty had
never yet found a woman worthy of him, and it was impossible to say
how deep might be his affection for one like her; how wholesome an
influence she might exert over him; what services she might render to
the oppressed of all classes; and how much she might "enlighten the
emperor's religion!" Madame Murat, to her shame, seconded these
proposals, and expressed her earnest desire that Madame Récamier
should be attached to her household, which was now put on the same
footing as that of the empress. To these reiterated advances, Madame
Récamier returned the most decided refusal, alleging, by way of
courtesy, her love of independence as the cause. At last, foiled and
irritated, Fouché--the Mephistopheles of the piece--quitted Clichy,
never to return.

The consular episode in Madame Récamier's life has made us anticipate
some important events. We must return to the first years of her
marriage. It was in 1798 that some negotiations between her husband
and M. Necker, the ex-minister of Louis XVI., brought her in contact
with that statesman's celebrated daughter, Madame de Staël. At their
first interview a sympathy sprung up between the two ladies, which
ended in a lasting friendship. Madame Récamier lived in her friends,
and her circle was a host ever increasing, for she always talked much
and fondly of the friends of former years. She could say, like the
Cid, "five hundred of my friends." Yet she had her degrees of
attachment. They were, to use the beautiful simile of Hafiz, like the
pearls of a necklace, and she the silken cord on which they lay. The
chief of this favored circle were four--Madame de Staël among
womankind, and for the rest Chateaubriand, Ballanche, and Montmorency.

M. Necker's hôtel in the Rue du Mont-Blanc having been purchased by M.
Récamier, no cost was spared in its decoration. It was a model of
elegance, and every object of furniture down to the minutest ornament
was designed and executed expressly for it. Here the opulent husband
was installed, while the fair hostess held her court at the château of
Clichy. M. Récamier dined with her daily, and in the evening returned
to Paris. No political distinction prevailed in her assemblies, but
the restored emigrants were peculiarly welcome. Like Madame de Staël,
Chateaubriand, and almost all reflective persons in our age, she
thought monarchy had better be limited by a parliament than, as
Talleyrand said, by assassination. Yet revolutionary generals and
military dukes gathered round her, side by side with the Duc de
Guignes, Adrien and {83} Mathieu de Montmorency, and other
representatives of the fallen aristocracy. In her presence they forgot
their difference at least for awhile, and lost insensibly the asperity
of party prejudice.

Duc Mathieu de Montmorency was Madame Récamier's senior by seventeen
years. He had served in America in the regiment of Anvergne, of which
his father was colonel, and on his return to France abandoned himself
to all the pleasures and fashions of the world. His residence in the
land of Penn and Washington had imbued him with republican notions,
which he shared with a clique of young noblemen like himself. Such
persons, as is well known, were among the earliest victims of the
revolution they hurried on. Duc Mathieu emigrated in 1792, and soon
afterward learned in Switzerland that his brother, the Abbé de Laval,
whom he tenderly loved, had been beheaded. Remorse filled his breast,
and drove him almost to madness. He charged himself with his brother's
death. It was he who had proposed in the states general the abolition
of the privileges of nobility, approved the sequestration of church
property, and strengthened the hands of Mirabeau and the power of that
assembly which paved the way for regicide and the reign of terror.
Madame de Staël was his intimate friend. She had shared his political
enthusiasm, and did all in her power to soothe him. But religion alone
could pour balm into his smarting wounds. His conversion was complete
and lasting. The impetuous, seductive, and frivolous young man became
known to all as a fervent and strict Christian. Sainte-Beuve speaks of
him as a "saint." Extreme delicacy of language indicated the inward
discipline he underwent; while the warmth of his feelings and the
solidity of his judgment inspired at the same time confidence and
regard. His friendship for Madame de Staël continued, though their
religious convictions differed, and he was alive to the imperfections
of her character. He hoped one day to see her triumph over herself,
and his solicitude for Madame Récamier was equal, though in another
way. Over her he watched continually like a loving parent. He trembled
lest she should at last fall a victim to the gay world which so much
admired her, and which she sought to please. To shine without sinning
is difficult indeed. Montmorency's letters prove the depth and purity
of his affection. His intimacy with his _amiable amie_ lasted unbroken
during seven-and-twenty years, and ended only with his death.

Montmorency's death was the fitting sequel of a holy and useful life.
It happened in 1826. He had recently been elected one of the forty of
the French Academy, and had also been appointed governor to the Duc de
Bordeaux, the grandson and heir of Charles X. He had gone to the
church of St. Thomas d'Aquin on Good Friday, apparently in perfect
health, and was kneeling before the altar and the "faithful cross on
which the world's salvation hung," when his head bowed lower, and in a
moment the bitterness of death was past.

Laharpe was another distinguished man to be numbered among the lovers
of Madame Récamier's society. He had known her from a child, and when
his exquisite taste in literature had obtained for him the title of
the French with his regard was not lessened for one whose reputation
was as flourishing as his own. He passed weeks at Clichy, and when he
reopened his course of lectures on French literature at the Atheneum
she had a place reserved for her near his chair. The letters she
received from him are equally affectionate and respectful. He too had
been converted through the excesses of that revolution which he had in
the first instance encouraged. After suffering imprisonment in 1794,
his ideas and conduct underwent a total change, and he resolved to
devote his pen for the rest of his days to the service of religion.
{84} The energy with which he denounced "philosophers" and demagogues
drew upon him proscription, and it was only by concealing himself that
he escaped being transported. Of all revolutions, that of France in
the last century has, by the horror it excited and the reaction it
produced, tended more than any other to consolidate monarchy,
discredit scepticism, and promote the salvation of souls. It is a
beacon-fire kindled to warn nations of the rocks and shoals--the
faults of rule and the crimes of misrule--by which society may
suddenly be broken up and civilization retarded.

Montmorency was a statesman, Laharpe a man of letters; let us now turn
to another friend of Madame Récamier's, who from a private soldier
rose to be a king and leave a dynasty behind him. This was Bernadotte.
In 1802, M. Bernard was postmaster-general, and suspected of
complicity in a royalist correspondence that menaced the government.
Madame Récamier was one day entertaining a few guests at dinner, and
Eliza Bonaparte, afterward Grand Duchess of Tuscany, was present by
her own invitation. On rising from table a note was placed in the
hands of the hostess announcing the arrest and imprisonment of M.
Bernard. To whom should she have recourse at such a moment but to the
First Consul's sister? She must see him, she said, that very evening.
Would Madame Bacciocchi procure her an interview? The princess was
cold. She would advise Madame Récamier to see Fouché first. "And where
shall I find you again, madam, if I do not succeed?" asked Madame
Récamier. "At the Théâtre Français," was the reply; "in my box with my

Nothing could be gained from Fouché except the alarming information
that the affair was a very serious one, and that unless Madame
Récamier could see the First Consul that night it would be too late.
In the utmost consternation she drove to the Théâtre  to remind Madame
Bacciochi of her promise. "My father is lost," she said, "unless I can
speak with the First Consul to-night." "Well, wait till the tragedy is
over," replied the princess, with an air of indifference, "and then I
shall be at your service." Happily there was one in the box whose dark
eyes, fixed on the agonized daughter, expressed clearly the interest
he felt in her position. He leant forward, and explaining to the
princess that Madame Récamier appeared quite ill, offered to conduct
her to the chief of the government. Madame Bacciocchi readily
assented, and gladly resigned the suppliant to Bernadotte's charge.
Again and again he promised to obtain that the proceedings against M.
Bernard should be stopped, and repaired immediately to the Tuileries.
The same night he returned to Madame Récamier, who was counting the
moments till he re-appeared. His suit had been successful, and he soon
after procured the prisoner's release. Madame Récamier accompanied him
to the Temple on the day M. Bernard was delivered. He was deprived of
his post, for, though pardoned, he had undoubtedly been guilty of a
treasonable correspondence with the _Chouans_.

This was the foundation of Bernadotte's friendship with Madame
Récamier. "Neither time," he wrote to her, when adopted by Charles
XIII., as his son and heir--"neither time nor northern ice will ever
cool my regard for you." He had many noble qualities, and did much for
Sweden. We could forgive him for joining the coalition against France,
if he had not embraced Lutheranism for the sake of a crown.

During the short peace of Amiens, in 1802, Madame Récamier visited
England, where she received the kindest attentions from the Duchess of
Devonshire, Lord Douglas, the Prince of Wales, and the Duc d'Orleans,
afterward king of the French. Those who can refer to the English
newspapers of that year will find that {85} all the movements of the
beautiful stranger were regularly gazetted.

But where is Madame de Staël? In the autumn of 1803 she was exiled by
Bonaparte, who feared her talents and disliked her politics. As the
daughter of Necker and the friend of limited monarchy, she was
particularly obnoxious to one who represented both democracy and
absolutism. Madame Récamier, with her habitual generosity, offered her
an asylum at Clichy, which she accepted, under the impression that her
further removal from Paris would not be insisted on. Junot, afterward
the Duc d'Abrantes, their mutual friend, interested himself in her
behalf, but without success. Her sentence of exile was confirmed; she
was not to approach within forty leagues of the capital. So she
wandered through Germany, and collected materials for her
"_Allemagne_" and "_Dix années d'Exil._" At Weimar she studied German
literature under Goethe, Wieland, and Schiller, and in 1805 held her
court at Coppet in the Canton de Vaud. Here occurred, as we shall
presently see, one of the most singular episodes in Madame Récamier's
life. She, with Madame de Staël in Switzerland, and Madame d'Albany in
Florence, divided the empire of literary salons on the continent; and
each of these ladies felt in turn the weight of the despot of Europe's
sceptre.  [Footnote 6] In 1810 the writer of "_Corinne_" became the
guest of Mathieu de Montmorency, near Blois, and within the prescribed
distance from Paris. In the château of Catherine de Medici she
collected round her a few friends, who were fearless of annoyance and
exile. But her work on Germany abounded with allusions to the imperial
police. The whole edition of ten thousand copies was seized, and she
received an order from the Duc de Rovigo to return immediately to
Switzerland Madame Récamier, faithful and courageous, followed her,
though timid advisers prophesied that no good would come of such
imprudence. She stayed there only a day and a half, and then pursued
her way in haste to Paris. But the sentence of exile had already gone
forth against her. The calm and religious Duke Mathieu had just before
expiated in like manner the crime of visiting the illustrious exile.
Her book on Germany did not contain a line directly against the
emperor; but it was enough that the authoress's heart beat with the
pulses of rational freedom, and the Corsican's tyranny became minute
in proportion to the territory over which it spread. Thus the ladies,
who so loved each other, were not only exiled, but separated. Rivers
rolled and Alps rose between them; lest, perchance, they should
combine their elegant and harmless pursuits.

  [Footnote 6: "_Comtesse d'Albany_," par M. St. Réne Taillandier, p.

The limits allowed us in this article do not admit of our tracing the
events of Madame Récamier's life in strict chronological order, and
bringing out by degrees the character and history of her several
friends. Each of them in turn will lead us away from the main thread
of our story, and we hope that our readers will follow us with
indulgence when we are obliged to take it up again rather awkwardly.
We cannot do otherwise than mass together many things which had better
be kept apart.

One day, in the autumn of 1806, Monsieur Récamier brought some dismal
news to Clichy. The financial condition of Spain and her colonies,
combined with other untoward events, had placed his bank in such
jeopardy that, unless the government could be induced to advance him
£40,000 on good security, he must stop payment within two days. A
large party had been invited to dinner; and the hostess, suppressing
her emotions with extraordinary self-command, did the honors of her
house in a manner calculated to obviate alarm. It was a golden
opportunity for imperial vengeance, and it was not lost. All aid from
the Bank of France was {86} refused, and the much-envied Maison
Récamier was made over, with all its liabilities, to the hands of its
creditors. So cruel a reverse was enough to try the fortitude of the
most Christian. Nor was Madame Récamier found wanting in that heroic
quality. Indeed, there are few women who, taken all in all, would
serve better to enforce Eliza Famham's ingenious arguments for the
superiority of her sex.  [Footnote 7] While her husband's spirit was
almost broken under the blow, she calmly, if not cheerfully, sold her
last jewel, and occupied a small apartment on the ground floor of her
splendid mansion. The rest of the house was let to Prince Pignatelli,
and ultimately sold. The French have their faults--great faults; what
nation has not?--but let us do them the justice to say that in their
friendships they are faithful. The poor wife of the ruined banker was
as much honored and courted by them in her adversity as she had been
when surrounded with every luxury and every facility for hospitable
entertainments. Let those who would form an idea of the sympathy
expressed by her friends read that touching letter of Madame de Staël
which Chateaubriand has preserved.  [Footnote 8] The opulent and gay,
the learned, the brilliant, the serious, came in troops to that garden
of the hotel in the Rue du Mont Blanc, where the unsullied and queenly
rose was bending beneath the storm. The jealous emperor, at the head
of his legions in Germany, heard of the interest she excited; for
Junot, just returned from Paris, could not refrain from reporting at
length what he had seen. But Napoleon interrupted him with impatience,
saying, "The widow of a field-marshal of France, killed on the
battle-plain, would not receive such honors!" And why should she? Is
there no virtue but that of valor? Are there no conquests but those of
the sword?

  [Footnote 7: "Woman and Her Era." 2 vols. New York.]

  [Footnote 8: In the "_Mémoires d'Outre-Tombe._"]

The trial which Juliette bore so patiently was fatal to her mother.
Madame Bernard's health had long been declining; laid on a couch, and
elegantly attired, she received visits daily; but her strength gave
way altogether when her daughter fell from her high estate. She little
knew that Madame Récamier was on the very point of having a royal
prince for her suitor. Only three months after the failure of the bank
Madame Bernard passed away, deeply lamented by her loving daughter,
whom filial piety made blind or indulgent to her imperfections.

Prince Augustus of Prussia was a nephew of Frederick the Great.
Chivalrous, brave, and handsome, he united very ardent feelings with
candor, loyalty, and love, of his country. He had, in October, 1806,
been made prisoner at the battle of Saalfeld, where his brother,
Prince Louis, had fallen fighting at his side. The mourning he still
wore added to his dignity, and the society and scenery in the midst of
which Madame Récamier first met him, deepened the charm of his
presence and devoted attentions.

It was in 1807, on the banks of the lake of Geneva, hallowed to the
thoughtful mind by so many historic associations, and encircled by all
the gorgeous loveliness of which nature is so lavish in the valleys of
the Alps. There in the château of Madame de Staël, Juliette listened
during three months to his earnest conversation, and heard him propose
that she should be his bride. Her marriage with M. Récamier presented
no real difficulty; it was a civil marriage only; the peculiar case
was one in which the Catholic Church admits of declaration of nullity;
and for which, in Protestant Germany, legal divorce could very easily
be obtained. Madame de Staël's imagination was kindled by this
romantic incident, and she did not fail to second the prince's suit.
Juliette herself was fully alive to the honors that were proposed her.
It was no impoverished refugee that sought her hand. Though a prisoner
{87} for the moment, he would, doubtless, soon be set at liberty, and
he was as proud as any of his exalted rank. Yielding, therefore, to
the sentiments he inspired, Madame Récamier wrote to her husband to
ask his consent to a separation. This he could not refuse; but, while
granting it, he seems to have appealed to her feelings with a degree
of earnestness which profoundly touched her heart. He had, he said,
been her friend from childhood; and, if she must form another union,
he trusted it would not take place in Paris, nor even in France. His
letter turned the current of her desires. She thought of his long
kindness, his age, his misfortune, and resolved not to abandon him.
Religious considerations may also have weighed with her, for Prince
Augustus did not hold the true faith. He had, moreover, two natural
daughters, the countesses of Waldenburg, and this circumstance also
may have indisposed her to the match.  [Footnote 9] He had, as she
once said, many fancies. Would a morganatic marriage bind his
wandering heart, or could she endure the pain of being expatriated for
ever? They parted without any definite engagement, but he repaired to
Berlin to obtain his family's consent. Madame Récamier returned to
Paris; and, though she declined the honor of his hand on the ground of
her responding imperfectly to his affection, she sent him her
portrait, which he treasured till the day of his death. A ring which
she also gave him was buried with him, and they never ceased while on
earth to correspond in terms of the warmest friendship. In 1815 the
prince entered Paris with the victorious legions of allied Europe,
having written to his friend from every city that he entered; and in
1825 they had their last interview in the Abbaye-aux-Bois.

  [Footnote 9: "Madame Récamier," by Madame M----]

We must now follow her into exile. It was in the latter part of 1811
that she took up her abode in the dreary town of Châlons-sur-Marne,
which happened to be just as far from Paris as she was required to
live, and no further. The prefect was an amiable man, and retained his
post during forty years, enjoying the confidence of each government in
succession. But that which alleviated most the dulness of Châlons was
its neighborhood to many beloved friends, particularly Montmorency. In
June, 1812, however, she quitted it for Lyons, being unwilling to
compromise those who were most ready to console her in exile. Many a
château round had claimed the happiness of entertaining her; but to be
kind to those who are suspected is always to draw suspicion on one's
self. Renouncing many delights within her reach, she had sought one of
the purest in playing the organ in the parish church, both during the
week and on Sundays at high mass and vespers. She did the same at
Albano during her stay there in the ensuing year.

Italy, and above all Rome, attracts sooner or later whatever is most
cultivated in mind and taste. Thither, in 1813, Madame Récamier turned
her steps. She was attended by her niece and her maid. Montmorency
accompanied her as far as Chambery, and her carriage was well supplied
with books, which M. Ballanche had selected to beguile the tedium of
the way. This gentleman was the son of a printer at Lyons, and his
genius became his fortune. His prose writings were considered a model
of style, and ultimately obtained him a place in the French Academy.
Neglecting subjects of the day, he uniformly indulged his fondness for
abstract speculation, and in several works ingeniously set forth his
ideas on the progress of mankind through alternate periods of revival
and decay.  [Footnote 10] He was profoundly Christian at heart, but
coupled his belief in the fall and redemption with peculiar notions
respecting human perfectibility.

  [Footnote 10: "_Institutions Sociales,_" 1818. "_Palingénésis
  Sociale._" 1830]

{88} His mind was dreamy, his system mystical, but he realized
intensely the existence of things unseen, and declared that "he was
more sure of the next world than of this present." He mistrusted,
indeed, the reality of material phenomena, and rested in the thought
of two, and two only, luminously self-evident beings, himself and his
creator. But genius is a dangerous gift to the student of theology,
and perhaps Ballanche would have been more sound if he had been less
clever. From the moment he saw Madame Récamier, he became ardently
attached to her society. Her praise was his richest reward, and the
prospect of reading his essays and poems to her more than doubled the
pleasure of composing them. The first time he conversed with her a
curious incident occurred. After getting over the difficulty he
experienced in talking on ordinary topics, he had risen to a higher
strain, and expatiated in glowing language on philosophical and
literary subjects, till Madame Récamier, who had for some time been
much incommoded by the smell of the detestable blacking with which his
shoes had been cleaned, was obliged to tell him timidly that she
really could not bear it any longer. M. Ballanche apologized humbly,
left the room, and, returning a minute later without his shoes, took
up the conversation where he had dropped it, and was soon in the
clouds again. But his shoes were not his only drawback. He was
hideously ugly, and that by a cruel mishap. A charlatan, like the one
who practiced upon Scarron, had prescribed such violent remedies for
his headaches that his jaw had become carious, and a part of it was
removed by trepanning. A terrible inroad was made on one of his cheeks
by this operation; but his magnificent eyes and lofty forehead
redeemed his uncomely traits, and amid all his awkwardness and
timidity his friends always discerned an expression of tenderness and
often a kind of inspiration breathing from his face. Madame Récamier's
talents were of a high order, for she could appreciate those of
others. She soon forgot Ballanche's shoes, forgot his ungainly
movements and ghastly deformity, and fixed her gaze on that inner man
which was all nobility and gentleness, glowing with poetry, and
steeped in the dews of Hermon. Let us leave him now at Lyons; we shall
meet him again before long.

There was a vast and dreary city toward the south of Italy which had
once been called Rome. It was now the capital of the department of the
Tiber. Without the Caesars or the Pope, it was Rome no more. No
foreigners thronged its streets and fanes, its prelates were
scattered, and its scanty inhabitants looked sullenly on the Frank
soldiers who turned its palaces and sanctuaries into barracks. Hither
came Madame Récamier, and her apartment in the Corso was soon hailed
as an oasis in the wilderness. All the strangers in the deserted
capital, and many of the Romans, paid their court to this queen of
society; and Canova, one of the few stars left in the twilight,
visited her every evening, and wrote to her every morning. He
chiselled her bust as no hand but his could chisel it, and seized
ideal beauty while copying what was before him. He called it
"Beatrice," and it was worthy of the name. Ballanche, too, came all
the way from Lyons to visit the universal favorite. He travelled night
and day, and could remain at Rome only one week. The very evening of
his arrival Madame Récamier began to do the honors of the Eternal
City. Three carriages full of friends drove from her house to St.
Peter's and the Coliseum, where they all alighted. Ballanche moved
solemnly, with his hands beside him, overpowered by the grandeur of
all around. On a sudden his _parfaite amie_ looked back. He was not
without his shoes this time, but without his hat. "M. Ballanche," she
said, "where is your hat?" "Ah!" replied the philosopher, "I have left
it at Alexandria." And so it was--so {89} little did his thoughts
dwell on external life.

From  Rome the travellers proceeded to Naples. A cordial welcome
awaited Madame Récamier from Caroline Bonaparte, whom she had known of
old. A page from the royal palace brought her a magnificent basket of
fruit and flowers immediately on her arrival, and she soon became the
confidante of both king and queen. Joachim Murat sat on a usurped
throne, and was reaping the bitter fruits of a false position. Duty
bound him to Napoleon, interest to the allies. First he was perfidious
to his master, next to his colleagues. One day he entered his wife's
saloon in great agitation, and finding Madame Récamier, avowed to her
that he had signed the coalition. He then asked her opinion of his
act, taking it for granted that it would be favorable. But, though not
an imperialist, she was a Frenchwoman. "Sire!" she replied, "you are
French, and to France you should be faithful." Murat turned pale. "I
am a traitor then," he exclaimed, and, opening the window in haste,
pointed to the British fleet sailing into the bay. Then burying his
face in his hands, he sunk upon a sofa and wept. The year after,
faithless alike to Europe and to the empire, a tempest cast him on the
shore of Pizzo, and he was taken and shot like a brigand.

A dense crowd was collected in the Piazza del Popolo to see the entry
of Pius VII., after the Apollyon of kingdoms had been sent to Elba.
The Roman nobles and gentleman headed the procession, and their sons
drew the pontiff's carriage. In it he knelt, with his hair unsilvered
by age, and his fine face expressing deep humility. His hand was
extended to bless his people, but his head bowed before the almighty
disposer of human events. It was the triumph of a confessor rather
than of a sovereign--of a principle, not of a person. Never did such a
rain of tears fall on the marble paving at St. Peter's as when at last
he traversed the church and prostrated himself before the altar over
the tomb of the apostles. Then the _Te Deum_ rose and echoed through
those gorgeous arches, and Madame Récamier was not insensible to the
affecting scene. Before leaving Rome the second time, she paid a
farewell visit to General Miollis, who had commanded the French
forces. He was extremely touched by this civility, and received her in
a villa he had bought, and which still bears his name. He was quite
alone, with an old soldier for his servant. She was, he said, the only
person who had called upon him since he had ceased to govern Rome.

After three years' absence she returned to Paris, and, still radiant
with beauty and overflowing with gladness, resumed her undisputed
empire over polite society. Her husband had regained his lost ground,
and was again a prosperous banker, while she possessed in her own
right a fortune inherited from her mother. The restoration of Louis
XVIII. had changed the face of her salon and of society in general.
Her friends were once more in power, and those who had vexed her and
them were banished or forgotten. The Duke of Wellington often visited
her, and she presented him to Queen Hortense. He shocked her, however,
after the battle of Waterloo, by saying of Napoleon, "I have well
beaten him!" She had no love for the ex-emperor; but France was her
country, and she could not exult over its defeat. Her niece declares
that Wellington was not free from intoxication with his success, and
that nothing but the indignant murmurs of the pit prevented him from
entering the royal box with his aides-de-camp.  [Footnote 11] Madame
de Staël died in 1817, and her friend, Mathieu de Montmorency,
gathered up with piety and hope every indication of a religious spirit
which she had left behind. She never raised her eyes to heaven without
thinking of him, and she believed that {90} in his prayers his spirit
answered hers.  [Footnote 12] Prayer, she wrote, was the bond which
united all religious beings in one, and the life of the soul. Sin and
suffering were inseparable, and she had never done wrong without
falling into trouble. During the long sleepless nights of her last
illness she repeated constantly the Lord's prayer to calm her mind,
and she learned to enjoy the "Imitation of Jesus Christ."

  [Footnote 11: "_Souvenirs de Madame Récamier_," vol. i., p.268.]

  [Footnote 12: "_Dix années d'Exil._" ]

The void she left in Madame Récamier's circle was filled by one whose
writings were, the talk and admiration of Europe. This was
Chateaubriand. Professor Robertson has lately brought him very
agreeably to our remembrance in his able and interesting lectures on
modern history. The Duc de Noailles, that contemporary, as he has been
called, of Louis XIV., pronounced his eulogy when taking his place in
the French Academy, and he has left us his biography in the most
charming form in which that of any one can be read, viz., written by
himself. The portrait a man draws of himself in writing rarely
deceives; for the very attempt to falsify would betray the real
character. Chateaubriand's vanity escapes him in his memoirs as
frequently as it did in his conversation, yet there cannot be a doubt
that he had great qualities, and has built himself an enduring name.
That extreme refinement of thought which is inseparable from genius
makes him difficult to appreciate, and the phases of society through
which he passed were so conflicting as to be fatal to the consistency
of almost all public men. Yet he was on the whole faithful through
life to his first principles. At one time he defended monarchy, at
another freedom, pleading most eloquently for that which for the
moment seemed most in danger. He knew the value of their mutual
support, and, like all who move on a double line, he was often
misunderstood. Born of an ancient and noble family, he chose at the
same time the profession of arts and arms. The popular excesses of
1791 drove him from Paris, and he embarked for America. There, in the
immense forests and savannas of Canada and the Floridas, often living
among savages, he stored up materials for his early romances, and
acquired that grandeur and depth of coloring in descriptions of
natural scenery for which he is so remarkable. He was near the
tropics, in the land of the fire-fly and hummingbird, when he heard of
the flight of Louis XVI. and his arrest at Varennes. Hastening back to
rejoin the standard of his royal master, he again took arms, and was
seriously wounded at the siege of Thionville. From Jersey he was
transported to London, where he lived in extreme want, taught French,
and translated for publishers. Here, too, he produced his first work,
which was tainted with the infidelity of the day. The death of his
pious mother recalled him to a better mind, and awakened in him a
train of thought which issued at length in the "_Génie du
Christianisme._" "_Atala_" and "René," likewise under the form of
romance, serving as episodes to his great work, avenged the cause of
religion, and powerfully aided in producing a reaction in favor of
Christianity. The First Consul hailed the rising star, and attached
him as secretary to Cardinal Fesch's embassy at Rome. In 1804 he had
just been appointed to represent France in the republic of Valais,
when he heard of the odious execution of the Duc d'Enghien, and
immediately sent in his resignation. He could serve a ruler who had
brought order out of chaos, but not an assassin. From that day he
never ceased to be hostile to the empire. After wandering, as Ampère
did later, along the classic shores of Greece and the monuments of
Egypt, and kissing the footprints of his Redeemer on the mount of
Calvary, he returned to France, and in the Vallée-aux-Loups composed
his prose poem, the "Martyrs," in {91} which, as in "Fabiola" and
"Callista," the glowing imagery of pagan art is blended with the
ethical grandeur of the religion of Christ. A place was awarded him in
the French Academy, which he was not permitted to take till the
Bourbons were restored. Their return filled him with joy, and a
pamphlet he had written against Bonaparte was said by Louis XVIII. to
have been worth an army to his cause. On the escape of Napoleon from
Elba he accompanied the king to Ghent, and, on re-entering Paris, was
raised to the peerage and made minister of state. In 1816, having
published his "Monarchy according to the Charter," he lost the royal
favor and his honorary title. His work, however, continues to this day
"a textbook of French constitutional law."  [Footnote 13]

  [Footnote 13: Robertson's "Lectures," p. 291.]

Such was the statesman, apologist, philosopher, and poet who, in his
forty-ninth year, obtained an ascendancy over Madame Récamier's
imagination so complete that the religious Montmorency trembled, and
the thoughtful Ballanche dreamed some ill. They thought, too, that her
manners changed toward them, but she soon restored their confidence.
It would be vain, indeed, to deny that her regard for Chateaubriand
caused her many anxious thoughts and secret tears, particularly when,
after a few years, he neglected her for the din of political debate
and the society of beings less exalted and pure. But this estrangement
was only temporary, and both before it and after it, till he died, her
daily task was to soothe the irritability to which poets are said to
be especially subject; to amuse him herself, as Madame de Maintenon
amused Louis XIV.; and to surround him with those who, for her sake as
well as for his, labored for the same charitable end.

Another reverse befel her in 1819. M. Récamier fouled again, and
£4,000, which his wife had invested in his bank, went with the rest.
Trusting in the security of his position, she had shortly before
purchased a house in the Rue d'Anjou and furnished it handsomely.
There was a garden belonging to it, and an alley of linden-trees,
where Chateaubriand tells us he used to walk with Madame Récamier. But
the house and garden were sold, and the occupant removed to a small
apartment in the quaint old Abbaye-aux-Bois. She placed her husband
and M. Bernard with M. Bernard's aged friend in the neighborhood, and
dined with them, her niece, Ballanche, and Paul David every day. In
the evening she received company, and her cell soon became the
fashion, if not the rage. It was an incommodious room, with a brick
floor, on the third story. The staircase was irregular; and
Chateaubriand complains of being out of breath when he reached the
top. A piano, a harp, books, a portrait of Madame de Staël, and a view
of Coppet by moonlight, adorned it. Flower-pots stood in the windows;
and in the green garden beneath nuns and boarders were seen walking to
and fro. The top of an acacia rose to a level with the eye, tall
spires stood out against the sky, and the hills of Sèvres bounded the
distant horizon. The setting sun used to gild the picture and pierce
through the open casements. Birds nestled in the Venetian blinds, and
the hum of the great city scarce broke the silence.

Here Madame Récamier received every morning a note from Chateaubriand,
and here he came at three o'clock so regularly that the neighbors, it
is said, used to set their watches by his approach. Few persons were
allowed to meet him, for he was singular and exclusive; but, when
evening closed, the _élite_ of France and half the celebrities of
Europe found their way here by turns. The Duchess of Devonshire and
Sir Humphrey Davy, Maria Edgeworth, Humboldt, Villemain, Montalembert,
Alexis de Tocqueville, and Sainte-Beuve were frequent guests, and so
also was one who {92} deserves more special notice, Jean Jacques

It was on the 1st of January, 1820, that his illustrious father
presented him, then in his twentieth year, to the circle of friends
who met at the Abbaye-aux-Bois.  [Footnote 14] The enthusiasm with
which he spoke, the gentleness of his disposition, the nobility of his
sentiments, and the brilliancy of his talents, soon secured him a high
place in Madame Récamier's esteem. He attached himself to her with an
ardor that never cooled, and that appeared quite natural to the elder
guests who had long experienced her magical influence. During the
career of fame which he ran her counsels were his guide, and her
goodness his theme. However deep his studies, however distant his
wanderings, among the surges of the Categat or the pyramids of the
Pharaohs, his thoughts always reverted to her, and letters full of
respect and devotion proved how amiable was his character, how
observant and gifted his mind.

  [Footnote 14: _Le Correspondant_, Mai, 1864, p. 46.]

In November, 1823, he and the faithful Ballanche accompanied her to
Italy. Her niece, whom she treated as a daughter, was suffering from a
pulmonary complaint, and change was thought desirable for her.
Chateaubriand's visits had grown less frequent. A political rivalry
also had sprung up between her dearest friends, Chateaubriand having,
in December, 1822, accepted the office of minister of foreign affairs
vacant by the resignation of Mathieu de Montmorency. They disdained
alike riches and honors, but each was bent on the triumph of a
conviction, and on linking his name with a public act. Many thorns
beset her path in consequence of their disunion, and absence for a
time from France seemed to offer several advantages. She fully
possessed the confidence of Madame de Chateaubriand, and all who knew
the _capricieux immorel,_ as that lady called her husband, were of
opinion that by going to Italy she might avoid many occasions of
bitterness, and recall him to a calmer and nobler frame.

Nearly a month was passed in the journey from Paris to Rome. The
travellers paused in every town, and explored its monuments, churches,
and libraries. During the halt at midday, and again in the evening,
they talked over all they had seen, and read aloud by turns. Ballanche
and his young friend Ampère discussed questions of history and
philosophy, and Madame Récamier gave an air of elegance to an
apartment in the meanest inn. She had her own table-cloth to spread,
together with books and flowers; and her presence alone, so dignified,
so graceful, invested every place with the charm of poetry. Ballanche
and Ampère projected a guide-book, and thus the latter was
unconsciously laying up stores for that graphic "Histoire Romaine à
Rome,"  [Footnote 15] on which his reputation as an author mainly
rests. The year was just closing when they arrived in Rome. It was
here that he met Prince Louis Bonaparte, the present emperor, who was
then a boy, and here he had long and frequent conversations with
Prince Napoleon, his elder brother, while Queen Hortense, then called
the Duchess of Saint-Leu, was walking with Madame Récamier in the
Coliseum, or the campagna around the church of St. John Lateran or the
tomb of Cecilia Metella. Rome was then the asylum of the Bonapartes,
as it has ever been the home of the outcast and the consolation of the
wretched. The aspect was greatly changed since the former visit Pius
VII. had lately yielded up his saintly spirit to God, and Leo XII. sat
on his throne. The fêtes and ceremonies that attended his elevation
were all over except that of the pontifical blessing given from the
balcony of St Peter's. Madame Récamier took her place beside the
Duchess of Devonshire in joint sovereignty over society at Rome. {93}
The Duc de Laval, Montmorency's cousin, who was then the French
ambassador, placed his house, horses, and servants at her disposal,
and began or ended every evening with her. The duchess just mentioned
was in her sixty-fourth year, and preserved the traces of remarkable
beauty. Her eyes were full of fire, her skin was smooth and white. She
was tall, erect, queenly, and thin as an apparition. Her skeleton
hands and arms were like ivory, and she covered them with bracelets
and rings. Her manners were distinguished, and she seemed at the same
time very affectionate and rather sad.

  [Footnote 15: Published in the _Revue des Deux Mondes,_ 1866-67.]

The long friendship which subsisted between this English Protestant
lady and Cardinal Consalvi was not the least singular feature in her
history. Her intimacy with Adrien and Mathieu de Montmorency was such
that they always called her the _duchesse-cousine_, though they were
not related to her at all. The Duc de Laval, whom she had known in
England, writes thus of her to Madame Récamier, in May, 1823:

  "The duchess and I are agreed in admiring you. She possesses some of
  your qualities, and they have been the cause of her success though
  life. She is of all women the most attaching. She rules by
  gentleness, and is always obeyed. What she did in her youth in
  London, that she now recommences here. She has all Rome at her
  disposal--ministers, cardinals, painters, sculptors, society, all
  are at her feet."

Her days, however, were dwindling to a close, as were those also of
Cardinal Consalvi. Just seven months after the decease of Pius VII.
that eminent statesman followed him to the tomb. All Rome went to see
him laid in state--all except Madame Récamier, who, full of the sorrow
which the duchess would feel for his loss, and imagining that she
would only be pained by such idle curiosity, drove to the solitude of
the villa Borghese. On alighting from her carriage, she saw the tall
and elegant figure of the duchess in deep mourning, and looking the
picture of despair. To her astonishment the latter proposed that they
should go and see the lifeless cardinal. It was, indeed, a solemn
scene. The chaplains had retired for a brief space to dine, and the
public were excluded. The ladies only entered to take their last look
of human greatness. There he lay--the steady foe of the French
revolution and the imperial despot, the minister of two popes during
five-and-thirty years, the able and successful nuncio at the congress
of Vienna. There he lay in the sleep of death, with his purple round
him, and with his features still beautiful, calm, and severe.

Madame Récamier and her niece fell on their knees, praying fervently
for the departed, and still more so for the lonely friend beside them,
who had survived all the affections of her youth. She did not long
survive. In March, 1824, she expired after a few days' illness. No one
had been allowed to approach her till the last moment and for this
extraordinary exclusion different reasons are assigned. Madame
Récamier and the Duc de Laval believed that it was through fear lest
she should declare herself a Catholic. They were admitted just before
the vital spark was extinguished, and she died while they knelt beside
her, and Madame Récamier held her wan hand, and bathed it with tears.
After again visiting Naples, after excursions round the gulf, and
reading as she went the glowing descriptions of Chateaubriand and de
Staël, while the ardent Ampère and the meditative Ballanche supplied
their living comments, Madame Récamier returned to spend her second
winter in Rome, and enjoy the society of the Duc de Noailles and
Madame Swetchine. The duke was in his twenty-third year, and she used
to say that he was the last and youngest of those whom she called her
real friends. His subsequent history of Madame de Maintenon proves how
just a claim he had to be so regarded.


Madame Swetchine, when she arrived in Rome, was imbued with some
prejudices against Madame Récamier, but they vanished at the first
interview, and the love that sprang up between them was of the holiest

  "I feel the want of you (she wrote in 1825) as if we had passed a
  long time together, as if we had old associations in common. How
  strange that I should feel so impoverished by losing what a short
  time since I did not possess! Surely there is something of eternity
  in certain emotions. There are souls--and I think yours and mine are
  among the number--which no sooner come in contact with each other
  than they throw off the conditions of their mortal existence, and
  obey the laws of a higher and better world."

After an absence of eighteen months, Madame Récamier returned to
Paris. It was in May, 1825. Charles X. was being consecrated at
Rheims, and both Chateaubriand and Montmorency were there for the
ceremony. When the former received a line to inform him that the cell
in the Abbaye was again occupied, he lost no time in paying his usual
visit at the same hour as before. Madame Récamier's residence in Italy
had produced the desired effect on him. His fitful mood was over. Not
a word of explanation or reproach was heard, and from that day to his
death, twenty-three years later, the purest and most perfect harmony
existed between them. He had again fallen from power, and had been
rudely dismissed. His only crime had been silence. He would not
advocate the reduction of interest on the public debt, which appeared
to him an act of injustice. How many would be half ruined by the
change from five to three per cent! He abstained from voting. De
Villèle was incensed, and a heartless note informed one of the
greatest men in France that his services were no longer needed. By a
strange mishap he did not receive it at the right time, went to the
Tuileries, attended a levee, and was going to take his place at a
cabinet council, when he was told that he was no longer admissible. He
had ordered his carriage for a later hour, and was now obliged to walk
back in his full court robes through the streets of Paris. He long and
bitterly remembered this ungenerous treatment. In his opposition to
the Villèle ministry he displayed prodigious talent; and in January,
1828, it gave place to that of Martignae, and he was himself appointed
ambassador at Rome.

Among the letters he wrote during his embassy, there is one very brief
and touching, addressed to the little Greek Canaris, then educated in
Paris by the Hellenic committee. The emancipation of the Christians of
the East, whether Catholic or schismatic, was an object dear to
Chateaubriand's heart, as well as to the royalists in general. The
question was not embarrassed by those false views of freedom which
make many who love it afraid to speak its praise lest they should seem
to countenance its abuse. "My dear Canaris," he says, "I ought to have
written to you long ago. Pardon me, for I am full of business. My
advice to you is this: Love Madame Récamier. Never forget that you
were born in Greece, and that my country has shed its blood for the
freedom of yours. Above all, be a good Christian; that is, an honest
man submitting to the will of God. Thus, my dear little friend, you
will keep your name on the list of those famous Greeks of yore where
your illustrious father has already inscribed it. I embrace
you.--Chateaubriand." How delighted must the young Athenian have been
to carry this note to the Abbaye-aux-Bois the next time he went to
visit Madame Récamier, as he did on almost every holiday!

We have already spoken of Mathieu de Montmorency's singular death.
Madame Récamier was one of the first to hear of it. She hastened to
sit beside the corpse of her revered friend, and mingled her tears
with those of his mother and widow. The {95} latter, who had always
been attached to her, now became her intimate companion, and, when she
came to Paris, stayed at the Abbaye expressly to be near her. Even
Chateaubriand, who had been Montmorency's political rival, joined the
train of mourners, and composed a prayer on the occasion for Madame
Récamier's use. It is somewhat inflated, and breathes the language of
a poet rather than of a Christian. It ends thus: "O miracle of
goodness! I shall find again in thy bosom the virtuous friend I have
lost! Through thee and in thee I shall love him anew, and my entire
spirit will once more be united to that of my friend. Then our divine
attachment will be shared through eternity." These expressions are
overstrained; but they illustrate the character of Madame Récamier's
affection for her male friends. Of these Chateaubriand became
henceforward the chief, and his letters to her from Rome, together
with his subsequent intercourse with her in Paris, form the most
important part of her remaining history. Everything was summed up in
him,--diplomacy, politics, literature: he was to her, and not to her
only, their chief representative. His correspondence, as preserved by
her niece, is sparkling and pointed, full of incident, and especially
interesting to those who remember Rome during the last years of Leo
XII. and the pontificate of Pius VIII. Three letters a week reached
her while his embassy lasted, and he has inserted several of them in
his "_Mémoires_," though not without dressing them up a little for
posterity. Veneration and regard for her is their key-note. _Mille
tendres hommages_, he writes. _Que je suis heureux de vous aimer!_ But
French politeness always sounds strange and fulsome when dissected in
English. In May, 1829, he obtained leave to return to Paris for a
time, and he was welcomed at the Abbaye by numerous admirers. There he
read aloud his "_Moise,_" in the presence of Cousin, Villemain,
Lamartine, Mérimée, and a host of _literati_ beside. There he
expressed all his fears for the ancient dynasty under the guidance of
Prince Polignac. He had no personal feeling for the minister, save
that of friendship. But he could discern the signs of the times. He
sought an audience of the king, to warn him of the reefs on which he
was being steered; but he was no favorite with Charles X., and his
request was refused. Yet he might, if his counsels had been listened
to, have saved his master from exile and France from the revolution of
July. The crown was in his idea above all things except the law. He
would neither abandon the charter for the king, nor the king for the
charter. The ordinances of July were subversive of the constitution,
but the moment they were recalled he was on the monarch's side.

It was too late to stem the tide of insurrection. A ducal democrat was
called to the throne. His partisans and those of the dethroned
sovereign did not usually mix in society; but the salon in the Abbaye
was an exception to every rule. There and at Dieppe, in the bathing
season, the royalists Grenarde and Chateaubriand constantly met
Ballanche, Ampère, Lacordaire, and Villemain, who welcomed the new
regime. Madame Récamier, with admirable tact, kept them in social
harmony, and her efforts in this direction were the more praiseworthy
because she was not indifferent to their respective bias. She had
always loved the old dynasty, both because of its hereditary rights
and the glorious associations attached to it in history. She lamented
the shortsightedness of the Polignac ministry; but she lamented still
more the accession of Louis Philippe, which drove the greater part of
her friends into the obscurity of private life.

In April, 1830, her husband died. He was then in his eightieth year,
and during his last illness was removed to the Abbaye, that he might
be surrounded by every sort of attention. In taste, character, and
understanding he differed from Madame Récamier {96} as widely as
possible. They had but one quality in common: each was good and kind.
Notwithstanding the singularity of their tie, they lived together
thirty-five years without any disagreement. M. Bernard and his old
friend Simonard were also gone. Madame Lenormant was married, and
though the family circle that used to dine at the Abbaye was no more,
some faithful friends, such as Ballanche and Paul David, met daily at
the widow's hospitable board. The former of these was especially
disappointed by the fall of the elder Bourbon branch. He had hoped to
see its alliance with that moral, political, and social progress which
was the dream of his existence. Elective monarchy now seemed to hold
out better prospects of his _palingénésie sociale_.

The attitude assumed by Chateaubriand at this period was such as to
command general respect. He attempted, but in vain, to procure the
recognition of Henry V., and to place his rights under the protection
of the Duke of Orleans. Then, declining to take the oath of allegiance
to Louis Philippe, he retired from the peerage, and gave up his
pension. The friends, however, from whom he differed were delighted to
perceive that his cordiality with them in private was in no degree
lessened. But there was a circle within the circle that frequented the
Abbaye, and it was in 1832 that the Duc de Noailles became enrolled
among the select few. This was owing in part to the sympathy which
existed between him and Chateaubriand, and the high estimate which the
latter formed of his judgment. Neither was he so dazzled by the future
of society as to forget or despise its past. Both found in the history
of the kings of France the sources of all subsequent improvement. The
Duc de Noailles did not come alone to the Abbaye. His regard for
Madame Récamier was such that he brought with him every member of his
family whom he thought most worthy of her acquaintance, and invited
her in turn and her friends to grace with their presence the fair
domain of Maintenon. Here, surrounded by souvenirs of Louis XIV.,
Chateaubriand took notes for a chapter in his "Memoirs," which was not
inserted, but given in manuscript to Madame Récamier. It fills
seventeen pages, and forms one of the most striking parts of the
volume under review. The writer recalls the delicious gardens he has
visited in Greece, Ithaca, Grenada, Rome, and the East, and compares
them with the surroundings of the château of Maintenon. He touches on
many salient points in the history of that remarkable lady who bought
it in 1675, and whose corpse had, in his own day, been dragged round
the sacred enclosure of St. Cyr with a halter round the neck. He then
passes to the night spent in the château by Charles X., when the king,
driven from the seat of government, dismissed his Swiss Guards, and
placed himself almost in the condition of a prisoner. It was in Madame
Récamier's drawing-room that the auto-biography for which this
description was intended was first published, and that in the way so
fashionable among the ancient Romans and still common in France--by
the author's reading it aloud to an assembly of friends. Thus Statius
read his "Thebais,"  [Footnote 16] thus Alfieri his tragedies, at
Rome. The readings of the "_Mémoires d'outre Tombe_" spread over two
years, and his fame extended so fast that it was difficult to find
room for those who craved admittance. Publishers, also, were eager to
purchase the manuscript, to be printed at the writer's death; and some
royalist friends availed themselves of this circumstance to obtain for
him a pension for life. The excitement attending the recitals relieved
his ennui, and literary labor helped to pay his debts. The work
itself, though intensely interesting to all who heard it and felt
personally interested in the events it recorded, is too lengthy,
detailed, peevish, {97} and egotistic to add much to Chateaubriand's
fame. Any theme he handled was sure to call forth eloquence and
genius; but himself was the very worst subject he could choose,--the
worst, not, perhaps, for the entertainment of his readers, but for the
reputation of the writer.

  [Footnote 16: Juvenal, Sat. VII., 82-86.]

In October, 1836, Louis Napoleon made his attempt at Strasburg, and
having been arrested, was brought to Paris for trial. His mother, the
ex-queen Hortense, fearing lest her presence there might only add to
his danger, paused at Viry, and allowed her devoted follower, Madame
Salvage, to proceed. This lady, relying on Madame Récamier's fidelity
to her friends, repaired immediately to the Abbaye, and, with a
portfolio of treasonable correspondence, sought an asylum there. On
the morrow, Madame Récamier visited the queen, or, to speak more
correctly, the Duchess of St. Leu, at Viry, and found her in extreme
distress. Her worst fears, indeed, were over. The prince's life was
spared, but, before his trial was concluded, he was shipped off to New
York. The prospect of thus losing him afflicted the duchess greatly,
for she had a mortal malady, and knew that her time on earth could not
be long. The next year, in fact, Louis Napoleon, informed of her
dangerous illness, hastened to Europe to see her once more. In 1840 he
again asserted, at Boulogne, his claim to the throne. He was tried by
the chamber of peers, and Madame Récamier, though she had been obliged
to appear and answer some questions before the _juge d'instruction_,
was not deterred by this annoyance from asking permission to visit the
prisoner. She saw him at the _Conciergerie_, not through attachment to
his cause, but for his departed mother's sake. Two years after, when
imprisoned in the fortress of Ham, he sent her his "_Fragmens
Historiques_." In writing to her, he said: "I have long wanted to
thank you, madam, for the kind visit you paid me in the
_Conciergerie_, and I am happy to have the opportunity now of
expressing my gratitude. . . . . You are so accustomed to delight
those who approach you, that you will not be surprised at the pleasure
I have felt in receiving a proof of your sympathy, and in learning
that you feel for my misfortunes." Enclosed in this letter was another
for Chateaubriand, much longer, and highly creditable to the prince's
talents and good taste. In it he declared his intention of beguiling
his prison hours by writing a history of Charlemagne as soon as he
should have collected the necessary materials. The prominent place
which that prince held in his thoughts is strikingly brought before us
in the preface to his "Julius Caesar." In 1848, when fortune smiled,
and he arrived in Paris already elected deputy, one of his first
visits was to the Abbaye-aux-Bois. It was just after the death of
Chateaubriand, and Madame Récamier had not the pleasure of seeing him.
In another year, she had entered into her rest, and he was far on the
turbulent way to an imperial throne.

We must not forget to mention among her friends one with whom we may
be excused for having more sympathy than with Napoleon III. This was
Frederic Ozanam. He was born in 1813, and was still a student, and in
his twentieth year, when first presented by Ampère to Madame Récamier.
Chateaubriand was much struck by him, and he was present at several
readings of the "_Mémoires_." But he came to the Abbaye rarely, and
when his friend Ampère asked him the reason, he replied:  "It is an
assembly of persons too illustrious for my obscurity. In seven years,
when I become professor, I will avail myself of the kindness shown
me." With rare modesty, the young man kept his word. In seven years,
and no less, he took his place in the renowned circle. His talents
were already appreciated, and though timid and all but awkward, his
conversation often {98} broke through the restraints of habit, and
swept along its shining course as if he were surrounded by his pupils
in the lecture-room. Every year added to his celebrity. His character,
his philosophy, his scholarship, were all Christian, and his
professional life was devoted to one end. He vindicated the moral and
literary attainments of the middle ages against modern
detractors--against those who mean by the dark ages the ages about
which they are in the dark. He traced in all his works the history of
letters in barbarous times, and showed how, through successive periods
of decadence and renaissance, the Church has ever been carrying
forward the civilization of mankind.  [Footnote 17] His publications
have been edited by friends of whom he was worthy--Lacordaire and
Ampère; and who would come to lay a votive wreath on Madame Récamier's
tomb, without having one also for the grave of Ozanam?

  [Footnote 17: "_La Civilisation au Ve Siècle_," etc.]

The winter of 1840-41 was a disastrous one for Lyons and its
neighborhood. The swollen waters of the Rhone and Saone rising,
overflowed their banks, and ravaged the surrounding country with
resistless violence. The government was not slow to relieve the
sufferers, and public as well as private charity poured in from every
quarter. Madame Récamier felt deeply for her native city, and resolved
on making an extraordinary to aid it in its distress. She organized a
_soirée_ to which persons were to be admitted by tickets. These were
sold at twenty francs each, but were generally paid tor at a higher
rate. Lady Byron gave a hundred for hers. Rachel recited _Esther;_
Garcia, Rubini, and Lablache sang; the Marquis de Vérac placed his
carriages at their disposal; and the Duc de Noailles supplied
refreshments, footmen, and his _maître d'hôtel_. The Russians residing
in Paris were especially active in disposing of tickets; Chateaubriand
from eight o'clock to the end of the _soirée_ did the honors of the
saloon by which the company entered. Reschid-Pacha sat on the steps of
the musician's platform, half buried beneath waves of silk and
flowers. The rooms were adorned with exquisite objects of art, and
4,390 francs were received and transmitted to the mayor of Lyons.
Sixty poor families were selected by the curés to receive this bounty;
Madame Récamier having requested that it might not be broken up into
petty sums. In the midst of the glittering throng that assembled in
the old Abbaye that evening, it is said that she eclipsed them all in
beauty and grace. This may appear fabulous to many, for she was then
in her sixty-third year; yet her niece would hardly assert it if it
had not been the general opinion.

In 1842, Madame Récamier had the satisfaction of seeing Ballanche take
his place in the French Academy. His friends, indeed, were more elated
on the occasion than the philosopher himself. Literary honors were
little in his eyes compared with the exertion of a moral and
philosophic influence. His passion for machinery had nearly ruined
him; and his generosity was always beyond his narrow means. Like
Socrates in the basket, he lived above the earth, and the trivial
concerns of daily life dried up the sap of his sublime speculations.
[Footnote 18] Chateaubriand used to call him the hierophant; for he
had a small sect of followers whom he initiated in his mysticism.

  [Footnote 18: Aristophanes. "The Clouds." ]

A cloud was gathering over his existence, and over the gladness of all
who frequented the Abbaye. Since the year 1839, Madame Récamier's
health had been growing feebler, and a cataract was perceived slowly
forming on her eyes. She bore the affliction with her usual calm, and
the fear of becoming less able to amuse Chateaubriand was her chief
distress. When her blindness became confirmed, her eyes were still
brilliant; and her ear being {99} fine, she knew all who approached
her by their voice. The valet took care to set everything in her
apartment in its fixed place, so that she could move about without
stumbling. In this way she often dissembled her loss of sight, and
many who visited her came away with the impression that she saw pretty
well. Long intercourse with Chateaubriand had made her habits as
methodical as his. He still came to her daily at half-past two. They
took tea together, and talked for an hour. Then the door opened to
visitors, and the good Ballanche was always the first. This would have
been mere dissipation, but for the more serious occupations of the
morning. She rose early, had the papers read to her rapidly, then the
choicest of new works, and afterward some standard author. Modern
literature had always been her delight; and it cheered her even in her
darkness. When she drove out, it was generally with some charitable
purpose; for the time was passed for paying other visits. Never, since
Montmorency had recommended it, did she forget to read or hear read,
daily some work of piety; and as age advanced and sorrow weighed more
heavily, she derived from the practice increasing solace and strength.

Now came what Ballanche called "the dispersion," from which afterward
he dated his letters. Prince Augustus of Prussia died in 1845, and
charged Humboldt to execute his last commands with regard to her whom
he had never ceased to respect and love. Her portrait, by Gerard,
which she had given him, and her letters, were returned when he could
no longer treasure them. His death affected her deeply; for other
flowers also were fading from life's garden, and the winter of age was
freezing everything but her affections. From Maintenon she passed into
Normandy with her niece and Ampère, who had just returned from Egypt,
weary and sick with travel. Wherever she went, the blind beauty of the
first empire wanted no one claim to respectful and devoted attention.
By the use of belladonna, she sometimes dilated the pupil, and
acquired for a few hours the sense of sight. In this way she saw and
admired Ary Scheffer's beautiful picture of St. Augustine, which he
brought from the exhibition to the Abbaye-aux-Bois, on purpose that
Chateaubriand and herself might inspect it. But such brief enjoyment
only made returning darkness more gloomy; and an operation offered the
best prospect of permanent relief. Meanwhile, Chateaubriand having
broken his collar-bone in stepping from his carriage, a delay
occurred. Madame Récamier would not deprive herself of the pleasure of
diverting him during his confinement to the house. Her friends often
assembled under his roof; and when he visited the Abbaye again, he was
always carried into the roam by two domestics. Indeed, he never walked
any more. Nor in her case did the operation for cataract succeed, for
the patient did not enjoy that composure which was indispensable for a
cure. Ballanche had been seized with pleurisy, and was dangerously
ill. The blind lady to whom he had so long been devoted, breaking
through all her surgeon's instructions, and braving the light she
should have shunned, crossed the street which separated her from the
dying man, and sat by his pillow to the last.

One who has often looked on death declares that she never saw it
present so grand a spectacle as in Ballanche. All his philosophy was
heightened into faith; all his poetry was wrapt into devotion.
Serenely trusting in the divine goodness, he realized intensely the
mysteries of the unseen world; and, with the holy viaticum on his
lips, quitted his earthly tabernacle with joy, whilst she who watched
at his side lost all hope of sight in her streaming tears. Ballanche's
mortal remains lie in the vault of the Récamier family; and his life
has been written by Ampère. He and Madame Récamier {100} together
selected the choicest passages from his works; and beneath the shade
of beech-trees, amid the calm of nature, her niece's daughters read
aloud to her Ballanche's long-treasured letters. She would scarcely
have survived her grief had not Chateaubriand's infirmities still
given a scope to her existence. Madame de Chateaubriand died in the
winter of 1846-7. She abounded in charitable works, and the poor loved
her name. The desolate widower proposed that Madame Récamier should
take her place. He pressed his suit, but she persisted in her refusal.
She thought the little variety caused by his daily visits to her
essential for his comfort; and that if she were always with him, he
would be less consoled. "What end," she asked, "could marriage answer?
At our age there is no service I may not reasonably render you. The
world allows the purity of our attachment; let it remain unaltered. If
we were younger, I would not hesitate a moment to become your wife,
and so consecrate my life to you."

A second operation was performed, with no better result than before.
The hope of being enabled to serve Chateaubriand more effectually
alone induced her to submit to it. His end was fast approaching, and
society itself seemed about to be dissolved. Without were contests;
within were fears. The revolution of February, 1848, undid the
revolution of July, 1830. The streets of the capital flowed with
blood, and the roar of cannon in the insurrection of June shook the
chamber of the expiring poet, and brought tears to his eyes. He heard
with keen interest of the death of Monseigneur Affre, the good
shepherd who gave his life for his sheep. The intrepid courage of that
glorious martyr lent fresh nerve to his jaded spirit; and though his
brilliant intellect had for some time past lost its lustre, his
thoughts were perfectly collected to the last. He was heard to mutter
to himself the words he had written in 1814: "No; I will never believe
that I write on the tomb of France." The chill waters of the river of
death could not extinguish the patriotism that burned in his breast.
The Abbé Guerry, his confessor and friend, stood near him with the
consolations of religion; his nephew, Louis de Chateaubriand, and the
superioress of the convent of Marie-Therése, which he and his wife had
founded. After receiving the blessed sacrament, he never spoke again;
but his eyes followed Madame Récamier with an expression of anguish
whenever she left the room. This was her crowning sorrow, that she
could not see the sufferer she sought to relieve. When the worst was
over, the calm of despair spread over her face, and a deathly
paleness, which nothing could remove. She gratefully assented to
everything which was proposed for her comfort; but her sad smile
proved how vain was the effort to restore her to gladness. Those
affectionate beings alone who live on friendship can comprehend the
extent of her desolation.

Chateaubriand's obsequies were performed in the church of the
_Missions étrangères_, where a large concourse assembled,
notwithstanding the city and the state were still in the agony of a
social crisis. But his ashes were transferred to his own Brittany,
where a solitary rock in the bay had long before been granted him by
the municipality of St. Malo, as a place of burial. More than 50,000
persons were present at this strange and solemn interment. They seemed
to represent France mourning his loss. The sea was covered with boats;
the roofs of the houses, and the shores beneath, were crowded with
spectators; banners floated from rock and tower; while mournful
canticles and booming cannon broke the stillness of the air. The
coffin was laid in a recess of the steep cliff, and surmounted by a
granite cross. Ampère was deputed by the French Academy to pronounce
his eulogy on the occasion; and he concluded his report to that body
in these {101} words: "It would seem that the genius of the
incomparable painter had been stamped on this last magnificent
spectacle; and that to him alone among men it had been given to add,
even after death, a splendid page to the immortal poem of his life."

On Easter day in the following year Madame Récamier was persuaded to
remove from the Abbaye-aux-Bois to the National Library, where her
niece and nephew resided. The cholera had broken out in the
neighborhood of the Abbaye; and though she did not fear death, she had
a peculiar horror of that dreadful pestilence. But her flight was
vain; the scourge pursued her, and fell with sadden violence on her
enfeebled frame. The day before, Ampère and Madame Salvage had dined
with her, and on the morning of her seizure her niece's daughter
Juliette had been reading to her the memoirs of Madame de Motteville.
During twelve hours she suffered extreme torture, but spoke with her
confessor, and received the sacrament of extreme unction. Continual
vomiting prevented the administration of the eucharist. Ampère, Paul
David, the Abbé de Cazalès, her relations and servants, knelt around
her bed to join in the prayers for the dying. Sobs and tears choked
their voices, and "Adieu, adieu, we shall meet again; we shall see
each other again," were the only words her agony allowed her to utter.

Madame Récamier breathed her last on the 11th of May, 1849. The
terrible epidemic, which generally leaves hideous traces behind,
spared her lifeless frame, and left it like a beautiful piece of
sculptured marble. Achille Devéria took a drawing of her as she lay in
her cold sleep, and his faithful sketch expresses at the same time
suffering and repose.

Such was the end of her who, without the prestige of authorship, was
regarded by her contemporaries as one of the most remarkable women of
her time. We will not indulge in any exaggerated statement of her
piety. Great numbers, no doubt, have attained to more interior
perfection. Her ambition to please was undoubtedly a weakness.
Religion did not make her what she was; yet she would never have been
what she was without it. It was the ballast which steadied her when
carrying crowded sail. It was the polar star that directed her course
amid conflicting currents and adverse storms. It raised her standard
of morality above that of many of her associates. It taught her how to
be devout without dissimulation, a patroness of letters without
pedantry, a patriot and a royalist without national disdain or
political animosity. It made her charitable to the poor, kind to the
aged and sorrowful, gracious and unassuming with all, at the very time
that the proudest of emperors invited her presence at his court, and
his brother Lucien made her the idol of his verse. Its golden thread
guided her aright through the intricate mazes of social life--through
a matrimonial position equally strange and unreal--an engagement to a
royal prince who was the foe of France--through friendships with
Bernadotte and Murat on their thrones, with the queens of Holland and
of Naples when fallen, and with the third Napoleon when plotting to
regain the sceptre of the first. It so lifted her above intrigue and
cabals that she could give her right hand to the disaffected General
Moreau and her left to the devoted Junot--could be made the confidante
of all parties without betraying the secrets of any. It inclined her
to be chary of giving advice, but to make it, when asked for, tell
always on the side of virtue. It enabled her to exhort the sceptical
with effect, and dispose the philosophic to accept the faith.
[Footnote 19]

  [Footnote 19: See her letters to Ampère in the _Correspondant_,

Her autobiography has unfortunately been destroyed by her own
direction, because blindness would not allow her to revise it and
cancel its {102} defects. But many fragments of it have been
preserved, and a thousand personal recollections, collected from those
who knew her, have been wrought by her niece and other biographers
into a lasting monument.


From The Fortnightly Review



I was gathering together some examples of the strange opinions held by
the Chinese as to "outer nations," when I fell upon a curious official
document, presented to the emperor by a great mandarin, who occupies a
very prominent place in the modern history of China, Keshen, once
viceroy of the two Kwang. His name brought immediately to my
recollection, by a very natural association, that of my old
acquaintance, Father Huc, whose contributions to our knowledge of
China, Tartary, and Tibet are among the most original authentic, and
instructive that we possess.

It is a matter much to be regretted that only a small part of Father
Huc's personal adventures has ever been communicated to the public. I
first met with him on one of the Chusan islands, dressed as a
Chinaman, and living in every particular as the natives live--his food
was rice--his drink was only tea. He was recognized as the director
and instructor of no less than five Catholic communities. I had heard
of the existence of professors of the Tien-choo (heavenly master)
religion, and, going some way into the interior, found the Lazzarist
doctor instructing the people. He had an extraordinary mastery of the
colloquial Chinese; spoke and wrote Manchoo, and was not unacquainted
with the Mongolian tongue. I enjoyed his company as a fellow
traveller, having given him a passage in a vessel which was at my
disposal, and I fell in with him in five different and distant parts
of China. I have no doubt of the general veracity of his narrative, of
his sincere love of truth--perhaps not wholly separated from a
certain credulity and fondness for the marvellous, with which, I have
observed, oriental travellers are not unfrequently imbued. It would be
interesting to learn how Father Huc got to Peking, lived for many
years in the city and its neighborhood, no one knowing or supposing
him to be a foreigner--what were the arrangements by which, departing
on his mission to Manchuria, he managed to escape from the
scrutinizing eye of the police, at a period, too, when the
determination to repel the intrusion of "barbarian strangers" was at
its height. Of his interviews with Keshen, after the discovery of the
objects of his journey, and the determination of the mandarin envoy to
drive him out of the country, he gives many interesting particulars in
his "Souvenirs," but he does not mention that Keshen, who had been
stripped at Peking of some millions sterling, the gatherings of
profits and peculations in the high offices he had filled, and who
managed to amass a considerable sum of money in Tibet, confided his
sayings in that country to the keeping of the Lazzarist missionary;
and at the very time when the decree was issued for his banishment,
Keshen obtained from him a promise that he would, when he passed into
the {103} territory of China, deliver over "the silver" to the parties
whom Keshen designated. Huc was a delightful companion; he had no
asperity; on the contrary, he was full of jokes and merriment.
Courageous, too, when in the presence of danger, his ready wit
furnished him with every appliance necessary to his safety and
protection. His familiarity with Chinese character was remarkable; he
knew when and where and how to domineer and command, where it was safe
to assume authority. In China, one of the common instruments of
government is to send from the court secret spies, whose persons are
unknown, and the object of whose mission is to report confidentially
to the emperor on the shortcomings or misdoings of the great
mandarins. It was often Huc's fortune to be thought one of these
mysterious but redoubtable visitants, and he turned the suspicion to
excellent account. The fact of his speaking Manchoo, and being well
acquainted with Tartar forms and usages, very naturally strengthened
the conclusion that it was most desirable to obtain his patronage and
favorable opinion in the confidential communications to be made to the
Tartar dynasty. No doubt many a functionary has trembled,
self-condemned, in the presence of the missionary, and has courted his
indulgent judgment by those attentions which are supposed to
conciliate. Bribes, large and attractive, representing the estimated
value of the service to be rendered, are constantly offered and
frequently received by the traveller who is believed to have the ear
of the supreme authority. I have heard that from twenty to thirty
thousand pounds sterling are sometimes collected in a district
circuit, the collection being made at the risk of either the bribed or
the briber, or of both, each being necessarily at the mercy of the
other in case of betrayal. But, at the same time, Father Huc possessed
all the arts of prostration and deference when the circumstances of
the case required them. There was, however, less of assumption in his
lowliness than in his loftiness; his was never "a pride that aped
humility." The acting was when he played the part of a ruler. He was
altogether a natural man--unobtrusive, but fluent in the presence of
those interested--and who could fail to be interested in his strange
adventures? He never recovered the free use of his limbs after he
returned to Europe; and died in France, leaving much undone--the doing
of which would have been most useful to his race.

One of the great grievances of which the Chinese complained, in the
time of the East India Company monopoly, and down to the Pottinger
war, was the "oozing out" of the silver in China for the payment of a
poisonous drug to the "outer barbarians." It was, however, then the
fact, as it is the fact now, that the poppy is widely cultivated, and
opium largely manufactured, by the Chinese themselves in several of
the provinces of the empire. It used to be the belief in China that
there alone was the pure metal produced, and that the coins brought
from afar would in process of time be converted, by natural process,
into base metal, or something worse. I recollect a person being
charged with stealing his master's money; he did not deny having had
the custody of the dollars, but swore they had been eaten by white
ants. Keshen was directed to give his opinion to the emperor as to the
quality of the silver brought to China by foreigners, and these are
his words:

"The foreign money brought from these outer nations is all boiled and
reduced by quicksilver. If you wrap it up and lay it aside for several
years without touching it, it will be turned into moths and corroding
insects, and the silver cups made from it by these strangers will
change into feathers."

After stating that the coins show their impurity when submitted to the
crucible, he adds:

"Yet we find that in Kiangnan and by the course of the river Hwac, and
{104} all along the rivers to the south, foreign dollars are used in
trade and circulated most abundantly; we even find them of more value
than Sycee silver; this is really what I cannot understand!" Truly it
passeth all understanding if the premises of the mandarin be correct.
Some one suggests that Keshen had read in our sacred book of our
treasures "that moth and rust do corrupt" (Matt. vi. 19), and of the
"riches" which "make to themselves wings and fly away" (Prov. xxiii.

As was said of old time, "An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth,"
so the Chinese still recognize the principle that the penalty to be
paid for crime need not be visited on the criminal himself, but that
the substitution of an innocent for a guilty person to bear the award
of the law may satisfy all the demands of justice. In the
embarrassments of the imperial treasury during the last war,
proclamations of the emperor frequently appeared in the _Peking
Gazette_, authorizing the commutation of the judicial sentences which
inflicted personal punishment by the payment of sums of money, to be
estimated according to the gravity of the offence, and the rank or
opulence of the offender. Men are to be found as candidates for the
scaffold when a large remuneration is offered for the sacrifice of
life--to such a sacrifice posthumous honor is frequently attached--a
family is rescued from poverty, and enters on the possession of
comparative wealth. The ordinary price paid for a man's life is a
hundred ounces of pure silver, of the value of about £33 sterling. In
the Buddhist code such an act of devotion and self-sacrifice ranks
very high in the scale of merits, and would ensure a splendid
recompense in the awards of the tribunal which is, after death, to
strike the balance of good and evil, when every individual's mortal
history is to be the subject of review.

Some illustrations may not be unwelcome. In the history of the
intercourse of the East India Company with the Chinese, it will be
found that the authorities were never satisfied with the averment that
the individual charged with offences could not be found; they always
insisted that some English subject could be found and delivered over
to the penalties of the law. They invariably took high ground;
asserted that the laws of China must be respected in China, and that
those laws provided a certain and always applicable punishment by
which the demands of justice might and ought to be satisfied. They
turned a deaf ear to the representation that, according to European
law, the individual who had committed a crime was the only proper
person to be punished for that crime, and considered it a sort of
"barbarian" notion that any crime should be passed over without being
followed by the appropriate penalty visiting somebody or other. The
theory fills the whole field of penal legislation. Households,
villages, and even districts are made responsible for offences
committed within their boundaries; and it is not unusual for high
functionaries to be called upon to suffer for misdeeds not their own,
which no vigilance could prevent and no sacrifices repair. There
ought, say the sages, to be no wrong without a remedy, no sin without
consequent suffering; and it is better that an innocent man should now
and then be sacrificed than that guilt should not necessarily and
inevitably be followed by penal consequences.

There is every reason to believe that on one occasion, to prevent the
stoppage of trade, which was the menaced consequence of non-obedience,
an innocent man was delivered over to the authorities (but not by the
British), and executed at Canton. During the administration of Sir
John Davis, six Englishmen were brutally murdered at Kwan Chuh Kei, a
small village on the Pearl river. The English government insisted on
the punishment of the murderers, and six men were publicly beheaded.
It is quite certain they had nothing to do with {105} the crime; they
were brought gagged to the place of execution, and English gentlemen,
under the instructions of the consul, witnessed the decapitation; but
everybody was satisfied that the criminals were allowed to escape, and
that guiltless men were beheaded in their stead; and Lord Palmerston
most properly directed that no British authority should be present at
such executions, lest their presence might be deemed to imply
approbation of the administration of justice in China.

It once occurred to me to have to make representations to the governor
of Kiangsoo in consequence of some Chinese troops having fired upon
the British settlement of Shanghai. No injury was done, but the act
was of a character which might have led to serious consequences. An
interview was asked, and, accompanied by the British admiral, I went
to the tent of the great mandarin. On being introduced, we found six
soldiers kneeling by his side. Close at hand was an executioner, and
we saw as we passed the huge heavy swords which are employed by him in
his wonted work. "It was quite right to complain," said the mandarin;
"it was quite fit those who had committed the outrage should be
visited with the punishment. Inquiries had been made, and it was very
likely the men present were guilty; at all events, they had been in
the neighborhood. Utter the word, and their heads shall fall at your
feet." We informed his excellency that such abrupt and sudden action
did not accord with our notions of justice, and we requested that the
men might be relieved of their terrors and released on the spot This
was done, and the governor, who was also the military
commander-in-chief, merely told the trembling soldiers that they owed
their lives to our clemency--a clemency they little anticipated from
"outside barbarians."

Baron Gros informed me that when the French embassy was going up the
Peiho--which, by the way, is not the real name of the river, and only
means a river in the north, by which the Tientsing stream is usually
designated in the south--an outrage was committed on a French sailor
by a Chinaman, who was arrested and condemned to death. A deputation
waited on the ambassador from the offender's native village, bringing
with them an old man whom they wished to be hanged instead of him who
had committed the offence. They represented that the condemned man was
young, that his mother was dependent upon his labor, and would have no
means of support if deprived of her son; that it would be very hard if
she were made the victim. And, moreover, it could make no difference
to his excellency (the minister) whether the old man or the young were
executed. The death of either would show that punishment would
assuredly follow injuries done to the subjects of "the great man's
nation." They were informed that European usages demanded that the
criminal should suffer for the crime. They returned next day to offer
"a better bargain" to the ambassador. They brought down two men to
suffer in expiation of the offence of one. Surely two Chinamen might
be accepted for the wrong committed upon the stranger. The mission, of
course, failed; the delegates departed sorely disappointed, and
greatly wondering at the strange notions which the "red-haired outer
men" had of what is right and what is wrong.

There is a Chinese aphorism, _Puh tá, puh chaou_ ("No blows, no
truth"), whose universal recognition will best illustrate the general
character of the administration of justice. Torture is not employed on
criminals alone in order to elicit confession, but constantly to
witnesses when their evidence does not suit the foregone conclusions
of the judge, who, in very many cases, is bribed beforehand, and
desirous that the statements made should be such as to warrant his
predetermined verdict. Truth is a virtue little appreciated among
Orientals, and especially among the Chinese. They are afraid {106} of
truth. It gives the authorities accurate information as to their
whereabouts which may involve them in difficulties. They do not know
what may have happened in a particular locality, and therefore prefer
saying where they were not than where they were, in order to avoid
compromising themselves by putting the _runners_ upon a true scent.
Then again, habits of mendacity and a constant disregard of truth lead
to inaccuracy of observation. I remember a case in which three sets of
witnesses gave three separate versions as to the time of the day on
which an important event had occurred--that it was in bright daylight;
that it was in utter darkness; that it was neither light nor dark; and
in that case I had reason to believe there was no intended perjury.
Against perjury there is really no protection but in the dread of
punishment. We tried in Hong Kong different usages which were expected
to give some security for obtaining the "truth, the whole truth, and
nothing but the truth." Cocks' heads were cut off by or in the
presence of the witnesses, and they pronounced denunciations and
consented to have their blood shed if there was falsehood in their
testimony. Sometimes an earthenware plate was broken, and the parties
offered themselves to be shattered and broken to bits as was the plate
if they did not tell the truth. Others favored the writing of an
aphorism of the sages on a piece of paper, burning it at a lamp, and
requiring the witness to swear that as he hoped not to be burned and
tormented he would say all that was true. But every experiment failed.
Oaths, however enforced, with whatever forms invested, were discovered
to be utterly worthless; and it was wisely decided that the penalties
of perjury should attach equally to the sworn and the unsworn man. It
occurred to me to consult a person of some eminence as to the
possibility of administering any form of an oath which would be held
binding. He said that there was one temple within the city which was
held sacred to truth, and that promises made and contracts entered
into within that particular sanctuary were deemed better guaranteed
than any other. But he said the place was inaccessible to Europeans;
and he thought that nothing but the dread of punishment for falsehood
gave any security, and even that security was most insufficient, for
the elucidation of truth.

A case, which it was my duty to investigate, connected with the
smuggling of British property, came before the chief judge at Canton.
I had come to a conclusion as to the guilt of certain parties, which
conclusion was different from that formed by the Chinese official. One
day several Chinamen were brought to me in a dreadfully mutilated
state--their faces and arms covered with wounds and bruises inflicted
by heavy blows of the bamboo. It appeared their evidence confirmed the
opinion I had formed, and was altogether opposed to the theory of the
mandarin, and they were bastinadoed until they declared that all they
had said was false, and their testimony was made to accord with the
views of the magistrate. Sentence was delayed; new and irresistible
evidence was brought forward--meanwhile, perhaps, the mandarin had
been bribed; but certain it is the witnesses were again summoned
before him. They were informed they must be punished for the _lies_
they had told while under torture; and I heard, but I did not see the
men a second time, that they were again beaten until they declared
that their first and not their last story was the true one; the
mandarin reporting that his early impressions had been removed on
further investigation.  [Footnote 20]

  [Footnote 20: The Emperor Paul, of Russia, once published a decree
  requiring that every one who passed in front of his palace should
  wear short breaches and silk stockings, under penalty of a flogging.
  In the cold weather people took care to avoid the neighborhood of
  the palace, and went to their business by various circumambulations.
  Being annoyed at the absence of the multitude, whom he was fond of
  looking at from the palace windows, he published a second edict, in
  which he ordered that any person wearing the before-enforced costume
  should receive the same sort of castigation. It was said that an
  unfortunate foreigner, who did not understand Russian--and had he
  understood it, might not have escaped the penalty--was flogged on
  two following days for disobeying the imperial mandate--for not
  wearing, and for wearing, the obligatory and the interdicted


I was once engaged in correspondence with the Taeping chiefs, while
they were in possession of Nanking. The fact that they had printed and
circulated a portion of the Old Testament in Chinese created a
wonderful interest in the religious world, while the belief that they
were banded together for the patriotic purpose of replacing an
intrusive and oppressive dynasty by a national and liberal government,
led to much sympathy even beyond the field of missionary action. I
sent a ship of war to Nanking in order to ascertain, by direct
intercourse with its traders, the exact character of the insurrection.
They put forward the most monstrous pretensions. One of the kings
called himself "The Holy Ghost, the Comforter"--the third person of
the Trinity; and demanded our recognition of his authority, advising
us that we knew his coming had been foretold in our own Scriptures.
Another claimed to be the "Uterine, younger brother of Jesus Christ;"
and gave an account of mutual invitations which had passed between
them; of the visits of the king to paradise, where his "heavenly
brother" had introduced him to his wives and family; and he reported
specially a personal intervention of Jesus, who came down to earth in
order to settle the number of stripes which were to be given to a
woman of the harem who had offended her master. Our people on landing
were called "ko-ko" (brothers) by the insurgents, who inquired whether
we had brought them tribute, and were willing to recognize the
universal authority of the celestial king. It was only on this
condition that they would allow us to obtain the coal we desired to
purchase for the use of the steamer--a condition of course not
complied with; so that the evidence of brotherhood was not of a very
complete or satisfactory character.

In a very elaborate communication which I received from the Taeping
sovereigns, they desired a personal description of "God the Father,"
that they might compare our notions of the Deity with their own--the
color of his hair, the size of his abdomen; and inquired particularly
whether we had any poetry--as they had--written with his own hand.
That there was, and is, in this extraordinary movement an element of
well-warranted discontent and resistance to the exactions, extortions,
and corruptions of the Manchoo authorities cannot be doubted; but,
strange to say, not a single man of mark, not one literary graduate,
not an individual either known to or possessing the confidence of the
higher or the middle classes, ever joined the rebellion. Lamentable as
is the general ignorance of the Chinese as to remote nations, the
ignorance exhibited by the Taepings was the grossest of all. It will
be no wonder that "the rebels," most of whom came from the interior of
China, and had never had any communication with western nations,
should display such a want of knowledge, when even books of authority
give such confirmation as will be found in a popular geography,
written by a man who had visited the Dutch archipelago, and on his
return gave to his countrymen the results of his observation and
experience:  [Footnote 21]

  [Footnote 21: Dr. Medhurst published a translation of this work of
  Wang Tac Lai, Shanghai, 1849.]

  "European countries are originally on the outside verge of
  civilization, and their being now assimilated to the villages of our
  inner land is entirely owing to the virtuous influences of our
  august government, which transforms these distant and unknown
  regions by the innate force of its own majesty."

European nations are thus described:

  "The Dutch share the sovereignty of Europe with the English, or
  'red-haired nation,' and the French.

  "The English nation is poor but powerful; and being situated at a
  most {108} important point, frequently attacks the others.

  "The Hollanders are like the man who stopped his ears while stealing
  a bell. Measuring them by the rules of reason, they scarcely possess
  one of the five cardinal virtues (which, according to the Chinese,
  are benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and truth). The
  great oppress the small, being overbearing and covetous. Thus they
  have no benevolence. Husbands and wives separate with permission to
  marry again; and before a man is dead a month his widow is permitted
  to go to another. Thus they have no rectitude. They are extravagant
  and self-indulgent in the extreme, and so bring themselves to the
  grave without speculating on having something to tranquillize and
  aid their posterity. Thus they have no wisdom. Of the single quality
  of sincerity, however, they possess a little.

  "The dispositions of the French are violent and boisterous. Their
  country is poor and contains but few merchants; hence they seldom
  come to Batavia. Whenever the Dutch are insulted by the English,
  they depend upon the French for assistance. The kingdom of France is
  large and the population numerous, so that the English are somewhat
  afraid of them.

  "The dependent countries of Europe are intermixed and connected
  without end. Some of the places can be visited by ships when they
  become a little known; and some are held in subjection by the Dutch,
  and governed by them. The rest live in hollow trees and caves of the
  earth, not knowing the use of fire, and wander about naked or in
  strange and uncouth attire. They cannot all be fully known, nor are
  there any means of inquiring about them. We have heard of such names
  as Tingli (English), Po-ge (Pegu?) Wotsie (Bussorah?), China (which
  is not supposed to mean the celestial empire); but have no
  opportunity of knowing anything of their manners and customs."

  He says of Mekka (Mohia) that "its walls are extremely high, and the
  whole ground splendid with silver and gold and beautiful gems,
  guarded by a hundred genii, so that the treasures, cannot be taken
  away. The true cultivators of virtue may ascend to Mekka and worship
  the real Buddha, when, after several years of fasting, they return
  and receive the title of Laou Keun--doctor; they can then bring down
  spirits, subdue monsters, drive away noxious influences, and defeat

He mentions a sea-dog on the loadstone sea (_tze-she-yang_), where
there are so many magnets, that if a vessel with iron nails gets into
the neighborhood it is inevitably absorbed. Hence, those who navigate
it employ only bamboo pegs. He reports the existence of a sea-horse
(_hai ma_) at Malacca, which comes out of the ocean in pursuit of a
mare. The horse has a fine black skin, a very long tail, and can
travel hundreds of miles a day; but when on shore, if he be allowed
only to see a river, off he goes to his native element; nothing can
control him. He describes a sea-mare attached to the rocks at the
bottom of the sea by a stalk from her navel many hundred yards long.
"When discovered," he, says, and this is no doubt true, "male and
female appear together, so that they are never solitary. The Dutch pay
the fishermen liberally for catching a sea-mare, but she never lives
after separation from her root. When caught, the Dutch, who are
'envious people,' put them into spirits, and preserve them." "I  never
saw," he says, "the flying head, but have heard of it, and that it
abounds in Amboyna, and resembles a native woman. Its eye has no
pupil, and it can see in the dark. It flies about; nothing but the
head enters houses and eats human entrails; but if it meet anything
sour it cannot open its eyes. Drops from a piece of linen sprinkled
upon it will be security against its mischief." He says there "is an
animal somewhat like a man, {109} but with a mouth from ear to ear.
Its loud laughs indicate a storm  its name is the _hai-ki-shang,_ or
sea priest; its appearance prognosticates evil."

He speaks of a race of men called _wei tan,_ "dwelling among the
hills, with ugly faces and tattooed bodies, who have tails five or six
inches long, at the end of which are several bristles, about an inch
or two in length. These savages frequently engage themselves as
sailors, and come to Batavia, but as soon as they are discovered, run
away and conceal themselves, and if examination be insisted on, they
change countenance and violently resist." He gives a description of
sundry European instruments; calls the telescope "a cunning invention
of supernatural agents." He recommends his countrymen not to believe
that the "large eggs" (no doubt ostriches) sometimes brought to China
are "mares' eggs," which he is sure they are not. He thinks there may
be fishes large enough to swallow ships, as he himself saw a mortar
capable of holding five pecks, which he was told was the vertebral
bone of a fish.

Of Manilla he gives a tolerably sensible account, having, as he says
himself, traded there. He adds: "Since the withdrawal of the English
there has been general tranquillity, peace, and joy in the regions
beyond sea. He humbly conceives this is due to the instruction
diffused by the sacred government of China, which overawes insulated
foreigners, soaking into their flesh, and moistening their marrow, so
that even the most distant submit themselves."

It is not an unusual practice for opulent Chinamen from the interior
to visit their friends at the ports opened to trade, and to seek
introductions to "the merchant outer people" who buy their silks,
teas, and rhubarb, and pay them dollars or opium in exchange. As
Chinese habits, Chinese costumes, and Chinese opinions are all moulded
to the same type--as all read the same language, study the same books,
and have done so for a hundred generations--the contrast between
European and Chinese life is startling. That a guest or visitor should
be placed on the right hand, shows that one of the first requirements
of courtesy is unknown or disregarded; that a lady with large feet
should by possibility be of "gentle birth," no Chinese woman of
quality dares to believe; that the magnetic needle should point to the
north, instead of the south, shows a strange unacquaintance with
elementary science; but, above all, that civilized and adjacent
nations should have written languages so imperfect that they cannot
read the letters on the books of their neighbors, is wholly
unintelligible to a Chinese literate. I remember showing a picture of
the Crystal Palace to a mandarin from the interior. He at first denied
that such a building could ever have been erected; he was sure it was
only a picture--a fancy; he had never seen anything like it at Peking.
Was it possible there should be an emperor out of China with so
beautiful a palace as this? He was told this was the palace built by
and for the people. This was quite sufficient to convince him that we
were practising upon his credulity; and though Chinese courtesy would
not allow him to call us liars, it was very clear he had come to the
conclusion that we were nothing better.

They have manufacturers of false noses in China, but none of false
teeth. There are practitioners who profess to cure the tooth-ache
instantaneously, and people worthy of credit have assured me they
succeed in doing so. The works of European dentists are among the most
admired examples of the skill of foreigners. A mandarin who was
anxious to learn something about the making of teeth, once produced to
me a box fall of artificial noses of various sizes and colors, with
which he supplied the defects of his own; he said he used one sort of
nose before and another after his meals, {110} and insisted that
Chinese ingenuity was greater than our own. What, in process of time,
will be the action of western civilization on the furthest eastern
regions--whether, and in what shape, we shall make returns for the
instruction our forefathers received from thence--is a curious and
interesting inquiry--more interesting from the vast extent of the
regions before us. The fire-engine is almost the only foreign
mechanical power which has been popularized in China. There is
scarcely a watch or clock maker in the whole empire, though opulent
men generally carry two watches. The rude Chinese agricultural and
manufacturing instruments have been nowhere supplanted by European
improvements. No steamship has been built by the Chinese; the only one
I ever saw would not move after it was launched; it was said a
Chinaman, who had only served on an English steamer as stoker, was
required by the authorities to construct the vessel. There is neither
gold nor silver coinage; the only currency being a base metal, chien,
whose value is the fifth of a farthing. The looms with which their
beautiful silk stuffs are woven are of the most primitive character.
Yet they have arts to us wholly unknown. They give to copper the
hardness and the sharpness of steel; we cannot imitate some of their
brightest colors. They have lately sent us the only natural green
which is permanent, which has been known to them, as printing, wood
engraving, the use of the compass, artillery practice, and other great
inventions, from immemorial time. Paper was made from rags long
anterior to the Christian era, and promissory notes were used at a
still earlier period. The Chinese may be proud of a language and a
literature which has existed for thirty centuries, while in Europe
there is no literary language now written or spoken which would have
been intelligible seven hundred years ago. If, then, this singular
people--more than a third of the whole human race--look down with
some contempt on the "outside races," let them not be too harshly
judged, or too precipitately condemned.


From The Month.



In one of my summer rambles through the north of France, I came across
a little seaside village which possessed so many charms that it was
the greatest difficulty in the world to tear myself away from it.

It was indeed a lovely spot. The village, situated on a noble cliff,
was enclosed almost in a semicircle of richly wooded hills, which
stretched, as far as the eye could see, into the very heart of noble

At your feet the glorious sea came dashing in to a shore over which
great masses of bold rock were liberally scattered, and round which
the waves used to play in the summertime, however little obstacle was
afforded to their fury when fierce winds blew up a storm in the cruel

But perhaps the most attractive feature of the place to me was a
splendid river, within a mile's walk of the village, which was
plentifully supplied with fish, and afforded me many and {111} many
day's amusement, and not a little excellent sport.

My time was pretty well my own, and I had made up my mind for a
tolerably long spell of idle enjoyment; so, under these circumstances,
it may not appear strange that I resolved to take up my quarters

The inhabitants of the place were mostly poor fishermen, who used to
ply their trade nearly the whole of the week, and by great good luck
frequently got back to their wives and families toward its close.

A very pretty cottage, with a bay-window commanding a splendid view of
the sea, took my fancy immensely, and though it was rather a humble
sort of place, I determined if possible to make an impression on its
possessors, in order to secure two rooms for my use during my stay.
Alphonsine was certainly not the most sweet-tempered woman I have ever
met, in fact rather the contrary; at the same time I fully persuaded
myself that a great many disagreeables would be counteracted by the
possession of my much-coveted bay-window.

Alphonsine evidently ruled the establishment with a rod of iron. She
was a tall, thin, ill-favored looking woman, who was always prepared
for a wrangle, and who looked uncommonly sharp after her own
interests. However, by paying pretty liberally and in advance, I soon
won her heart, and flatter myself that it was by excellent generalship
on my part that I contrived very soon to be entirely in her good
books. Her hard face used sometimes actually to relax into a grim kind
of smile in my presence, and I fancied her harsh voice used almost
imperceptibly to soften in addressing me. Beside, she was accustomed
to bustle about in a rough kind of way in order to get things straight
and comfortable, and I really think tried to do her best to make me
feel at home. What more could I want than this? And then she had two
delightful children, a boy and a girl, with whom I was very soon
especially friendly, and who tended to enliven me up a bit whenever I
chanced to be at all dull. The boy was about thirteen years old, and
his sister, who looked a year or so younger, was indeed a lovely
child. She was as fair as a lily, and had that sweet expression of
countenance which is so often found among the peasants in Normandy;
her eyes were large and exquisitely blue, and with all this she had a
decided will of her own. But then she was the daughter of Alphonsine.

It was some little time before I made the acquaintance of the master
of the establishment; for he was always busy fishing, and, as I have
said before, the fishermen who lived in the village seldom got home
before Saturday evening, and had to be off again either on Sunday
evening or by daybreak on Monday.

However, Saturday soon came round, and with it Pierre Prévost.

He was about five-and-thirty years old, very dark and singularly
handsome. His hair, which was thick, fell about his head in ringlets;
he was short, and had most expressive eyes. I was not long in
perceiving that he was in every way a great contrast to Alphonsine.
His expression was sad, and he seldom or never smiled; and I noticed
he seemed to shrink rather nervously from the piercing look with which
he was very frequently favored by "la belle Alphonsine." His sweet and
handsome face soon disposed me favorably toward him, notwithstanding
that there were circumstances which occurred on our first acquaintance
which would otherwise have tended to prejudice me entirely against

I was smoking a pipe and chatting quietly to Alphonsine in the great
chimney-corner on the evening I allude to, when all at once the two
children came tearing in from school with their books under their

"He is come!" cried they, in their shrill treble voices. "We saw his
boat just coming near the shore. He will be on the sand almost in a
{112} moment We may go and meet him, may we not, mother?"

"What's the use?" said she, in rather a more disagreeable tone than
usual. "I am sure he would much prefer to come alone. Beside, I want
you both. Go into the garden to get me something to make a salad of.
Come now!"

These last two words settled the matter, and the children were soon
off, without another word about the expedition to the sea-shore.

"That's strange," thought I to myself; "I wonder if this Pierre can be
a bad father, or at any rate a bad husband?"

A few minutes afterward he came in.

As if to strengthen this bad impression of mine, I noticed that
Alphonsine never moved when he entered, and did not attempt to offer
her hand or cheek to him. She did not even welcome him with a smile.

No, she contented herself with taking a slate down from the wall, the
pencil belonging to which was already in her hand:

"How much?" said she, coolly.

Pierre Prévost pulled out of his pocket a great leather purse, and
detailed, day by day, how much he had made by the sale of his fish.
After which, he put down the money upon the corner of the table.

All this time the woman was eagerly dotting down the various sums on
the slate. Then she gravely added them all up, and determinedly
counted out every sou.

By great good luck the figures tallied with the money. Then Alphonsine
shut up the money in a drawer, and locked it very securely.

Meanwhile Pierre repocketed his leather purse, which he had just
emptied, never attempting to grumble in the least, and going through
the task as methodically as possible.

"I was quite wrong in forming so hasty an opinion," thought I to
myself, as I witnessed this peculiar scene; "Pierre is not such a bad
fellow, after all."

It was not long before the young ones made a second burst into the
room, making rather more noise than they did on the first occasion.

They were not long in scrambling on to Pierre's knees, and smothering
him with kisses, and it was all done so heartily, with such warmth,
and so naturally, that I could not help exclaiming to myself, "Why,
he's a capital father, after all!"

But, judge, of my astonishment when I heard their pretty voices call

"Oh! we're so glad to see you back again, dear uncle Pierre!"

Then he was their uncle, after all, and he was not married to
Alphonsine. But was he her brother, or merely a brother-in-law? And
yet she seemed so entirely to have the upper-hand over him. It
certainly was a very remarkable coincidence.

But what surprised me most of all was the fatherly affection that
Pierre Prévost seemed to have for the two children.

He took them on his knees, and played with them, and appeared to make
so much of them, that I, who was a silent spectator of this little
scene, became really quite interested.

This lasted for about five minutes, and then all at once it seemed as
if the old pain came over him, for he turned quite sad again, and
turned deathly pale, and I could see the tears starting to his eyes.
And then he got up, and looking steadily into the young innocent faces
of his nephew and niece, said, in an extremely soft voice,

"Go and play on the sand. Go along, my pretty ones!"

The poor children, who seemed quite astonished at the sudden change in
his demeanor, hesitated for a moment. However, another beseeching look
from their uncle, and an angry word or so from Alphonsine, soon
persuaded them what to do; whereupon they set out very slowly for the


"They know perfectly well how little you care for them," said
Alphonsine, very bitterly; "and it would be just as well if you would
not go out of your way to show it."

Pierre made no answer. He shut his eyes, and put his hand to his heart
as if to express the pain he was suffering.

Then taking a spade from the corner,

"I am going to work in the garden," said be, gently.

And then he went out, looking very sorrowful.



Things seemed to be taking quite a dramatic turn, and I made up my
mind to try hard and unravel the plot.

I followed Pierre, and having secured myself in a convenient
hiding-place, determined to watch.

He walked quietly on, but soon stopped at a little vegetable garden,
quite at the end of the village. At first he pretended to set to work
vigorously, but his eyes kept wandering to a little rose-covered
cottage within a stone's-throw of the garden. He soon left off
working, and leaning listlessly on his spade, he kept his eyes firmly
fixed on one of the windows, which was almost covered with the
luxuriant growth of roses and honeysuckle.

As the wind played fitfully with the curtain of green which darkened
the window, I fancied I recognized the shadow of a woman.

Immovable as a statue, Pierre Prévost remained where he was, and
though night drew on, he did not leave his post till the heavens were
bright with myriads of stars; and then swinging his spade over his
shoulder, he began to retrace his steps to the village.

But, just before he left the garden, I thought I heard a bitter sigh
borne on the wind from the cottage window.

The next day, when I was coming away from early mass, I saw Pierre
standing in the porch of the church. The two children were clinging to
one of his hands, while the other, still wet with holy water, was
gently extended to a young woman who was in the act of passing before
him. She was a lovely creature, with golden hair, large expressive
blue eyes, and a face like one of Fra Angelico's angels. Although she
could not have been less than thirty years old, she appeared to have
all the lightness and vivacity of a girl of eighteen.

When their fingers met, an almost imperceptible thrill seemed to
affect them both, and as they gazed into one another's faces they both
turned deathly pale.

Could it have been the shadow that I recognized through the roses the
evening before?

The tide came up very early that evening, and necessitated the
departure of all the fishermen before night came on.

Pierre Prévost was one of the first to start, but he went a long way
round to get to the sea-shore, and passed before the windows of the
rose-covered cottage.

A flower fell at his feet. He picked it up eagerly, and kissing it
passionately, thrust it into his bosom and hastened away.

As the evening wore on, and while the little boats were just fading
away in the distance, I watched again, and distinctly saw a white
handkerchief waving from the window of the pretty cottage.

I was naturally anxious to find out about this little romance, and was
continually puzzling my poor brains to discover the truth of the

There were hundreds of people I might have asked, and, of course,
Alphonsine would have been only too happy to have enlightened me. But
I determined, if possible, to hear it all from Pierre's own lips, and
accordingly made up my mind to stifle my idle curiosity.



Pierre and I soon became firm friends, and I persuaded him on one
occasion to take me on one of his fishing expeditions.

It was a lovely night, the heavens were ablaze with stars, and the
little boat tossed idly on the waves which scarcely rippled against
its keel. Pierre's companions were asleep down in the cabin, waiting
for a breeze to spring up before they could throw in their nets. As
for myself, I was smoking quietly on deck, having my back against a
coil of rope, and revelling in the delicious quiet which reigned
around, when Pierre joined me, and having lighted his pipe, sat down
by my side, and spoke, as far as I can remember, as follows:

I believe, monsieur, you are anxious to know why I am such a sad
looking fellow? Perhaps you will laugh at me, but that can't be
helped. I am sure you are sincere, and wish me well, and therefore I
have no hesitation in opening my heart to you.

I love Marie! There is hardly any need, perhaps, to tell you that. And
yet this love is the foundation of all my sorrow. But I firmly believe
that the good God willed that we should love one another, and so I am
content. Ever since our earliest childhood we have gone through life
hand in hand. When we were little ones we always played together on
the sand; and there has hardly been a pang of sorrow or a feeling of
joy which has not been felt by both alike. I used to think once that
we were one both in body and soul, and there are old folks in the
village who have said it over and over again. We made our first
communion on the same day, and at the same hour, side by side; and
these little matters are bonds of union indeed, and are not easily
forgotten. When I first began to seek my bread on the sea, she always
offered up a little prayer for me at the cross in the village and she
was ever the first to rush waist-deep into the sea to greet me on my
return. And then I used to carry her on my shoulders back again, and
kiss off the tears of joy which flowed down her pretty cheeks. Ah! we
were happy indeed in those childish days, which are passed and gone.
Why are we not always children?

And the years that followed were hardly less happy for either of us.
In the cold winter-time we were always side by side in the
chimney-corner. Spring saw us wandering over the fresh meadows
gathering the early violets. We worked together in the harvest-field
under the summer sun, and went off nutting when the brown leaves told
us of the approaching autumn. And then came the time when we were both
old enough to marry. We had neither of us dreamed of such a thing, and
could not be persuaded that we were not still children. We were quite
happy enough without troubling our heads about marriage.

However, others thought of it for us, and good Father Hermann began to
be anxious that we should make up our minds.

But the matter was not so easily settled, and several obstacles soon
presented themselves. To begin with, Marie's mother was rich. I was
far from it, and an orphan into the bargain. I had been brought up by
my brother Victoire--a splendid fellow. It was he who went with Father
Hermann to Marie's mother, in order boldly to talk over our marriage,
which they were all so anxious about.

"I had always made up my mind that Marie should never marry any one
who had not quite as much as herself," replied she, "and that was her
dear father's wish. However, I am sure you speak truly when you say
that they both love one another very dearly. Let it be as you say."

The old lady had a kind warm heart

[As he said these last words, Pierre's voice thickened, and I noticed
a tear trickling down his honest brown face. But my sailor was a {115}
brave fellow, and I had hardly time to shake him warmly by the hand
before he had quite mastered his grief, and was able to go on with his

Marie and I were not the only happy ones then, I can assure you.
Victoire, my brother. Father Hermann, the whole village in fact, for
we were both very popular, rejoiced with us. It was the week before
the marriage. Of course I had not gone to sea. Victoire was also very
anxious to remain; however, his wife persuaded him to go. Several in
the village found fault with her for doing so, on the pretext that
working at a festal time was very bad luck; but they had no right to
say so. Victoire's children were very young, and had to be provided
for; and so Victoire went. In the evening great black clouds darkened
the sky. We were evidently threatened with a dreadful storm. But we
were enjoying ourselves too much to think of storms or friends at sea.
All at once there was a vivid flash of lightning and then a peal of
thunder, which seemed to shake every cottage to its foundation. And
then came piercing cries:

"A boat in distress, and threatened with instant destruction!"

It was Victoire's boat!

I was on the shore in an instant What an awful storm! Never in my
whole life had I seen its equal.

All that was in a man's power I did, you may be quite sure. Three
times I dashed madly into the waves, only to be thrown back by the
fury of the sea. The last time I was all but lost myself. However, I
was rescued and brought back to the shore, bruised and insensible.
Some thought me dead. Would that I had been, and had out side by side
with that other body stretched lifeless on the rocks!

It was Victoire!

When I came to myself he was near me, quite still, and covered with
blood; but with just enough breath left to whisper in my ear:

"Pierre, my boy, be a brother to my wife, a father to my children. God
bless you, boy."

"Victoire," answered I, "I swear it."

And then he died without a murmur.


Of course you will guess, monsieur, that this awful affair was the
means of putting off our marriage. Marie and I neither of us
complained, but consoled ourselves with the reflection that all would
soon be well. I took up my position in my brother's house, and warmly
kissed my brother's children, now mine. Alphonsine tried to show her
gratitude as well as she could. And so six months slipped away, and
the villagers began talking again about our marriage. I don't know how
it was, but I began to feel very nervous and uneasy about the matter,
and I did not so much as dare broach the subject either to Alphonsine
or Marie's mother. In a little time the latter began the subject

"Pierre," said she, "you have adopted your brother's children, have
you not?"

"Yes, mother."

"And his wife also?"

"Yes; I must take care of his wife quite as much as her children."

"You have quite made up your mind?"


"Am I to understand that you never mean to leave them?"

"I swore I would not to my brother before he died."

Then there was a silence, and my heart beat very quick.

"Listen, Pierre," said the old woman; "don't think that I wish to
deprive the widow or the orphans of one morsel of the sustenance you
intend to set aside for them. Even if I did, your good heart would
hardly listen to me. But you must understand that I know Alphonsine.
{116} My daughter can never live with Alphonsine; and Alphonsine can
never live with me. Never!"

This last word seemed to open an abyss before my very feet. I too knew
Alphonsine. I too began now to understand that either of these
arrangements would be perfectly impracticable.

"Mother," I began--

"I don't wish to hinder jour marriage," replied the old lady, very
slowly; "I simply impose one condition. You must be quite aware that
in this matter my will must be law."

Still I hesitated.

"It will be for you then to decide your own fate," added she; "and my
daughter's as well."

I raised my head. Marie was there, and our eyes met. I must break my
oath or lose her for ever.

It is absolute torture to recall those fearful moments. My head seemed
to swim round, and when I tried to speak, there was something in my
throat which nearly choked me. And still Marie looked at me; and oh,
how tenderly!

"Pierre," said the old lady again, "you must answer; will you remain
alone with Alphonsine, or will you come here alone? Choose for

I looked at Marie again, and was on the point of exclaiming, "I must
come here!" but the words again stuck in my throat, and my tongue
refused to speak. And then I began to ease my conscience with the
thought that I could still work for Victoire's wife and children, and
tried to think they would be equally happy, although I was not always
with them. But then I thought of that dreadful night, and the storm,
and the pale face, and the whisper in my ear came back again, and I
fancied I heard my brother say, "It was not that you promised me, my
brother; it was not that!"

At last the bitter words rose to my mouth, and in a hollow voice I

"I must keep my oath!" And then, like a drunken man, I fell prostrate
on the floor.

When I recovered she was near me still, and her sweet voice whispered
in my ear,

"Thank God, Pierre, you are an honest man!"

Those words were my only comfort in the long dreary year which
followed that fearful day. I was never myself again. I tried to rouse
myself up, and take some interest in my daily work, and did my best to
appear cheerful and contented at home, but I was not the same man that
I used to be. The children were a great comfort to me when I was at
home; but the long hopeless days and the dark dreary nights were
miserable enough, God knows. I seemed to dream away my life.

I thought it best to keep away from Marie, as a meeting would be
painful to both. And so we never met.

At last a report got about the village that Marie was going to be

I could no longer keep away from her now, and she, too, appeared
anxious that we should meet. In a very few days we were once more side
by side.

There was no need of me to speak. She read my question in my eyes: of
her own accord she answered:

"Yes, Pierre, it is quite true."

"But, Pierre," added she in tears, "I am yours, and must be yours for
ever. Unless I can get you to say, Marry Jacques, I will remain single
all my life. But my mother begs me to get married; and what can I do?
She is very old, and very ill just now. I feel I _too_ have got a duty
to fulfil."

I uttered a cry of despair.

"Pierre," said Marie, still weeping, "you must know how dearly I love
you. My fate is that I must love you still. But, for all that, Pierre,
I cannot let my mother die."

I could not bear to hear her weep; but what comfort could I give? At
last the devil entered into my heart, {117} and I broke forth in
bitter curses at my fate, and what I chose to call her inconstancy.

"I don't deserve this," said Marie very softly; "and I hardly expected
that I should ever hear these words from your lips. Still, I believe
you love me, after all. I hope you will feel, when you think over all
that has passed, that I am not heartless, and that I deserve some
answer to the question which my lips almost refuse to ask. You will
give me an answer, I am sure, by-and-by."

And then she left me, half-mad as I was, lying coiled up in a heap at
the roadside.

During the next few days I did reflect. If I could not marry Marie
myself, had I any right to hinder her marriage with another? Was I
justified in preparing for her a life of solitude, and in depriving
her of a mother's care? And then, again, I began to perceive that no
one was at all inclined to take my part in the village. My popularity
was fast declining, since no one could look into my heart, or could
have the least idea what I had suffered, or knew what had actually
taken place. I was pitied, but considered very selfish. I was
continually told that Marie's mother was ailing sadly, and that she
had deserved better treatment at my hands.

At last Father Hermann comforted me, and benefitting by his good
advice and by the help of our holy religion, I began to be in a better
frame of mind.

I made up my mind to give Marie her freedom. But I could not bear to
see her again, and so I wrote.


The marriage between Jaques and Marie was soon arranged, and soon the
second festal day came round.

In the morning I put out to sea as usual; but as the evening wore on,
I found I was under the influence of a spell and that it was quite
impossible for me to remain where I was. Accordingly I returned; and,
led on by the spell and attracted like a moth to the candle, wended my
way to the rejoicings, in order that I might torture myself for the
lost time.

I have heard of the agonies of the rack, of the thumb-screw, of saints
being boiled in oil and crucified, and many other dreadful horrors;
but I very much doubt if any martyr ever suffered the agony that I did
that night.

It was in the dusk of the evening, and Marie was just finishing a
song, while all were resting from the dances which had followed one
another in quick succession. She was just singing the last verse, in
which my name was accidentally introduced, when a sailor who was just
behind me struck a match in order to light his pipe. The light exposed
me to the view of the whole company. Directly Marie saw me, she
uttered a piercing cry and fainted away. I rushed toward her, not
thinking what I was doing. But Jaques was at her side before me.
Instead, however, of showing the least jealousy or putting himself in
a passion, he grasped me warmly by the hand, and then looked tenderly
at Marie, who now began to revive.

"Never fear, and keep up a good heart," said he, in a strange kind of
voice. You would never guess what he did, and perhaps will hardly
believe when I tell you.

Ordinarily a very temperate, steady man, he astonished the company by
giving out that he intended to throw a little life into the fête. On
this he ordered wine and cider, and lastly a plentiful supply of

In a very little time he was helplessly drunk, or at least pretended
to be so. As the evening wore on, he got from bad to worse, insulted
and quarrelled with the men, and fairly disgusted the women. The
village was in an uproar, and there was not a soul who did not speak
in strong terms of the disgraceful conduct of Jaques. At the earnest
entreaty of the worthy {118} fellow we kept our counsel, and
accordingly the new marriage was at once broken off.

The rest of my story you know almost as well as I do myself. You see
my life from day to day. You can picture to yourself my sorrow and my
unhappy position. You can see how little _she_ has changed.

And yet we can never be more to one another than we are now. Never.
Never! We are married, and yet we are not. We are separated, alas,
here on earth, but we _must_ be united in heaven. Think of the years
that have passed, and think how happy we might have been, and what a
thread there was between our present existence and the life we long to
lead. God's will be done!

Poor Pierre here let his head fall into his hands, and wept in

How could I comfort the poor fellow?

It was not the kind of grief that needed consolation, and so I let him
weep on.

All at once a breeze sprung up and filled the sails. Pierre
immediately roused himself, but soon relapsed into his accustomed calm
quiet manner.

Both the other sailors now came on deck, the nets were thrown over,
and the business of the night began.


Three years afterward, by the merest accident in the world, I happened
to return to my favorite little village. There was evidently some
excitement going on, and as I chanced to recognize my old friend
Father Hermann, I went up and renewed our acquaintance.

"What is the matter?" said he; "why you do not mean to say you don't

"Not in the least."

"Why your old friend Alphonsine has been dead six months."

"I really don't see why the worthy inhabitants of the village should
rejoice at that," said I.

"A great obstacle has been removed," said the father; "don't you

"Of course; and what has followed?"

"The marriage of Pierre Prévost and Marie!"

I was not long in accompanying Father Hermann to the cottage in which
my old friends were receiving the warm congratulations of their
friends and neighbors.

They recognized me at once, and insisted that I should be present at
the entertainment which was to follow in the course of the day. Of
course I accepted the invitation. I never remember having enjoyed
myself so much, and am quite certain that I spoke from my heart when I
proposed, in my very best French, the healths of la belle Marie and
Pierre Prévost.



From The Popular Science Review.



There are few spectacles more affecting--and there were few more
hopelessly distressing--than that which many have seen, of the blind
man, with eyes unaltered in their human aspect of beauty, searching
vainly to penetrate the unchangeable darkness of a noonday, bright to
others, and replete with the splendor of light and color. There have
always been many of these sufferers from a disease which claims the
most profound sympathy, and which seemed bitterly to reproach our
science that it could not timely penetrate the mystery of that obscure
chamber which lies behind the iris, and had found no means for
enabling us to see through the clear but darkened space of the pupil.
That reproach, at least, exists in part no longer. Since some few
years now we have learnt how to explain the obscurity of the interior
of the eye, and by what optical contrivances we can overcome this
darkness and look into the depths of the ocular globe; thus inspecting
with ease, and quite painlessly to the individual, the lenses and
humors of the eye, the nerve of sight and its transparent retinal
expansion, and even the vascular tissue which lies behind and
surrounds this. This is a great triumph of physical science, and it is
no barren triumph. The insight which we gain into the host of
affections of the refracting media and deep membranes of the eye has
given to our diagnosis and therapeutical treatment of the most obscure
forms of disease leading to blindness, a certainty and precision to
which we were formerly strangers.

The optical instrument by which we are able to effect this inspection
is known by the fitting title of the _Ophthalmoscope_ ([Greek text]
the eye; [Greek text],  I survey). With this instrument, the manner of
using it, and its valuable applications, I am necessarily
professionally much occupied in daily work; and as the editor of the
"Popular Science Review" has requested me to give some plain account
of the matter, I will endeavor to afford an untechnical statement of
what the ophthalmoscope is, and what are some of the most useful
results which have been obtained by its use.

Let me first remind the general reader that in the human eye, behind
the pupillary aperture of the colored iris, which presents to the
unaided eye of the observer the mere aspect of black darkness, lies,
first, a clear bi-convex _lens_; and behind this, filling the eye, and
giving to it the character of a solid ball, a transparent globular
mass, known as the _vitreous body_, or _humor_. It is into a
depression in the front of this that the aforesaid lens is fitted, so
that the whole space of the eye behind the _iris_ is filled by the
_lens_ and _vitreous body_. The optic nerve, or nerve of sight, which
pierces the tunics of the eye at the back and near the centre, spreads
out and forms an expanded tunic of nerve-structure which enwraps the
vitreous body as far as its most forward edge, where the colored iris
descends in front of it. Enwrapping again this nerve-tunic or _retina_
is a vestment, chiefly made of blood-vessels, connected by fine tissue
and thickly coated with black pigment, having its own optical uses.
This second outer pigmented vascular tunic is _the choroid_. This
again is enclosed within the external strong fibrous membrane, which
includes and protects all the sclerotic membrane {120} ([Greek text],
hard). These are the two humors and three tunics of the eye which can
to a greater or less extent be examined during life by the aid of the

They can all be more or less investigated in the living eye by the aid
of the ophthalmoscope, because by the aid of this instrument we are
able to see through the pupillary space. If one considers what is the
reason of the apparent darkness of the pupillary aperture and the
chambers of the eye behind it, it is not difficult to gain an idea of
the means by which this optical condition may be altered so as to
enable us to see where all seem to the unaided vision obscure.

[Illustration: Doctor looking through ophthalmoscope.]


This darkness of the pupillary aperture is attributable partly to
obvious causes, such as the natural contraction of the pupil or _iris_
which occurs under light--this contraction limiting the number of rays
which can enter the eye. Then that black pigment which lines the iris
absorbs a great deal of light; and thus, as in the case of albinos,
whose eyes are deficient in pigment, or where the pupil is dilated,
either through disease or by artificial agents, these obstacles for
seeing into the living eye are removed. But still the main
difficulties are not cleared away; and if you take for example an
albino animal, such as one of those beautiful little white-furred
rabbits, whose rosy eyes look like fiery opals edged with swan's down,
and dilate the pupils with atropine, it is still not possible to see
clearly the details of the structure within and at the back of the
eye. This is by reason of the structure of the eye as an optical
instrument, and because the rays of light in entering and in emerging
from it undergo refraction, according to definite laws. The light
which penetrates the eye traverses the transparent retina, producing
the impression necessary for sight, and is partly absorbed by the
black pigment of the choroid; but a great number of the rays are
reflected; for here there is no exception to the general rule that
some of the rays of light falling upon any substance are always
reflected. These rays, in returning, are refracted through the
vitreous body and lens, just as they were in entering the eye, with
the object then of causing them so to converge as to produce upon the
retina a clear and definite image of whatever external object they
started from. Similarly, then, on their emergence they are refracted
chiefly by the lens and cornea, so as to form an image in the outer
air, the emergent rays coinciding in their path with that which they
took when entering, and the image formed in the air being conjugated
with the retinal image; being formed, therefore, on the same side,
varying with the position of the lens and object, and the
accommodation of the eye. Thus, then, to perceive this aerial image,
derived from the retinal reflection, the eye of the observer needs to
be placed in the axis of the converging rays; but since this is also
the axis of the entering rays, he will of necessity in that position
cut off those rays altogether of the light proceeding, say, from a
lamp, or the source of light opposite to the eye to be illuminated.

The problem to be solved consists, then, in the simple illumination of
the eye to be observed by a source of light so arranged that the
observer can be placed in the axis of the rays entering and emerging
without intercepting those rays. This may be most conveniently
effected by placing the source of light aside of the eye to be
observed, and observing through a pierced concave mirror, which
reflects that light into the eye. We can then, by looking through the
central aperture of this mirror, place ourself in the path of the
entering and emerging rays. The mirror becomes the source of light to
the observed eye; the rays which it flashed into the eye emerge {122}
in part, and return along the same path, forming the aerial image at a
distance and under circumstances regulated by the optical conditions
of the eye observed, and within view of the observer who is looking
through the mirror. A very simple diagram will suffice to explain
this: _r a_ is the circle of diffusion of the retina, and the lines
indicate how the reflected rays will pass through the media of the
eye, and form at _r' a'_ real enlarged but inverted image of the
fundus of the eye. This will be placed at the distance of distinct
vision of the subject, and has relation to the accommodation of the

[Illustration:  Diagram of preceding discussion.]

As these are variable quantities, the practice of ophthalmoscopy
demands a little address, which habit quickly gives. It is for want of
understanding this, and from impatience of these preliminary
difficulties, that many have been discouraged at the outset, and have
abandoned unwisely the attempt to learn the use of the ophthalmoscope.

The image obtained in the way mentioned is not so distinct as to give
that full perception of details which is necessary for scientific and
medical purposes. A more defined image is obtained by interposing, for
example, a bi-convex lens on the path of the luminous rays emerging
from the eye observed. The effect of holding such a lens of short
focus before the observed eye whilst examining it with a concave
ophthalmoscopic mirror is to cause the rays emerging from the eye to
undergo a further refraction, and to modify the actual image which
they form, producing one which is smaller, more defined, but still
inverted. This is the most simple and one of the most satisfactory
methods of exploring the eye with the ophthalmoscope. It is that of
the most general and easy application, and I will, therefore, add a
few words to explain how it may most conveniently be practised.

We will suppose that it is the human eye which is to be examined. The
room is to be made dark; the person to be seated; a light--the white
flame of an oil-lamp or an Argand gas-burner--to be placed near his
head, on the side, and at the level of the eye to be observed. The
observer takes then the concave mirror in the hand of the side toward
the lamp, and placing it against the front of his eye, so that the
upper edge rests against his eyebrow, brings his head to the level of
that of the person seated, looks through the central perforation at
the eye to be observed, and by a little careful change in the
direction of the mirror casts, by its aid, upon the eye examined the
light of the lamp.

He will now perceive that the pupillary aperture is illuminated, and,
no longer black, shines with a silvery or reddened light. He takes now
the bi-convex lens of short focus in the hand hitherto free, and
places it in front of the examined eye, and at such a distance as to
make the focus of the lens coincide with the pupil of that eye
--distance varying from two to three inches. He himself will usually
need to be at a distance from twelve to eighteen inches. This is for
normal eyes. The slight movements backward and forward necessary to
adjust these distances correctly, are effected very easily and
precisely after practice; but at first it is a little difficult to
avoid changing the direction of the mirror while thus slightly
advancing or retiring the head; and this is a point on which it is
well to give a warning, for it is a frequent source of discouragement
to beginners, who find that at every movement they interfere with the
illumination of the eye, and so suffer from a series of little
failures at the outset. The first thing, in fact, that every one sees
amounts to a little more than a red, luminous disc; those who begin by
seeing nothing more, therefore, need not to be discouraged; a little
patience and time will enable them to see what more practised persons
describe. The eye to be examined may be more fully observed by
dilating the pupil {123} with atropine--a drop of a solution, one
grain to a pint of water, or one of the atropized gelatines prepared
for me by Savory and Moore, each of which contains one hundred
thousandth of a grain of atropine, and will maintain dilation during
several hours. This acts also perfectly well with rabbits or cats.

[Illustration:  Doctor examining patient.]

The first thing seen is the red reflection of the choroidal vessels
showing through the transparent retina; and when the eye observed is
directed upward and inward, we see the usually circular disc of the
optic nerve, encircled by a double ring, cream-colored, or very
faintly roseate or grey, and surrounded by the red choroid. The two
rings are the apertures in the choroid and sclerotic, of which the
former is the smaller. From out this disc we see springing the retinal
artery and retinal veins, sometimes centric, at others excentric, in
their passage. The artery is easily recognized as being somewhat
smaller in calibre, and of a lighter red. The artery usually divides
into a superior and inferior branch, each of which subdivides
forthwith into two secondary branches, and these again continue to
subdivide, dichotomously, running forward to the anterior limits of
the retina. The veins, which are somewhat larger and deeper colored,
usually pierce the disc of the optic nerve in two trunks. Pulsation
may occasionally be detected in the veins by watching carefully their
color, which seems to change at each impulse just where they pass over
the edge of the optic disc and bend to pierce the nerve.

Fuller details of the ophthalmoscopic appearances of healthy eyes,
both human and animal, will be found in Zander's treatise, excellently
edited and translated by Mr. R. B. Carter, of Stroud. In the healthy
eye the aqueous humor, lens, and vitreous humor are clear, and do not
in any way obstruct the passage of the light. It is otherwise in
disease; and this brings us to the discussion of some of the practical
applications of the ophthalmoscope. Here, perhaps, I may be permitted
to quote some of the {124} paragraphs of a paper which I read lately
on the subject before the Hanveian Society:

[Illustration: Interior of eye. ]

  "Taking up the diagnosis of the various forms of disease any of
  which would have been held to constitute the condition known as
  amaurosis, it may be noted, first of all, that even in the hands of
  the novice ophthalmoscopic examination supersedes those chapters in
  ophthalmology which were formerly devoted to the means of
  distinguishing between incipient cataract and amaurosis. In the
  past, and even at present, with those surgeons who are content to
  treat deep-seated diseases of the eye by guessing at their nature,
  and have not adopted the systematic use of the ophthalmoscope into
  their practice, the functional annoyances which commonly occur at
  the outset of the formation of lenticular cataract, have been, and
  are, fertile sources of deception. The patient complains of frontal
  pain, of confused vision, stars of light, and some other vague
  symptoms which characterize the outset alike of many forms of
  deep-seated disease of the eye, and of the fatty degeneration of the
  lens which commonly gives rise to lenticular cataract, probably from
  coincident swelling of the lens. An error arising from this source
  has many times condemned the unfortunate subject of a commencing
  cataract to the severe treatment thought appropriate to the unhappy
  class of amaurotics. The kind of alteration in the lens,
  imperceptible by any other means than the ophthalmoscope, is the
  slightly opaque striation of the substance of the lens sometimes
  seen in an early stage. These opaque striae may occupy either the
  anterior or the posterior segment of the lens, and spring from the
  centre of the crystalline or converge toward the centre from the
  circumference. In order to see the latter, the pupil must be fully
  dilated with atropine; as, indeed, for the purposes of complete
  ophthalmoscopic examination it always needs to be; and then, just as
  the greatest expert cannot discover them except by ophthalmoscopic
  illumination, so, neither with its aid, can they be passed over with
  ordinary care. In order to be quite sure in any delicate case, it is
  well to lower the light a little, and use only a feebly illuminating
  power, as a very strong light may overpower a {125} commencing
  opacity, and render us unable to detect the striae. This practical
  caution applies equally to all other conditions of opacity in the
  transparent media. In two cases, lately, I have been able to set at
  rest doubts of this kind, which happened to be in the persons of
  medical men, who were much disquieted by the symptoms--one a member
  of this society. In a third case I have recently detected incipient
  cataract (peripheric striae) in a gentleman supposed to be suffering
  from commencing glaucoma.

  "It is of frequent occurrence to find the capsule of the lens
  stained with black spots; these are stains left by the uveal
  pigment, and occur usually after an attack of iritis, when the iris
  has been in contact with the lens. When the iris has been adherent,
  a complete ring of pigment may often be seen on the surface of the
  lens. A day's experience at any ophthalmic clinique can mostly show
  examples of this condition; but it is only when these deposits are
  numerous, and in the central line of vision, that they become
  troublesome. They are then met with as the sequences of severe
  choroido-iritis, and usually coincide with further mischief in the
  vitreous and choroid.

  "The vitreous, under the influence most commonly of choroiditis, and
  usually syphilitic choroiditis, presents alterations of the most
  striking character for ophthalmoscopic observation. The patients who
  offer these changes complain usually of considerable dimness of
  sight, which on examination is found to include both diminution in
  the acuteness of visual perception, and restriction in _the field of
  vision_, or extent of any object seen at once. The great source of
  trouble to them is, that when they lift the eye or move the head,
  black corpuscles, or streaks, or webs float before their eyes, and
  obscure the object at which they are looking; and when the eyes are
  kept still, these fall again and disappear. Examine now the eyes of
  such an one, and you will see that the phenomena described are due
  to the existence of actual shreds, corpuscles, or webs of fibrous
  and albuminous exudation, which float in the vitreous, and at each
  motion of the eye rise in clouds and obscure the fundus, so that you
  can barely see it, or perhaps not at all. These conditions, I say,
  are mostly specific, but not invariably. They are sometimes the
  result of scrofula, and probably of other forms of choroiditis."

Here, then, are a large number of cases in which the ophthalmoscope
transports us at once from the regions of the known to the unknown.
There are other classes of cases equally striking. Let me take
illustrative examples. Two persons apply for advice, complaining that
the sight has been gradually growing more and more dim, perhaps in one
eye,--it may be in both. The progress of the disease has been
insidious and nearly painless. The eyes are to all external appearance
healthy, except probably that in both patients the pupils are
partially dilated and sluggish. The ophthalmoscope helps us to solve
the problem.

The one is a case, it may be, of slow atrophy of the optic nerve,
proceeding from central disease of the brain--from pressure on the
optic tracts of nerve within the skull, or from defective nutrition
following losses of blood. We find the nerve glistening white and
slightly cupped, the arteries small, the fundus otherwise healthy. In
the other we recognize at once, in the fulness of the veins, their
pulsation, and the marked excavation of the optic disc, the
indications of excessive tension of the eyeball and undue pressure of
the nerve. The first requires careful constitutional treatment and a
long course of studied hygiene and medication; the second calls for
direct and immediate interference, with the view of relieving the
intra-ocular pressure. In the diagnosis of this great class of
glaucomatous disease of the eye--disease {126} characterized of loss
of vision, sometimes slow and sometimes rapid, but always
characterized by definite ophthalmoscopic signs: cupping of the disc,
pulsation, fullness of the veins, and it may be more or less haziness
of the transparent media--ophthalmoscopy has rendered a most brilliant
and inestimable service. Prior to the introduction of the use of this
instrument the disease was of an unknown pathology; its results were
fatal to vision, but there were no means of diagnosing the conditions
attending the earlier stages, and blindness followed almost certainly
and inevitably. The investigation of the disease has brought us a
remedy in the excision of a portion of the iris--a practice introduced
by Von Gräfe, of Berlin, and of which the success is in suitable cases
most gratifying.

Another series of examples may be chosen to illustrate the application
of ophthalmoscopy. I avoid giving details here, but it is perhaps
right to say that these are not fanciful sketches, but notices of
cases in my experience and taken from my note-books of practice. Two
persons are asking for advice as to the management of their eyes for
short-sightedness. Are both to receive the same advice? The
ophthalmoscope alone can furnish positive data. With this we may
discover a staphylomatous condition of the back of the eye, a bright
excentric margin around the optic disc and edge with black pigment.
Examining it closely, we may find that this pigmented edge gives
evidence of progressive inflammation at the back of the eye, and
extending to continuous and increasing atrophy and retrocession of the
coats of the eye. This person is in danger of becoming rapidly made
short-sighted or of losing sight altogether. We must prohibit the use
of concave glasses for a certain length of time, and must adopt active
and effectual measures for subduing the atrophic inflammation. In the
other patient the ophthalmoscope may show us but little stretching or
waste, and that not progressive, and will enable us then to calm his
fears, to prescribe appropriate glasses, and to dismiss him to his
occupation with ease of mind and safety. So with sudden lose of sight
from intra-ocular haemorrhage, the ophthalmoscope gives us information
which could never have been guessed at without it, and guides us, not
only to the local knowledge, but to the constitutional information
essential for cure.

There are certain conditions of the eye which may warn any one that it
is desirable that the condition of the vision ought to be investigated
by the ophthalmoscope. Rapidly increasing short-sightedness is one of
the most marked, and when this becomes associated with weakness of
sight and loss of acuteness in the perception of small objects, the
warning is very urgent. A diminution in the field of vision is another
important indication of internal changes in the eye, of which only the
ophthalmoscope can detect the true nature. It would be difficult,
perhaps, to say whether more mischief is done and more suffering is
caused by the total neglect of such symptoms or by their ignorant
palliation by the aid of common spectacles, chosen empirically,
because they facilitate vision for the time. The great use of the
ophthalmoscope, then, is this: that it arms us with an instrument of
precision, by which we can determine the precise local condition of
the parts of the eye in which the function of sight is resident and
through which it is regulated. If it cannot do all that we might ask,
it is because the sense of sight is in truth a cerebral function, of
which the eye is only an instrument; and in dealing with cerebral
affections of the sight, it can indeed give us information which
without it we should lack, but it leaves still to be desired more
intimate acquaintance with first causes, which at present we can only
discuss inferentially. To the amateur in science, and to the lover of
nature, it discloses an exquisite spectacle, unknown till now, that
carries {127} observation into the inner chambers of the living eye,
and displays its wonders and its beauties. The observation is
perfectly painless, and may easily be effected: rabbits, for example,
submit to it with great calmness and composure, and at the College of
Physicians' _soirée_ last year, a little pet white rabbit of mine sat
up calmly in a box which I had made for the purpose, and was examined,
by the aid of a modification which I devised of Liebreich's
demonstrating ophthalmoscope, by many score of observers. Mine has the
advantage of being adapted for use even amid a blaze of light, and it
cannot easily be disarranged; two qualities valuable in an instrument
for demonstration.


From The Lamp.



  The mother stood at the window.
    The son he lay in bed;
  "Here's a procession, Wilhelm;
    Wilt not look out?" she said.

  "I am so ill, my mother,
    In the world I have no part;
  I think upon dead Gretchen,
    And a death-pang rends my heart."

  "Rise up; we will to Kevlaar;
    Will staff and rosary take;
  God's Mother there will cure thee,--
    Thy sick heart whole will make."

  The Church's banner fluttered,
    The Church's hymns arose;
  And unto fair Cöln city
    The long procession goes.

  The mother joined the pilgrims,
    Her sick son leadeth she;
  And both sing in the chorus,
    "_Gelobt seyst du, Marie!_"    [Footnote 22]

      [Footnote 22: "Praised be thou, Mary!"]


  The holy Mother in Kevlaar
    To-day is well arrayed,--
  To-day hath much to busy her.
    For many sick ask her aid.


  And many sick people bring her
    Such offerings as are meet;
  Many waxen limbs they bring her,
    Many waxen hands and feet.

  And who a wax hand bringeth,
    His hand is healed that day;
  And who a wax foot bringeth,
    With sound feet goes away.

  Many went there on crutches
    Who now on the rope can spring;
  Many play now on the viol
    Whose hands could not touch a string.

  The mother she took a waxen light.
    And shaped therefrom a heart;
  "Take that to the Mother of Christ," she said,
    "And she will heal thy smart."

  He sighed, and took the waxen heart,
    And went to the church in woe;
  The tears from his eyes fell streaming,
    The words from his heart came low.

  "Thou that art highly blessed,
    Thou Mother of Christ!" said he;
  "Thou that art queen of heaven,
    I bring my griefs to thee.

  I dwell in Cöln with my mother;
    In Cöln upon the Rhine,
  Where so many hundred chapels
    And so many churches shine.

  And near unto us dwelt Gretchen;
    But dead is Gretchen now.
  Marie, I bring a waxen heart,--
    My heart's despair heal thou.

  Heal thou my sore heart-sickness;
    So I will sing to thee
  Early and late with fervent love,
    "_Gelobt seyst du, Marie!_"



  The sick son and the mother
    In one chamber slept that night;
  And the holy Mother of Jesus
    Gild in with footsteps light

  She bowed her over the sick man's bed,
    And one there hand did lay
  Upon his throbbing bosom,
    Then smiled and passed away.

  It seemed a dream to the mother,
    And she had yet seen more
  But that her sleep was broken,
    For the dogs howled at the door.

  Upon his bed extended
    Her son lay, and was dead;
  And o'er his thin pale visage streamed
    The morning's lovely red.

  Her hands the mother folded.
    Yet not a tear wept she;
  But sang in low devotion,
    "_Gelobt seyst du, Marie!_"



From The Reader.


_Ancient Laws of Ireland_. Vol. I. Printed for Her Majesty's
Stationery Office. (London: Longman. Dublin: Thorn.)

This is a curious book, throwing some glimmerings of light upon a very
remote and obscure period of Irish history. In 1852 a government
commission, called the "Brehon Law Commission," was issued to the Lord
Chancellor of Ireland, Lord Rosse, Dean Graves, Dr. Petrie, and
others, appointing them to carry into effect the selection,
transcription, and translation of certain documents in the Gaelic
tongue containing portions of the ancient laws of Ireland, and the
preparation of the same for publication. In pursuance of this, the
commissioners employed Dr. O'Donovan and Professor O'Curry, two Gaelic
scholars of high distinction, to transcribe and translate various law
tracts in the Irish language in the library of Trinity College,
Dublin, of the Royal Irish Academy, of the British Museum, and in the
Bodleian Library at Oxford. The transcriptions occupy more than 5,000
manuscript pages, including all the law tracts which it was thought
necessary to publish, and have nearly all been translated; but the two
chosen scholars did not live to complete and revise their
translations. The portion now published was prepared for the press by
W. Neilson, Hancock, LL.D., first in conjunction with Dr. O'Donovan,
and, after his death, with the Rev. Mr. O'Mahony, professor of Irish
in the university of Dublin. It is a volume of some 300 pages, the
Irish on one page and the translation opposite, containing the first
part of the _Senchus Mor_ (we are not told how much is to follow),
treating of the law of distress or distraint, with an Irish
introduction, and various Irish glosses and commentaries on the text.

The title _Senchus Mor_  (pronounced "Shanchus Môr") for which seven
or {130} eight different derivations are suggested, appears to mean
"the great old laws," or "the great old decisions." The chief
manuscripts of it which are known to exist are three in Trinity
College, Dublin, and one in the Harleian collection in the British
Museum, and the earliest of these is assigned to _circa_ A.D. 1300.
But quotations from the _Senchus Mor_ are found in "Cormac's
Glossary," the greater part of which was probably composed in the
ninth or tenth century, and the date of the original compilation is
put by good judges, on various evidence, at A.D. 438 to 441. It is, in
short, a codification and revision, under the direction of St.
Patrick, of the judgments of the pagan Brehons. Three kings, three
poets, and three Christian missionaries (of whom Patrick was one) were
combined in this work, and the code then established remained the
national law of Ireland for nearly twelve centuries. The pagan laws
embodied in this revised code were in force during a period of unknown
antiquity, prior to the introduction of Christianity to the island.

  "The _Senchus Mor_ has been selected by the commissioners for early
  publication as being one of the oldest and one of the most important
  portions of the ancient laws of Ireland which have been preserved. It
  exhibits the remarkable modification which these laws of pagan
  origin underwent, in the fifth century, on the conversion of the
  Irish to Christianity.

  "This modification was ascribed so entirely to the influence of St.
  Patrick that the _Senchus Mor_ is described as having been called in
after times 'Cain Patraic,' or Patrick's law.

  "The _Senchus Mor_ was so much revered, that the Irish judges,
  called Brehons, were not authorized to abrogate anything contained
  in it.

  "The original text, of high antiquity, has been made the subject of
  glosses and commentaries of more recent date; and the _Senchus Mor_
  would appear to have maintained its authority among the native Irish
  until the beginning of the seventeenth century, or for a period of
  1,200 years.

  "The English law, introduced by King Henry the Second in the twelfth
  century, for many years scarcely prevailed beyond the narrow limits of
  the English pale (comprising the present counties of Louth, Meath,
  Westmeath, Kildare, Dublin, and Wicklow). Throughout the rest of
  Ireland the Brehons still administered their ancient laws amongst
  the native Irish, who were practically excluded from the privileges
  of the English law. The Anglo-Irish, too, adopted the Irish laws to
  such an extent that efforts were made to prevent their doing so by
  enactments first passed at the parliament of Kilkenny in the
  fortieth year of King Edward III. (1367), and subsequently renewed
  by Stat. Henry VII., c. 8, in 1495. So late as the twenty-fourth and
  twenty-fifth years of the reign of King Henry VIII. (1534) George
  Cromer, archbishop of Armagh and primate of Ireland, obtained a
  formal pardon for having used the Brehon laws. In the reign of Queen
  Mary, 1554, the Earl of Kildare obtained an eric of 340 cows for the
  death of his foster-brother, Robert Nugent, under the Brehon law.

  "The authority of the Brehon laws continued until the power of the
  Irish chieftains was finally broken in the reign of Queen Elizabeth,
  and all the Irish were received into the king's immediate protection
  by the proclamation of James I. This proclamation, followed as it
  was by the complete division of Ireland into counties, and the
  administration of the English laws throughout the entire country,
  terminated at once the necessity for, and the authority of, the
  ancient Irish laws.

  "The wars of Cromwell, the policy pursued by King Charles II. at the
  restoration, and the results of the revolution of 1688, prevented any
  revival of the Irish laws; and before the end of the seventeenth
  century the whole race of judges (Brehons) and professors (Ollamhs)
  of the Irish laws appears to have become extinct."


Portions of the text of the _Senchus Mor_, as we now have it, are held
by Gaelic scholars to be in the language of the fifth century, in what
was called the _Bérla Feini_ dialect; other portions translated from
that ancient form into Gaelic of the thirteenth century. Various
ancient Irish glosses and commentaries accompany the text, and also an
introduction of high antiquity, giving an account of the origin of the
_Senchus Mor_.

  "Patrick came to Erin to baptize and to disseminate religion among
  the Gaeidhil--_i.e._, in the ninth year of, the reign of Theodosius,
  and in the fourth year of the reign of Laeghairè [pronounced Layorie
  or Layrie], son of Niall; king of Erin." The combination of the
  Roman pagan laws with Christian doctrine in the Theodosian code
  received imperial sanction in A.D. 438, and was at once adopted both
  in the eastern and western empires. St. Patrick, Dr. Hancock
  remarks, a Roman citizen, a native of a Roman province, and an
  eminent Christian missionary, would be certain to obtain early
  intelligence of the great reform of the laws of the empire and of
  the great triumph of the Christian church. Having now been six years
  in Erin, and established his influence there, he attempted
  successfully a similar reform in that remote island, and the
  composition of the _Senchus Mor_ was accordingly commenced in that
  same year, 438, and completed in about four years.

  "In ancient Irish books the name of the place where they were
  composed is usually mentioned. The introduction to the _Senchus Mor_
  contains this information, but is very peculiar in representing the
  book as having been composed at different places in different
  seasons of the year: 'It was Teamhair in the summer and in the
  autumn, on account of its cleanness and pleasantness during these
  seasons; and Rath-guthaird was the place during the winter and the
  spring, on account of the nearness of its fire-wood and water, and
  on account of its warmth in the time of winter's cold.'

  "Teamhair, now Tara, was, at the time the _Senchus Mor_ was
  composed, the residence of King Laeghairè, the monarch of Erin, and
  of his chief poet Dubhthach Mac ua Lugair, who took such a leading
  part in the work.

  "Teamhair ceased to be the residence of the kings of Ireland after
  the death of King Dermot, in A.D. 565, about a century and a quarter
  after the _Senchus Mor_ was composed. Remains are, after the lapse
  of nearly 1,400 years, to be still found, the most remarkable of
  their kind in Ireland, which attest the ancient importance of the

In the introduction a curious account is given of St. Patrick's manner
of dealing with the existing "professors of the sciences," and his
admission of the claim of inspiration on behalf of his pagan

  "Patrick requested of the men of Erin to come to one place to hold a
  conference with him. When they came to the conference the gospel of
  Christ was preached to them all; and when the men of Erin heard of
  the killing of the living and the resuscitation of the dead, and all
  the power of Patrick since his arrival in Erin, and when they saw
  Laeghairè with his Druids overcome by the great signs and miracles
  _wrought_ in the presence of the men in Erin, they bowed down, in
  obedience to the will of God and Patrick.

  "Then Laeghairè said: 'It is necessary for you, O men of Erin, that
  every other law should be settled and arranged by us, as well as
  this.' 'It is better to do so,' said Patrick. It was then that all
  the professors of the sciences in Erin were assembled and each of
  them exhibited his art before Patrick, in the presence of every
  chief in Erin.

  "It was then that Dubhthach was ordered to exhibit the judgments and
  all the poetry of Erin, and every law which prevailed among the men of
  Erin, through the law of nature, and {132} the law of the seers, and
  in the judgments of the island of Erin, and in the poets.

  "They had foretold that the bright word of blessing would
  come--_i.e._, the law of the letter; for it was the Holy Spirit that
  spoke and prophesied through the mouths of the just men who were
  formerly in the island of Erin, as he had prophesied through the
  mouths of the chief prophets and noble fathers in the patriarchal
  law; for the law of nature had prevailed where the written law did
  not reach.

  "Now the judgments of true nature which the Holy Ghost had spoken
  through the mouths of the Brehons and just poets of the men of Erin,
  from the first occupation of this island down to _the reception_ of
  the faith, were all exhibited by Dubhthach to Patrick. What did not
  clash with the Word of God in the written law and in the New
  Testament, and with the consciences of the believers, was confirmed
  in the laws of the Brehons by Patrick and by the ecclesiastics and
  the chieftains of Erin; for the law of nature had been quite right,
  except the faith and its obligations, and the harmony of the church
  and the people. And this is the _Senchus Mor_.

  "Nine persons were appointed to arrange this book--viz., Patrick,
  and Benen, and Cairnech, three bishops; Laeghairè, and Corc, and
  Dairè, three kings; Rosa--_i.e._, Mac-Trechim, and
  Dubhthach--_i.e._, a doctor of the _Bérla Feini_, and
  Fergus--_i.e._, a poet.

  "Nofis, therefore, is the name of this book which they
  arranged--_i.e._, the knowledge of nine persons--and we have the
  proof of this above."

And in one of the ancient commentaries on the introduction we are

  "Before the coming of Patrick there had been remarkable revelations.
  When the Brehons deviated from the truth of nature, there appeared
  blotches upon their cheeks; as first of all on the right cheek of
  Sen Mac Aige, whenever he pronounced a false judgment, but they
  disappeared again when he had passed a true judgment, etc.

  "Connla never passed a false judgment, through the grace of the Holy
  Ghost, which was upon him.

  "Sencha Mac Col Cluin was not wont to pass judgment until he had
  pondered upon it in his breast the night before. When Fachtna, his
  son, had passed a false judgment, if, in the time of fruit, all the
  fruit of the territory in which it happened fell off in one night,
  etc.; if in time of milk, the cows refused their calves; but if he
  passed a true judgment the fruit was perfect on the trees; hence he
  received the name of Fachtna Tulbrethach.

  "Sencha Mac Aililla never pronounced a false judgment without
  getting three permanent blotches on his face for each judgment.
  Fitliel had the truth of nature, so that he pronounced no false
  judgment. Morann never pronounced a judgment without having a chain
  around his neck. 'When he pronounced a false judgment the chain
  tightened around his neck. If he passed a true one it expanded down
  upon him."

Corc and Dairè were territorial chieftains, or minor kings. Laeghairè,
son of Niall of the Nine Hostages, was monarch of Erin; his reign
commenced A.D. 428, four years before the arrival of Patrick, and
ended with his life in 458, one year after the foundation of Armagh by
that great Christian missionary. Laeghairè is usually called the first
Christian king of Ireland, but it seems more likely from the evidence
we have that he himself did not become a Christian, although he
acknowledged the merit of St. Patrick, and gave him permission to
preach and baptize, on condition that the peace of the kingdom should
not be disturbed. Travellers in our time, by mail-steamers from
Holyhead and the Island of Druids, may some of them not know that
Kingstown is a name given, but a few years ago, to "Dunleary"--that
is, the fortress of King Laeghairè, when George IV., by graciously
landing there, supplanted the {133} memory of the ancient king.
Dubhthach, Fergus, and Rossa, or Rosa, were eminent poets and learned
men; they exhibited "from memory what their predecessors had
_sung_"--for much of the ancient law was preserved in the form of
verse, and Dubhthach, "royal poet of Erin," at the compilation of the
_Senchus Mor_, put a thread of poetry round it for Patrick. Many parts
of the work as we have it are in verse.

The subject of that part of the _Senchus Mor_ which is contained in
the volume before us is the "Law of Distress"--that is, the legal
rules under which distraint was to be made of persons, cattle, or
goods, in a great variety of cases. To a general reader, the legal
verbosity and trivial repetitions make the book hard to read; but
imbedded in it, so to speak, are many curious little fragments of a
very remote and obscure social system, and some of these we shall
proceed to set before our readers.

Fines in cases of death, bodily hurt, insult, or injury of whatever
kind were arranged according to the dignity of the parties concerned.
The "honor-price" is the same for a king, a bishop, a chief
law-professor, and a chief poet who can compose a quatrain

At a feast, "his own proper kind of food" is assigned to persons of
different rank--as, for example, the haunch for the king, bishop, and
literary doctor; a leg for the young chief; a steak for the queen; the
heads for the charioteers; and a _croichet_ [unknown part] for "a king
opposed in his government."

Should a person have property, it shall not increase his honor-price,
unless he do good with it.

A king with a personal blemish was allowed with difficulty, if at all.

In case of distress by or on a person of distinction, _fasting_ was a
necessary legal form--the creditor had to "fast upon" his debtor until
a pledge was given for the claim. Something very similar to this
curious process is found in the ancient Hindoo laws, and appears to be
practised in India to the present day, under the name of "_dherna_,"
According to Sir William Jones, the creditor sat at the debtor's door,
abstaining from food, till, for fear of becoming accountable for the
man's death, the debtor paid him. As to the Irish mode of "fasting
upon" a debtor of the chieftain grade, exact particulars are not
given; but it would seem that on presentation of the claim of
distraint at the residence of the debtor the "fasting" began, and if
the debtor did not pay or give a pledge, but allowed his creditor to
go on fasting (it is not said for how long), he became liable to
double the debt, and other penalties.

If one of inferior grade comes to sue one of the chieftain grade, he
must be accompanied, on his part, by one of the chieftain grade.

Among articles enumerated as coming under various rather puzzling
rules and exemptions in cases of distraint, we find, weapons for
battle; a racehorse; a harp-comb, and other requisites for music; toys
for the children--viz., "hurlets, balls, and hoops," and also "little
dogs and cats;" the "eight parts which constitute a mill;" the fork
and cauldron; the kneading-trough and sieve; the bed-furniture--
_i.e._, plaids and bolsters; the reflector or mirror; the chess-board;
the seven valuable articles of the house of the chieftain--viz.,
"cauldron, vat, goblet, mug, reins, horse-bridle, and pin;" the
cattle-bells, the griddle, the "branch-light of each person's house;"
the lap-dog of a queen, the watch-dog, the hunting hound; implements
of weaving and of spinning.

Fines and penalties were provided, among other cases, for withholding
the food-tribute from a king or chief; for the deficiency of a feast;
for neglecting the due clearing of roads in war, or in winter, or at
time of a fair; for neglecting the due preparation of a fair-green;
for neglecting any persons or things cast ashore by the sea (in this
case the "territory" was liable); {134} for neglecting "the common net
of the tribe;" for breaking the laws of rivers and fishing; for
neglecting the due maintenance and medical treatment of the sick; for
not helping in the erection of the common fort of the tribe; for not
blessing a completed work. This last is a curious offence. "It was
customary," we read in a note to p. 132, "for workmen, on completing
any work, and delivering it to their employer, to give it their
blessing. This was the 'abarta,' and if this blessing was omitted, the
workman was subject to a fine, or loss of a portion of his fee, equal
to a seventh part of his allowance of food while employed--the food to
which a workman was entitled being settled by the law in proportion to
the rank of the art or trade which he professed. And it would appear
that the first person who saw it finished and neglected the blessing
was also fined." To the present day, among Irish peasants, it is
thought a marked omission if, in transferring or praising, or even
taking notice of, any possession, especially if it be a living
creature, one neglects to say "God bless it!" or "I wish you luck with
it!" or some such good word; and where you see any work going on, it
is right to say, "God bless the work!"

Distress was levied on defaulters for share in building "the common
bridge of the tribe;" for beef to nourish the chief "during the time
that he is making laws;" for the "cow from every tribe," sent on
demand, "when the king is on the frontier of a territory with a host."
"Now, the custom is that this cow is taken from some one man of them
for the whole number. They make good that cow to him only." Also for
the victualling of a fort; for guarding and feeding captives; for the
maintenance of a fool, or of a madwoman, or of an aged person, or of a
child. "Five cows is the fine for neglecting to provide for the
maintenance of the fool who has land, and _power of amusing;_ and his
having these is the cause of the smallness of the fine. Ten cows is
the fine for neglecting to provide for the maintenance of every
madwoman; and the reason that the fine is greater than that of the
fool is, for the madwoman is not a minstrel, and has not land. If the
fool has not land, or has not power of amusing, the fine for
neglecting to provide for his maintenance is equal to that of the
madwoman who can do no work." "A 'cumhal' of eight cows is the fine
for neglecting to maintain any family senior who has land after his
eighty-eighth year. As to each man of unknown age after his ninetieth
year, his land shall pass from the family who have not maintained him
to an extern family who have maintained him. As to every senior of a
family and man of unknown age without land, a 'cumhal' of five 'seds'
is the fine for not maintaining him."

There are fines for evil words, false reports, slander, nicknames, and
satire. The poets were supposed to have the power of turning a man's
hair gray by force of satire, or even of killing him. There are also
fines for "failure of _hosting_," "the head of every family of the lay
grades is to go into the battle;" "every one who has a shield to
shelter him, and who is fit for battle, is to go upon the plundering
excursion." "Three services of attack" are enumerated--on pirates,
aggressors, and wolves; and "three services of defence"--to secure
"promontories [hills?], lonely passes, and boundaries."

"Distress of three days for using thy horse, thy boat, thy basket, thy
cart, thy chariot, for wear of thy vessel, thy vat, thy great
cauldron, thy cauldron; for 'dire'-fine in respect of thy house, for
stripping thy herb-garden, for stealing thy pigs, thy sheep; for
wearing down thy hatchet, thy wood-axe; for consuming the things cast
upon thy beach by the sea, for injuring thy meeting-hill, for digging
thy silver mine, for robbing thy bee-hive, for the fury of thy fire,
for the crop of thy sea marsh, for the 'dire'-fine in respect to thy
corn-rick, thy turf, thy ripe {135} corn, thy ferns, thy furze, thy
rushes, if without permission; for slighting thy law, for slighting
thy inter-territorial law, for enforcing thy 'Urradhus' law; _in the
case_ of good fosterage, _in the case_ of bad fosterage, the fosterage
fee in the case over fosterage _for_ cradle clothes; for recovering
the dues of the common tillage land, for recovering the dues of joint
fosterage, for recovering the dues of lawful relationship, for
unlawful tying, over-fettering of horses, breaking a _fence_ to let
cows into the grass; breaking it before calves _to let them_ to the
cows. The restitution of the milk is in one day."

There are also fines for quarrelling in a fort; for disturbing the
meetinghill; for stripping the slain; for refusing a woman "the
longed-for morsel;" for scaring the timid, with a mask or otherwise;
for causing a person to blush; for carrying a boy on your back into a
house so as to strike his head; for love-charms and "bed-witchcraft;"
for neglect in marriage; for "setting the charmed morsel for a
dog--_i.e._, to prove it;" for failure as to "the safety of a
hostage;" for "withholding his fees from the Brehon."

For mutilation and for murder, the "eric-fine and honor-price" varied
according to circumstances.

Distress of five days' stay is "for not erecting the tomb of thy
chief;" "for false boasting of a dead woman;" for satirizing her after
her death; for causing to wither any kind of tree; for the eric-fine
for an oath of secret murder.

In certain cases, persons were exempted from distress for a longer or
shorter period. For example: "A man upon whom _the test of the
cauldron_ is enjoined--_i.e._, to go to a testing cauldron--and he
shall have exemption until he returns;" "a man whose wife is in
labor;" "a man who collects the food-tribute of a chief."

The bodies and bones of the dead are protected by penalties. There is
a fixed fine and "honor-price" for carrying away the remains of a
bishop out of his tomb (as relics?); also _breaking bones_ in a
churchyard, "to take the marrow out of them for sorcerers." "The bone
of a king drowned in the stream, or of a hermit condemned to the sea
and the wind," belongs to the people of the land where it happens to
be cast, until the tribe of the deceased pay for its redemption.

There are penalties for "lookers-on" at an ill deed; and these are
divided into three classes: "a looker-on of full fine" is one who
"instigates, and accompanies, and escorts, and exults;" of half fine,
one who does not instigate, but does the other acts; of quarter-fine,
one who "accompanies only, and does not prohibit, and does not save."
Clerics, women, and boys are exempt.

One is accountable (in different degrees) for one's own crime, the
crime of a near kinsman, the crime of a middle kinsman, and the crime
of a kinsman in general.

"There are four who have an interest in every one who sues or is
sued"--the tribe of the father, the tribe of the mother, the chief,
the church; also the tribe of the foster-father.

"Every tribe is liable after the absconding of a member of it, after
warning, after notice, and after lawful waiting."

The notes to this volume are few and unimportant, and further
elucidations on many points are much to be desired. The printing of
the original Gaelic along with the translation must add greatly to the
cost of the work, but the value of the text to philologers may perhaps
make this worth while. Only we hope that this laudable and interesting
undertaking, of the publication of the ancient laws and institutes of
Ireland, will not, like other Irish schemes that could be named, make
a costly and elaborate beginning, and then, exhausting its means in
the outset, break down altogether. This first volume gives us a strong
desire to see the proposed plan carried into {136} completion without
undue delay. It would appear that all the heavy part of the literary
work of it is already done.



_The Transparency of the Sea. _--At a late meeting of the French
Academy of Science, M. Cialdi and Father Secchi sent the result of
some observations they have made "On the Transparency of the Sea." The
experiments were made at the end of April, on board a vessel, near
Civita Vecchia, from six to twelve miles from land, and at depths
varying from 90 to 300 metres, the sea being perfectly clear and
tranquil. Discs of different diameters and colors attached to wires
being plunged horizontally under water, showed that the maximum depth
at which the largest (a white disc 3-1/4 metres in diameter) could be
seen was 42-1/2 metres, the sun being elevated 60-1/4° above the
horizon. With a vertical sun the depth of visibility shall be 45
metres. The color of the disc appeared at first a light green, then a
clear blue, which became darker as it was lowered, until it could no
longer be distinguished from the surrounding medium. Discs of a yellow
or sandy color disappeared at less than half the depth of the white
discs--that is to say, between 17 and 24 metres. The height of the sun
and the clearness of the sky greatly influence the depth at which
objects may be seen. Viewing the light reflected from a submerged
white disc through a spectroscope, the red and yellow colors were
found to be rapidly absorbed. As it was sunk deeper in the sea a
portion of the green became absorbed, the other colors remaining
unaltered. The authors remark that this luminous absorption of the
more refrangible rays is what would be expected from the calorific
opacity and the actinic transparency of water. From the foregoing
results, they doubt whether the bottom of the sea has ever been seen
at a depth of 100 metres, as it is more probable that the mud and sand
brought up by waves has been mistaken for such: the fact that the
bottom of the sea is a worse reflector than the white disc,
strengthens this supposition.

_Irish Limestone Caverns._--At a late meeting of the Cork Cuvierian
Society, Professor Harkness, so well known for his investigations of
Scottish rocks, announced the discovery of the bones of mammals in a
limestone quarry at Middleton, County Cork. The rock consists of the
ordinary limestone of the district, in one part much fissured, and
under this fissured portion there is a mass of brown clay, the
thickness of which cannot be determined, as its base is not seen. This
reddish-brown clay under the limestone is the deposit which furnishes
the fossil bones, and which, doubtless, fills the space which was once
a natural grotto. Beside the bones, which are in a fragmentary
condition, there are also present teeth and antlers. The latter are
much broken, and do not afford sufficient character to enable the
species to be accurately determined. They seem, however, to belong to
two forms, one of which had the beam and branches smooth and
sub-compressed, features which indicate the antlers of the reindeer;
and the other with the horns rounded and rough, a form of surface
which marks the antlers of the common stag. Of these antlers two
portions which appear to belong to the reindeer have been cut while in
the fresh state; and the faces of the cuts being almost smooth, this
cutting appears to have been effected by a fine regular-edged
instrument rather than, by a serrated tool. The leg bones which appear
in this clay have all been broken, for the most part longitudinally,
except the carpal and tarsal, and other small bones of the
extremities. This longitudinal fracturing of the long bones of the leg
is not known to occur in any mammalian remains which belong to a
period previous to that where we have evidence of the existence of
{137} the human race; and these broken bones afford evidence of the
occurrence of man, who, for the purpose of obtaining the marrow,
divided them in the direction most available for this object. Beside
the evidence afforded by the cut antlers and longitudinally divided
bones, there are other circumstances indicating the occurrence of man
in connection with these remains; one of these is the presence of
charred wood, which is equally disseminated through the clay with the
bones and teeth. This charred wood is the remains of the ancient fires
by means of which former human beings cooked their food.

_Is there an Open Arctic Sea?_--Sir Roderick Murchison, who answers
this question in the affirmative, gives the following arguments in
support of his opinion:--(1.) The fact has been well ascertained by
Scoresby and others, that every portion of the floating pack-ice north
of Spitzbergen is made up of frozen sea-water only, without a trace of
terrestrial icebergs like those which float down Baffin's Bay, or
those which, carrying blocks of stone and _débris_, float northward
from the land around the South Pole. (2.) The northern shores of
Siberia tell the same tale; for in their vast expanse the absence of
icebergs, or erratic blocks, or anything which could have been derived
from great or lofty masses of land, has been wen ascertained. (3.) As
a geologist, Sir R. Murchison could point out that this absence of
erratic blocks in northern Siberia has existed from that remote
glacial period when much larger tracts of northern Europe were
occupied by glaciers than at the present day. (4.) The traveller
Middendorf found the extreme northern promontory of Siberia, Taimyr,
clad with fir trees, while the immense tract of country to the south
of it was destitute of trees, showing a milder climate at that point
of Siberia nearest the pole.

_Food as a Means of Preventing Disease_,--It seems not at all
improbable that, as has been shown by Liebig in the case of plants,
most of those diseases which we at present attribute to the presence
of some morbid substance in the blood, are produced in the first
instance by the absence of some of the proper constituents of the
blood. The blood when abnormally composed will allow vegetable and
other growths to take place in it, thus producing painful symptoms;
but if it contained its suitable components, it is most probable that
it would be then enabled to resist the development of the materials we
refer to. In the case of the potato disease, there can hardly be a
doubt that the sap becomes deteriorated, owing to the absence of the
proper proportion of potash, prior to the development of the oïdium
which commits such ravages. The idea which we have given has not had
many advocates in this country, and we are glad to find that Mr.
Erasmus Wilson has in some measure lent his support to the theory.
Although Mr. Wilson does not go as deeply into the question as we
should wish, still he shows that food may well be employed not only in
preventing but in curing disease. If, he says, it be admitted that
food is the source of the elements of which the body is composed, what
kind of body can be expected in the case of a deficient supply of
food, whether that deficiency proceed from actual want, or from some
perverse theory of refinement, founded on a false conception of the
nature and objects of food, and ignorance of its direct convertibility
into the flesh and blood of man? We think Mr. Wilson is too determined
a supporter of flesh-eating tastes. If he had his way, he would
convert man into a decidedly carnivorous animal, and we do not think
that either experience or an appeal to the anatomy of the human
masticatory and digestive organs would bear out his views.--_Vide "On
Food as a Means of Prevention of Disease._"

_Are the Flint Implements from the Drift Authentic?_--A pamphlet has
appeared from the pen of Mr. Nicholas Whitley, of the Royal
Institution of Cornwall, in which it is attempted to be proved that
the so-called flint implements are not the result of workmanship. The
_Popular Science Review_ gives the following abstract of Mr. Whitley's
argument: (1.) _The "implements" are all of flint._ The tools employed
by men of the recognized archaeological stone age are made of stones
of various kinds, of which there are examples of serpentine, granular
greenstone, indurated claystone, trap greenstone, claystone, quartz,
syenite, chest, etc. Why, therefore, {138} should the only weapon in
the drift deposit be manufactured from flint solely? (2.) The
_"implements" are all of one class--axes_. Were they then a race of
carpenters? Man is a cooking animal; and if ten thousand axes have
been found, surely one seething-pot or drinking-cup ought to have
turned up. He needs shelter, but no remnant of his clothing or hut has
been found. Almost everywhere where there are chalk flints we find
axes, and nothing but axes. (3.) _There is a gradation in form_ from
the very rough fracture of the flint to the perfect almond-shaped
implement. Let the most enthusiastic believer in their authenticity
examine carefully the one thousand implements in the Abbeville museum,
and he would probably reject two-thirds as bearing no evidence of the
work of man. But it would be impossible for him to say where nature
ended and art began. (4.) Some of the implements are admirable
illustrations of the form produced by the natural fracture of the
egg-shaped flint nodule. (5.) It is supposed that these weapons were
used for cutting down timber and scooping out canoes. But it should be
remembered that the gravels in which they are found were formed during
a severe Arctic climate, in which no tree but a stunted birch could
have grown, certainly none large enough to form a canoe. (6.) _Their
number._ The implements are found by thousands in small areas, and in
numbers quite out of proportion to the thinly scattered population
that must have (if at all) then existed.

_The Sponge Fishery._--The main industry of the island of Crete is the
sponge fishery which is pursued on its coasts. It is chiefly carried
on by companionships of from twenty to thirty boats, for mutual
support and protection. The mode of operation preparatory to a dive is
very peculiar and interesting. The diver whose turn it is takes his
seat on the deck of the vessel, at either the bow or stern, and
placing by his side a large flat slab of marble, weighing about 25
lbs., to which is attached a rope of the proper length and thickness
(1-1/2 inch), he then strips, and is left by his companions to prepare
himself. This seems to consist in devoting a certain time to clearing
the passages of his lungs by expectoration, and highly inflating them
afterward; thus oxidizing his blood very highly by a repetition of
deep inspirations. The operation lasts from five to ten minutes, or
more, according to the depth; and during it the operator is never
interfered with by his companions, and seldom speaks or is spoken to;
he is simply watched by two of them, but at a little distance, and
they never venture to urge him or distract him in any way during the
process. When from some sensation, known only to himself, after these
repeated long-drawn and heavy inspirations, he deems the fitting
moment to have arrived, he seizes the slab of marble, and, after
crossing himself and uttering a prayer, plunges with it like a
returning dolphin into the sea, and rapidly descends. The stone is
always held during the descent directly in front of the head, at
arm's-length, and so as to offer as little resistance as possible;
and, by varying its inclination, it acts likewise as a rudder, causing
the descent to be more or less vertical, as desired by the diver. As
soon as he reaches the bottom he places the stone under his arm to
keep himself down, and then walks about upon the rock, or crawls under
its ledges, stuffing the sponges into a netted bag with a hooped
mouth, which is strung round his neck to receive them; but he holds
firmly to the stone or rope all the while, as his safeguard for
returning and for making the known signal at the time he desires it.
The hauling up is thus effected: The assistant who has hold of the
rope awaiting the signal, first reaches down with both hands as low as
he can, and there grasping the rope, with a great bodily effort raises
it up to nearly arm's-length over his head; the second assistant is
then prepared to make his grasp as low down as he can reach, and does
the same; and so the two alternately, and by a fathom or more at a
time, and with great rapidity, bring the anxious diver to the surface.
A heavy blow from his nostrils to expel the water and exhausted air
indicates to his comrades that he is conscious and breathes, a word or
two is then spoken by one of his companions to encourage him if he
seems much distressed, as is often the case; and the hearing of the
voice is said by them to be a great support at the moment of their
greatest state of exhaustion. A few seconds' rest at the surface, and
then the diver returns into the boat to recover, generally putting
{139} on an under-garment or jacket, to assist the restoration of the
animal heat he has lost, and to prevent the loss of more by the too
rapid evaporation of the water from his body.--_Travels in Crete._

_The Sun's Spots._--Father Secchi writes from Rome, under date of Aug.
8, to the _Reader_ as follows: I thank you for the interest you take
in the observations of the sun. The last large spot has been very
interesting for science, and I hope to be able to publish all the
drawings we have made of it by projection. Meanwhile I send you two of
them, photographed on a large scale. You will see in the printed
article which I send you, that I have been able to see the
_prominences_ and _depressions_ produced by the spot at the edge of
the sun; not only myself but also M. Tacchini. I regret that the
shortness of time does not allow me to copy the drawings made on that
occasion, but I send a copy of them to Mr. De la Rue, and you will see
them. As to the _willow-leaves_ and _rice-grains_ question, I think,
as you say, we are all right and all wrong. I will state clearly what
I see. On first placing the eye to the telescope, and in very good
moments of definition, the surface of the sun appears certainly to me
made up of many oblong bodies, which I think are the willow-leaves of
Mr. Nasmyth; their orientation is in every direction, but they take a
converging direction in the neighborhood of the spots, where they form
the tongues, currents, and such like. But this view is, as I said,
rather difficult to obtain, and many times I have looked for it quite
without success. Is this a defect of vision, or caused by the sun's
_changements?_ If by willow-leaves other things than these are
understood, I have not seen them. M. Airy seems to understand other
things, and then I am quite at a loss. This, therefore, is a matter
very problematic, and to be better studied. By projection on a large
scale in some beautiful moments of definition, these oblong bodies on
the general surface of the sun have been seen by my assistant also;
but generally they are not visible, but the sun appears like clouds.
As to the mobility of the solar surface, you can judge from the two
photographs that I send you; they have been made only at an interval
of twenty-four hours. I think we assisted at the outbreaking of the
spot, and at its arrangement from a great confusion of movements into
a regular transformation of an ordinary group of spots. The appearance
which I have seen is quite like that which takes place when a great
movement is excited in a stream of running water, which finally
resolves itself into some vortices which take their course
independently. The movement of these spots even alone is capable of
demonstrating materially what Mr. Carrington has found with great
labor--that there is in the sun a real drift of matter, since without
this it would be impossible to explain how the spot has been increased
in two days to a length twice as great as its breadth, this remaining
almost constant. But more of this in a particular memoir.


By John Henry Newman, D.D., of the Oratory of St. Philip Neri. London:
Longman, Green, Longman, Roberts & Green. 1865. 8vo., pp. 379.

Under this title, Dr. Newman has republished the charming
autobiography which originally appeared as an answer to the calumnies
of Charles Kingsley, and was entitled "_Apologia pro Vita Sua_,"
republished in a neat and attractive manner by the Appletons. We
earnestly recommend all our readers, whether they be Catholics or not,
who have not procured and read the "_Apologia_," to do so without
delay, if they wish to give themselves a rich intellectual treat. The
American edition is decidedly to be preferred, on account {140} of the
complete history it furnishes of the controversy with Mr. Kingsley
which led to the composition of the book. In England, this controversy
is already well-known to the entire religious and literary world, and
may be supposed by this time to have lost its interest. Dr. Newman's
autobiography will never lose its interest and value while the English
language remains; and for this reason, it was no doubt a wise thought
in the author to prepare it for posterity in a form wherein the local
and personal controversy which occasioned its being written should no
longer be connected with its proper subject-matter. No doubt, too, the
author felt some reluctance to perpetuate, in close connection with
his own personal history, the memory of the severe castigation which
he administered to his opponent. This is honorable to his delicate and
charitable sentiments. At the same time, the castigation was
necessary, it was just, it was not one whit too severe, and we owe a
debt of gratitude to Dr. Newman for having applied the terrible lash
which he possesses, but which he employs so seldom and usually so
lightly, in this case with all his strength to the shoulders of a
delinquent. There is a certain small class of writers in the English
Church, some of whom are Puseyites, others more or less broad in their
views, who violate all the laws of honorable and courteous warfare in
their attacks on the Catholic Church. They take the line of charging
fraud, forgery, lying, and utterly unprincipled and wicked motives and
maxims upon the hierarchy, priesthood, and other advocates of the
Catholic cause. One of the first and foremost of these was Mr.
Meyrick, of Oxford, the author of a disingenuous work against Catholic
morals, and one of Mr. Kingsley's defenders. This work of Mr.
Meyrick's was republished in this country with a more offensive
preface, by the Rev. A. C. Coxe, now the bishop of Western New York, a
person who has abjured all regard to the rules of common civility,
both in his public writings and speeches concerning the Catholic
clergy, and also in his private demeanor when he has happened to be
thrown into contact with them personally. This class of writers adopt
what Dr. Newman happily styles a mode of warfare which consists in
"poisoning the wells." That is, they seek to forestall all debate on
the merits of the Catholic question, by accusing the advocates of the
Catholic side of being liars by principle and on system; infamous
persons, who have no claim to decent treatment or even to a hearing.
There is but one course to be taken with opponents of this sort.
Argument, explanation, courtesy, are alike thrown away upon them. They
must be treated like guerrillas, and summary justice must be done up
on them, as the only means of self-defence, and as a salutary example
to others. They must be taught that they cannot have free license to
calumniate and vituperate the Catholic Church or its members with
impunity. How effectually this lesson was read to them by Dr. Newman,
is shown by the hearty applause which his book received from all
England, the evidence of which may be seen in the review of it which
appeared in the principal English periodicals.

We wish to be understood that the language we have used above has no
application to any but a few offending individuals, whose spirit and
manner are even more severely condemned by a large class of the
non-Catholic public than by Catholics themselves. It is very
gratifying to observe the respectful, moderate, and courteous tone
which many of the most illustrious of the recent advocates of the
Protestant side maintain toward the Church of Rome and her
distinguished and worthy members. Copying after Leibniz, the greatest
genius which the Protestant confession can boast of, we have, among
others, Guizot, Ranke, Dr. Pusey, Palmer; and in this country, William
R. Alger, who, albeit he has inadvertently repeated some of the
current misstatements of Catholic doctrine, has always shown a
fairness and generosity of spirit and a readiness to correct mistakes
which make him conspicuous among our honorable opponents. In this
species of candor and courtesy the most eminent writers of the
continent are still far before the most of those in England and
America. Dr. Newman himself and his compeers in the early Oxford
movement, even in their strongest and most pronounced expressions of
opinion against Rome and against various form of dissent, furnished
the most perfect specimens of the truly Christian and gentlemanly
style of polemics which English literature had yet {141} seen. Never
was there a man who kept his intellect and his varied gifts as a
writer more completely under the discipline of a strict conscience,
one who was more scrupulously just and fair, truthful and frank, yet
guarded and cautious, than John Henry Newman. He has the soul of
knightly chivalry in him; religious, fearless, modest, and
compassionate; loyal to the death to every sacred obligation, and
scorning a mean or deceitful act more than common men do treason and
perjury. Such a man ought to have been secure of honorable treatment;
and yet he has not been spared in the strife of tongues; and if he has
at last triumphed over calumny, it has only been by overpowering his
enemies with the superior weight of his armor and strength of his arm,
and not because his holy retirement and spotless name have been
respected. However, after long years, during whose lapse the English
people have disdained and slighted the man of genius and the pure
Christian who is one of the greatest ornaments of their literature, on
account of their intense hostility to his religion, their love of fair
play, and admiration for intellectual greatness and prowess, has
gained a signal victory, and we give them due credit for it. The
demand for the "_Apologia_" on its first publication in successive
numbers was so great that the Longmans were unable to keep up with it.
That it has not been unappreciated also in this country is proved by
the fact that four editions of the American reprint have been
exhausted. Of the book itself, it is almost superfluous to speak at
this late day. It will bear to be read and re-read, and the repeated
perusal, instead of wearying, only brings out new charms and occasions
an increasing delight. We have read and admired Dr. Newman's writings
for more than twenty years, but have never so fully appreciated the
wonderful subtlety and vigor of his intellect as we have done since
reading his last book. It is like the keen, bright, dexterously
wielded, and irresistible scimeter of Saladin. At his conversion
Anglicanism lost a champion far more capable than any other of coping
with its stoutest antagonists, and the Catholic Church gained over the
most formidable of her foes who wields an English pen. Even as now
reproduced by himself, as a mere history of the past, his method of
defending the Church of England against Rome appears to us so much
more subtle and plausible, and adroitly managed, not through any
designed artifice on his part, but from the acuteness with which his
mind detects all the most defensible points of his own position and
the most assailable ones of the opposite, than that of any other
writer, that we instinctively say, no man but John Henry Newman could
fully refute himself. Each successive post at which he pauses in his
gradual approach to the Catholic Church seems as defensible as the
others which he has abandoned as untenable. At his very last halting
place, he has the air of a man who is about to defend himself there to
the last, and is not to be driven further. Indeed, he was not _driven_
by any mind more powerful than his own; for although the arguments of
Cardinal Wiseman had considerable weight with him, neither he nor any
other Catholic writer really answered the difficulties which were in
his own mind, or fully refuted, in a manner consonant to his
intellectual convictions, the plausible arguments by which he
justified to himself and recommended to others a continuance in the
Anglican communion. He was driven only by his innate love of truth,
his conscientiousness, his logical fidelity to his own first
principles, and the grace of God. Humanly speaking, his conversion was
one of the most unlikely events which has ever taken place. Ten years
before it occurred he was at an immense distance from the Catholic
Church, and advancing toward it by a most circuitous route, with the
greatest apparent, reluctance. We rise from the perusal of his own
record of his journey with a sentiment of astonishment that he ever
reached his destination. When we remember the light in which Dr.
Newman was regarded by his own school in the days of his leadership at
Oxford, it appears to us that the estimate formed of him was both
singularly just and singularly incorrect. It was just in one way,
inasmuch as, whatever his modesty may suggest to the contrary, he was
more than any other man the leader of the movement. It was incorrect,
inasmuch as a far greater originative force in causing this movement
and a far greater comprehension of its principles were attributed to
him than he or any other man possessed. The {142} movement itself
created its own agents, and bore them on with a power infinitely
greater than they possessed of themselves. Dr. Newman was a master to
inferior and more backward scholars; but was himself only a scholar,
who began with the first and simplest rudiments of Catholicity. His
merit consisted in this, that while many paused at various stages of
elementary and partial knowledge, he pushed on to the mastery of final
results and completed his curriculum. Considering what he had to
learn, and that he had in great measure to be his own teacher, the
space of ten years was really a short rather than a long period for
the process.

The history of this process constitutes the direct object and the
principal value and charm of the "_Apologia_," and the "History of My
Religious Opinions." The mind of the author is, however, one of those
full streams that overflows its bounds, and whose _obiter dicta_ are
frequently the richest and most precious of its effusions. There are
several passages in this work falling within the scope of this remark.
We can only call attention to two, without quoting them. One is found
on pp. 266-273 of the American edition of the "_Apologia_," and
relates to the doctrine of original sin. Another, on pp. 275-291,
concerns the question of the relations between faith and science and
reason and authority. In the very act of giving a reason for avoiding
the discussion of these questions, the author has given in a short
compass, one of the most admirable disquisitions we have ever read.
There is no passage in all his writings which exhibits better the fine
discrimination of his thought, and the perspicuity and beauty of his
style, and in both these respects it is a specimen of the most perfect
logical and rhetorical art.

We feel bound, however, to enter one _caveat_ against a part of Dr.
Newman's philosophy, which we regard not so much as being a positive
error as a defect, and which has been quite distinctly brought out by
the _Westminster Review_, as a part of his defence of Catholicity
which presents a weak side to the infidel. This defect is one
originating in the philosophy which has prevailed in England, and in
which Dr. Newman was educated; one which has always been conspicuous
in the writers of the Oxford school, and which appears to us to leave
a great _hiatus_ in their theology. This defect may be described,
though it is not defined, as the doctrine _probability_, We have no
hesitation in agreeing with Dr. Newman in the maxim, that in most
matters "probability is the guide of life." We have heretofore
thought, however, that he extended this principle into the domain of
natural and revealed religion so far as to agree with those writers
who consider their fundamental verities as being merely more probable
than their logical contradictories. After carefully weighing his
words, we have come to the conclusion that he does not use the word in
this sense, when he speaks of the great truths of religion. That is,
he does not admit that there is any real probability, though a lesser
one, in the infidel negations, but only a metaphysical possibility. He
allows of a moral certainty which admits of no prudent doubt to the
contrary, but does not reach to a metaphysical certainty. Here again
we agree with him partially, and if we understand rightly the
ecclesiastical decisions on the point, we think his doctrine is one
that has official sanction. That is, we regard, with him, the evidence
of revealed religion and of the authority of the Catholic Church, as
apprehended by the light of our natural intelligence in that act which
theologians call "the preamble to faith," as being in the order of
probability and incapable of generating more than a moral certainty.
That certitude of belief which excludes possibility of error, we
regard as an effect of the gift of faith imparting a supernatural
firmness to the intellectual assent. We dissent from Dr. Newman, when
he extends this doctrine to our ultimate belief in God, and we think
it necessary, in order to give a firm basis even to a true
probability, that we should affirm the absolute intuition of that idea
of God, from which we are able to deduce his attributes; and,
moreover, affirm also the perfect metaphysical demonstrability of all
these attributes as expressed in the Christian conception of God. We
dislike very much any form of expression which implies that we believe
in God on a probability, which is tantamount to saying that "it is
probable there is a God." Even if we say that the being of God is
morally certain, we still leave it possible that there is no God. If
we deduce {143} the being of God from the ultimate principle of the
certainty of our own existence, we make our self-consciousness, our
reason, the laws of our own being, the standard of right and truth
which we establish within ourselves, more certain, and to us more
ultimate than God. We become our own centre and stand-point, our own
ultimate judge, a light and a law to ourselves, really subsisting in
an intellectual independence of God. This is ceding, in our view, to
the pure infidel rationalist all the ground he wants, which is simply
liberty for every one to speculate about the cause of all things, and
their procession to the ultimate end, as he lists. It is true he will
do it without our leave, whatever our way of stating Christian truth;
but if we admit, or do not clearly repudiate, his first principles, he
will point out a logical defect in our argument, and show that we are
inconsistent; and then the philosophical proof of Christianity, which
consists in demonstrating the conception of God from first principles
intuitively certain, and showing that none of the Christian doctrines
which we received from testimony are incompatible with these first
principles, will, in our hands, be defectively managed.

It is proper to state, however, that Dr. Newman does not propose
anything dogmatically on this important question, but rather indicates
that he has not yet obtained a solution which satisfies him.

By M. l'Abbé J. E. Darras; First American from the last French
edition. With an Introduction and Notes by the most Rev. M. J.
Spalding, D.D., Archbishop of Baltimore. Vol. I. 8vo., pp. 675. New
York: P. O'Shea.

The appearance of this volume realizes very fully all we were led to
expect from its prospectus. The first impression made upon us by its
exterior dress is that this is an attractive and readable book; two
qualities of a work on history which, whatever be the learning,
accuracy, and completeness displayed in its more intimate perusal, are
not to be despised. We are glad to meet with a life of the Church
which does not look like a catalogue of dried and dead specimens for a
scientific museum. The majority of the volumes which issue from the
press now-a-days like a literary flood, owe their success a vast deal
more to their beautiful typography, chaste binding, and other general
attractive features, than to the solid merit of their contents. As
there are certain orators whose appearance alone captivates their
auditory, and excites in us a curiosity to hear what fine things such
a fine-looking man has to say, so there are books which feel well to
the touch, look good to the eyes, and prejudice one's judgment in
their favor. We will listen to a stupid-looking speaker, or read a
commonplace featured book, on the testimony of their friends, provided
they give us strong recommendations; but a speaker "of a commanding
presence and a winning air," or a book that is well gotten up, we
think worthy of notice at the first introduction.

It is difficult to write an interesting history. Simple facts of the
past stated in dry statistical style, like the reports of an insane
asylum or a poor-house, are about as interesting as they, and appear
to the general reader to be of about equal importance. We may be
thought weak in judgment to say it, but we should like to read history
for the same reason we like to read the last novel by Dickens, in
which the author wields his magic pen to paint life-pictures of the
events of the world before our mind, and compels us to be living
witnesses of the past in the realm of imagination. To insure a deep
interest and a lasting impression all the faculties of the mind should
be engaged. Our imagination must not be told to step out of doors or
go to sleep whilst our memory takes an inventory of facts consigned to
its storehouse by a historian. The senses of sight and of taste are
given to man that he may be guided in supplying his stomach with the
proper quantum and quality of the food it craves. What these senses
are to the stomach, the imagination is to the mind, and if it have no
hand in the choice of mental food there cannot help but be an
indigestion; the brain, indeed, holding the crude mass, but unable to
make any use of it.

We may sum up in a few sentences the application these remarks may
have to the history before us. The volume {144} comes to us with uncut
edges. Let the reader open it at random. He finds before him a fair
page, printed in large cool type, with broad generous margins, looking
as a page ought to look, like a goodly field of wheat or corn, and not
like a stiff, prim, pinched, and gravelled parterre. Let him read down
one page, and he will surely bring his paper-cutter into requisition
and follow the author to the beginning of the next paragraph. He will
find the style, if we mistake not, like one of those charming, shady,
winding, country roads, which always entice you to go just as far as
the next turning; an agreeable contrast to the ordinary page of
history, which to us is so like a grievous paved military road in
France, straight enough, wide enough, and direct enough, but
lamentably monotonous, dry, dusty, and tiresome. There is a little
stiffness and dull regularity about the division of the
subject-matter; but this is inevitable to any history of a long
period, and may be regarded as the signboards and finger-posts on the
road, making up in convenience what they detract from the romance.

As to the character of the work of M. Darras as a history--as one in
which we can learn the actual life of our mother, the Church; one
which we can quote with confidence in public, and not be obliged to
contradict to its back as it stands on our shelves; one which we can
give to our friends, of all classes and opinions, as a good, reliable,
and respectable Church history--we are content to take it as such upon
the warm approbation it has received at the hands of the Holy Father,
the use that is made of it in colleges and seminaries in Europe, the
approval it has obtained from the Rt. Rev. bishops there and in the
United States, and the good opinion universally expressed concerning
it by scholars whose critical judgment is worthy of reliance.
Certainly we have no Church history equal to it in the English
language, and we bid this translated French one welcome, and hope it
may receive an hospitable reception amongst us.

The dissertation on the perpetuity of the Church, and the immortality
of the Papacy, from the pen of the Most Rev. Archbishop Spalding,
which embellishes this edition under the form of an introduction, is
both appropriate and well deserving of perusal. The learned prelate
puts us at once on reading acquaintance with the work of M. Darras,
and enkindles in us the desire to know more of the eventful course of
the existence of Holy Church.


CAPE COD. By Henry D. Thoreau. Boston: Ticknor and Fields. 1865.
12mo., pp. 252.

New York. Comprising his Sermons, Letters, Lectures, Speeches, etc.
Carefully compiled from the best sources, and edited by Lawrence
Kehoe. Two vols. 8vo., pp. 670 and 810. New York: Lawrence Kehoe.

Cincinnati, to the Clergy and Laity of the archdiocese, on the late
Encyclical Letter of his Holiness Pius IX. promulgating the Jubilee of
1865, with the Bull of Pius IX. authorizing the Jubilee of 1846.
Printed at the "Cincinnati Catholic Telegraph" Office.

NATURAL HISTORY. A Manual of Zoology for Schools, Colleges, and the
General Reader, by Sanborn Tenney, A.M. Illustrated. New York: Charles
Scribner & Co. 12mo., pp. 540.

From D. & J. Sadlier and Co., New York, we have received the
BY THE BOYNE, by Mrs. Sadlier; CATHOLIC ANECDOTES. Part 1. Translated
from the French by Mrs. Sadlier; THE LIVES OF THE POPES, from the
French of Chevalier d'Artaud, Parts 1 and 2; CAECILIA, a Roman Drama,
and THE SECRET, a Drama, by Mrs. J. Sadlier.



VOL, II., NO. 8.--NOVEMBER, 1865,

From Revue Générale, Bruxelles.


The events of which the United States have, during late years, been
the theatre of action, have revived in the recollection of the editors
of the _Historisch-politische Blätter_ of Munich the name of Loretto,
a small and unpretending town of Pennsylvania, the founder of which
was Prince Demetrius Angustin Gallitzin, the son of the remarkable
woman of whom Germany has a right to be proud. The occasion has
suggested to them a biographical sketch, which, full of interest and
appositeness, will unquestionably be read in Belgium and France with
as much avidity as in Germany.

Twenty years have elapsed since Prince Gallitzin, who had exchanged
the luxuries of princely courts for the poverty of those who herald
the glad tidings, slept in the Lord, after forty years of apostleship
in the wild regions of the Alleghany mountains. The work set up by the
pious missionary yet remains, marked by all the elements of thrifty
life, and the little oasis will long continue to be what it was at its
origin--the cradle of a Christian civilization, which will go on
spreading its blessings to the remotest boundaries, still retaining
the unobtrusive modesty which moved its founder's thought. Indeed, had
the matter rested with Gallitzin's own wishes, his very name would
have passed into vague tradition in those extended regions. It might
even have slept in oblivion; for the prince, so careful was he to
avoid anything that could attract the attentions of the world, lived
and exercised his holy ministry for many years under the borrowed name
of Schmidt.

In Father Lemcke, however, and fortunately too, a canon of the abbey
of the Benedictines of St. Vincent in Pennsylvania, was found a man
who, better than any other, had it in his power to preserve the
reminiscences of the noble missionary, and accurately to depict for us
the traits of his manly character. Not only did the biographer of the
prince know him personally, but he was also his friend, his confidant,
his confessor, and his co-laborer in the missions. After Gallitzin's
death, Father Lemcke came into possession of his papers, letters, and
memoranda, which supplied him with desirable data on the period of
life preceding their ministerial connection. He, and he alone,
therefore, was in a condition to write a true biography of the prince,
and he deemed it a duty to {146} rescue from oblivion the memory of
this distinguished man. In connection with this subject, Father Lemcke
indulges in a judicious remark: "The life of Gallitzin," says he, "is
so intimately inwoven with the events which occurred during his own
times, that it holds out to future generations an interest like to
that which is offered to us in the life of a Bonifacius or of an
Ansgarius, by reason of the facts which have characterized the epochs
in which they lived."

Gallitzin belonged to the phalanx of missionaries who, in the United
States, scattered the seeds of spiritual life. When the prince stepped
on the soil of that vast territory, there was but one prelate, Rt.
Rev. John Carroll of Baltimore, the first bishop of the United States,
who, from the circumstances of the Church, had been obliged to seek
Europe for his episcopal consecration.  [Footnote 23] He had been but
two years installed--from 1790--and had but uncertain and broken
intercourse with his flock. His surroundings, restricted in numbers,
but devoted to the holy cause, were mainly composed of, French
priests. In this infant church Gallitzin was the second priest
consecrated by the Bishop of Baltimore, and missioned, as a true
pioneer of civilization, to carry the cross through the untouched
forests of the New World, There is an unvarying likeness in all great
undertakings; yet it required but a short time--a relatively short
time--considerably to increase the number of those men who had devoted
themselves to the task. In contrast with the bishop, who, in the
course of five years, could ordain and rely on two priests only to
feed the flock of the Lord, "The Catholic Almanac" of the day exhibits
to us, for the United States, seven archbishops, thirty-six bishops,
and four apostolic vicars, with the ministry of two thousand priests,
with the addition of convents of various orders, of seminaries, of
colleges, of numberless benevolent institutions, with over 4,000,000
of Catholics living under the protection of the laws, in the practice
and enjoyment of their faith.

  [Footnote 23: There are new details on this distinguished man in a
  recently published work: "_Die Katholische Kirche in den Vereinigten
  Staatm von Nord Amerika_," etc., etc. Regensburg. 1864.]

The Germans delight in recalling to mind that one of those who helped
to lay the foundations of the Church in North America was the
offspring of a princely house of the Fatherland. Gallitzin was a
German on the maternal side; and the noble parent could well claim
both the spiritual and natural motherhood of her son, the latter of
which was, perhaps, glory enough. How magnificent a mission was that
of Princess Amelia Gallitzin! While gathering around her circle the
choice spirits which seemed destined to keep bright the torch of faith
in Germany, and its living convictions in the midst of a superficial
society without belief and without its guiding lights, the princess
was rearing for the New World a son who was about to turn aside from a
career which his birth and his wealth justly reserved for him, and
take up the arduous and thankless labors of the apostleship. This very
son it was who, through the work of faith, was destined to be the
founder and civilizer of a now flourishing colony.

Strangely enough, nothing in young Gallitzin gave earnest of such a
vocation. His almost feminine nature had marked him for a timid,
shrinking child; but what was still worse, and a source of deep
anxiety to his mother, to this was added a lack of decision, which
seemed so deeply rooted in him that not even the iron will of the
princess could, during the course of many years, draw out any
perceptible results. We have a letter of the princess of the date of
1790, two years before the departure of Demetrius for America, in
which she reiterates on this ground her former complainings, her
exhortations, and her admonitions. It is proper, however, to advert
that the incipient {147} method of training pursued by the princess
herself was not free from defect; for, daring the nonage of her son,
she herself wavered and hesitated between various systems of
philosophy--a course which necessarily must have drawn her into many
an error.

There was, therefore, a defectiveness in the main foundation of the
training of young Gallitzin, who was reared in a sort of religious
indifferentism. But a complete revulsion took place when, after
leaving Münster, the princess was led to rest her convictions, not on
this or the other system of philosophy, but on the rock of Christian
faith--when, from her relations with such men as Furstenberg and
Overberg, she herself had gained a greater degree of firmness and
steadfastness. This reacted on the education of the son, in the
greater decision and authority exerted by the mother; and it was not
without fit intention that Demetrius, in the sacrament of
confirmation, received the surname of Angustin.

Born on the 22d of December, 1770, at the Hague, where his father, a
favorite of the Empress Catherine, was accredited as ambassador of
Russia, young Gallitzin saw before him the opening of a career bound
to lead to the highest dignities of either military or administrative
service. Nothing, therefore, was spared in giving him a complete
education, according to the requirements of the world. This education,
developed and closed under his mother's eyes, must be perfected by
travel; but whither to direct it was a question of moment. The
aristocratic banks of the Rhine were ravaged by the revolutions and
war had converted Europe into a vast battle-field. It opportunely
happened, at that time, that a young priest, by the name of Brodius,
whom the princess had known through the family of the Droste, and who
had been admitted to her circle, was about crossing the Atlantic as a
missionary to America. The princess had had occasions to value the
rare endowments of this priest, and knew how justly her confidence in
him could extend. She therefore proposed to him the companionship of
her son in a journey which seemed to her to be the only practicable
one warranted by the times. The princess, fortunately, met with no
opposition on the part of the prince, her husband. An admirer of
Washington, and still more so of the philosophic Jefferson, he readily
agreed that his son should devote a couple of years to a visit to the
United States, so as to judge for himself of the institutions all that
country. He earnestly charged him to be introduced to these two great
men; while the princess on her part armed him with a letter of
recommendation to the Right Reverend Bishop Carroll.

In August, 1792, when twenty-two years of age, young Gallitzin took
ship at Rotterdam on his way to America. No one could, certainly, have
then stirred him with the idea that the land of America was marked out
as a theatre for the evolutions of his existence. Was there a
presentiment in that parting hour which, he could not know, was to
mark an eternal farewell? Was it a last return of the original
indecision of character which made him linger at the roadstead to
which his mother had accompanied him? No one can now tell; but what we
can say is that when, on the crests of the foaming billows, he caught
sight of the yawl which was to carry him on board, his heart failed
him, and he turned back to retrace his steps. Then did his mother turn
back to him and, with a look of disappointment, "Dimitri," said she,
"I blush for thee"--and, grasping his arm, she urged him on to the
boat. In a moment, and how no one could tell, the young prince was
engulfed in the waves. As quick as thought the practised hands of the
sailors fished him up from the waters, and wafted him to the vessel
that was to bear him away. Such was his farewell to Europe; but this
sea baptism had regenerated him into a new man, as, at a later period,
he told the story to his biographer.


On the whole, a noted change had taken place in young Gallitzin. In
him every weakness and every irresolution had disappeared, and made
room for a firmness, a determination, and an inflexibility which, to
his family, became a source of greatest astonishment. Two months had
hardly passed by in the intimacies of life with the Bishop of
Baltimore, when he already felt, within himself, what soon became a
clearly defined resolve. With the close of the year 1792 he wrote to
Münster that he had devoted himself, body and soul, to the service of
God and to the salvation of souls in America. He wrote that this
resolution had been determined by the urgent call for laborers in the
vineyard of the Lord; for in the country in which he was then
sojourning, his priests had to travel over a hundred and fifty miles
of territory, and more, to bring to the faithful the word and the
means of salvation.

These were the first news of him received in Münster, and they were
disseminated with the rapidity of lightning. From all sides sprang up
objections, doubts, and remonstrances against the scheme of the young
prince and the boldness of his undertaking. His mother, however, who
had at first been alarmed and steeped in agony at the idea of such a
vocation, soon reasserted her unerring judgment, and looked into the
matter with her wonted greatness of soul. From the moment that, from
letters of distinguished persons, and especially from those of the
Bishop of Baltimore, as well as from those of her son, she became
satisfied that his was a real and substantial calling, she felt
perfectly secure, and all human considerations vanished from her
sight. She therefore wrote to Dimitri that if, after having tried
himself, he was sure that he had really obeyed his vocation, she
willingly accepted the reproaches and troubles which could not fail to
shower upon him; and that, for herself, she could not desire a
consummation dearer to her heart--a greater reward--than to see the
child of her affections a minister at the altar of God. And, indeed,
not light was the burden of reproaches and afflictions which she had
to bear for the love of that son--especially on the part of her
husband, it was anything but light. Her letters to Overberg more than
amply inform us on that subject Gallitzin, however, seemed to have
left his European friends to the indulgence of their astonishment.
Heedless of his former social relations, in firmness and resoluteness
he trod the path which he had marked for himself, and prosecuted his
theological studies with such fervency that his superiors, in view of
his failing health, deemed it their duty to interpose. After two years
of study, however, he became a sub-deacon, and, on the sixteenth of
March, 1795, he was ordained to the priesthood.

There was no lack of labor, however, in the vineyard of the Lord, and
the young Levite, the second one who came out of the first Catholic
seminary in North America, was immediately put to work. At Port
Tobacco, on the Potomac, Gallitzin entered his apostolical career. His
fervor, no doubt, carried him too far into those proverbially malarial
regions; for, stricken down by a spell of fever, he was ordered by his
bishop to return to Baltimore, where Gallitzin was subsequently
directed to ascend the pulpit and preach to the German population
which had settled that portion of the state of Maryland.

The democratic spirit of American manners, which, with its innumerable
abuses, had permeated even religions existence itself, was
diametrically opposed to the just conceptions of the priesthood and of
the organization of the Church which Gallitzin had formed in his mind.
For the primitive morals of which he was then in quest he turned to
the unsettled portions of Pennsylvania. "I went there," he tells us at
a later period, "to avoid the _trustees_ and all the irregularities
which they beget. For success, I had {149} no other warrant than the
building of something new, that could escape the routine of inveterate
custom. Had I settled where the hand had already been put to the
plough, my work would have been endangered, for it had been soon
assailed by the spirit of Protestantism."

In the apostolic trips which frequently took him into the then far
West, on the table lands of the Alleghany range, near Huntington,
where the waters of the Ohio fork away from those of the Susquehanna,
Gallitzin had alighted on a settlement made up of a few Catholic
families. In the midst of this Catholic nucleus he resolved to
establish a permanent colony, which he destined in his mind as the
centre of his missions. Several poor Maryland families, whose
affections he had won, resolved to follow him; and, with the consent
of his bishop, he took up his line of march with them in the summer of
1799, and travelled from Maryland with his face turned to the ranges
of the Alleghany mountains. And a rough and trying journey it
was;--hewing their way through primitive forests, burdened at the same
time with all their worldly goods. So soon as the small caravan had
reached its new home, Gallitzin took possession of this, as it were,
conquered land; and, without loss of time, all the settlers addressed
themselves to the work before them, and worked so zealously that,
before the end of the year, they had already erected a church. The
following is Father Lemcke's account of the humble origin of this

  "Out of the clearings of these untrodden forests rose up two
  buildings, constructed out of the trunks of roughly hewn trees; of
  these, one was intended for a church--the other, a presbytery for
  their pastor. On Christmas eve of the year 1799, there was not a
  winking eye in the little colony. And well there might not be! The
  new church, decked with pine and laurel and ivy leaves, and blazing
  with such lights as the scant means of the faithful could afford,
  was awaiting its consecration to the worship of God! There Gallitzin
  offered up the first mass, to the great edification of his flock,
  that, although made up of Catholics, had never witnessed such a
  solemnity, and to the great astonishment of a few Indians, who,
  wrapped up in the pursuit of the chase, had never, in their life,
  dreamed of such a pageantry. Thus it was that, on a spot in which,
  scarcely a year previous, silence had reigned over vast solitudes, a
  prince, thenceforward cut off from every other country, had opened a
  new one to pilgrims from all nations, and that, from the wastes,
  which echoed no sounds but the howlings of the wild beast, welled up
  the divine song which spoke: 'Glory to God in the highest, and
  peace, on earth, to men of good will!'"

The cost of this spiritual and material colonization was at first
individually borne by Gallitzin. Captain McGuire, an Irishman, one of
the early settlers of the country, had acquired 400 acres of land,
which he intended for the Church. These he conveyed to Gallitzin, who
divided into small tracts the lands, which he had purchased with his
own means, and distributed them among the poorer members of his
colony, on condition of reimbursement, by instalments, at long
periods--a condition, however, which, in a majority of cases, never
was complied with.

The wilderness soon put on a new aspect. The settlers followed the
impulses of the indefatigable missionary, who kept steadfastly in view
the improvement of his work. His first care was to set up a
grist-mill; then arose numerous out-buildings; additional lands were
purchased, and in a short time the colony was notably enlarged.

In carrying out his work, Gallitzin received material assistance from
Europe. In its origin, sums of money were regularly remitted to him by
his mother; for he kept up a correspondence, which his devotion to her
made {150} dear to his heart In these relations his father took
little, if any, interest, as the determination of his son--his only
son--had proved to him a source of bitter disappointment. Still he
anxiously desired to see him return to Europe. So engrossed, however,
was the young missionary by his work, that such a trip seemed next to
an impossibility. Several years had thus glided by, when the idea of
visiting Europe earnestly engaged his mind.

In the month of June, 1803, he wrote to his mother, in apology for a
long silence; telling her that he is seriously contemplating seeing
her once more, but that he is trammelled in his desire by the want of
a priest to take his place;--indeed, that his work has so grown under
his hands, that he doubts whether he will ever again be privileged to
clasp his mother in his arms. "I may not think of it," he adds; "my
heart is fraught with affection for you, and it seems to me that I
should absolutely see you once more, so as to borrow courage to follow
the path which is marked out for me in this perverse world." The
letters from Overberg are witnesses of the tears shed by the mother,
so anxious again to look upon her son, as well as of the unmurmuring
mournfulness of her resignation.

The announcement of his father's death again brought up the subject of
his visit to Europe. Indeed, his presence was required in the
settlement of his inheritance; but now, as before, the joy of once
more treading his native soil, and the happiness of embracing his
mother, had to yield to what he considered his duty to his infant
colony. The just and plausible reasons which he alleges to his mother
for his course, allow us at the same time fairly to appreciate the
extent of his work, and the hopes built upon its success. Hence he
suggests the consideration due to those families that his advice had
influenced, for the greater honor of religion, to follow him in the
wilderness;--the money obligations, contracted with various friends,
who had trusted him with large sums to speed the development of his
scheme, and whose confidence, therefore, might be seriously wronged by
his departure;--the interests of so many others, who had committed all
their worldly hopes into his hands and whom his absence might leave an
easy prey to heartless speculators;--and, finally, the pending
questions, started by the scheme of erecting into a county the
territory to which the lands of the colony belonged. All these
motives, to which others were added, were sufficiently weighty to
press on the conscience of Demetrius the duty Of remaining at his
post. This final resolution his mother learned with the firmness of
Christian heroism. She wrote to the prince: "Whatever sorrow may have
panged my motherly heart at the idea of renouncing a hope that a while
seemed within reach, I owe it to truth to tell thee that thy letter
has afforded me the greatest consolation that I can look for upon
earth." It is a touching picture to behold, in the sequel, this
zealous mother continuing her interest in the mission founded by the
prince, and providing for its success in keeping with the inspirations
of her heart. Thus it was that, through the channel of the Bishop of
Baltimore, she transmitted to her son a bill of exchange for a
considerable amount, a box of books--a treasure in those
days--rosaries for the settlers, linen for himself and friends,
garments, and even baby-clothes, for the poorer members of the
settlement, sacerdotal vestments, embroidered by the princess herself,
by her daughter, and by Countess de Stolberg, and, lastly, a
magnificent present, which the missionary during his life valued
beyond all price, and with which, in accordance with his wishes, he
was laid to slumber in the tomb.

In the meantime Gallitzin's colony, settled in the midst of those wild
wastes, had expanded and become a town, to which he gave the name of
Loretto, the beginning of which are {151} thus described by our
missionary's successor: "The colony was composed of individuals who
generally purchased considerable tracts, varying from one to four
hundred acres in extent, which they cleared and converted to
cultivation. In proportion as the population increased, they gradually
emerged from the savagery of the earlier periods, and soon experienced
the wants of a growing civilization. The indication of those wants
suggested to Gallitzin's mind the necessity of converting the humble
settlement into a town. Mechanics, of every useful trade, rapidly
gathered around the nucleus--blacksmiths, millers, carpenters,
shoemakers, with even storekeepers, and Loretto soon assumed the
position which its founder had designed.

"Here, then, stands the town; but, with its new dignity, came a host
of vexations. It marked for Gallitzin a period of struggle against
every imaginable difficulty, which brought his firmness to the sorest
trials, and which indeed might have jeoparded the very existence of
his work. In fact, the means of reducing, under the control of a
single hand, the heterogeneous components of such a colony was no easy
problem to be solved. Gallitzin efforts to bring it under a normal
organization had to meet many an antagonizing element, whilst the
peculiar American spirit, which had even then permeated those
solitudes, reared up obstacles to his scheme. Gallitzin, however,
proved unshakable, and exhibited an unbending energy of character. At
one time there was an actual crisis in the prospects of the colony. A
member of the community, with a fair allotment of the goods of this
world, with the excitable American brain and a marked tendency to
speculation, suddenly conceived the idea to set up a competition with
the growing colony and to lay the foundations of a rival one in the
neighborhood. He went to work accordingly, and, with the assistance of
a few Irishmen, actually laid the foundations of  village, which he
named Munster, after one of the provinces of Ireland. This rival of
Loretto immediately became the headquarters of the _propagators of
light_, in other words, of those who had little relish for the zeal of
Gallitzin and the inconvenient discipline of the Church. Satisfied not
only with putting the prosperity of Loretto in evident peril, the
seceders also assailed the character of Gallitzin, and through these
means derived an unexpected help. It happened fitly for their purposes
that at the time two German vagabonds--one a priest of most
questionable character, and the other a nobleman, whom the crime of
forgery had driven from the Old World--presented themselves to
Gallitzin, and anything but pleased, no doubt, with the welcome which
they received, resolved to swell the party of malcontents. With
cunning malice, they soon disseminated reports injurious to their
countryman, gave a pretended substance to unfounded suspicions,
feeding the animosities of the common herd. The fact, also, of
Gallitzin's having assumed a borrowed name was a means of shaking the
settlers and sowing distrust in their minds. Things went on from bad
to worse, and a catastrophe seemed to be imminent, when came the
upshot, so much the more ludicrous because the less expected. The
Gordian knot, after the expeditious American fashion, was cut by an
Alexander who rejoiced in the name of John Wakeland. He was an
Irishman, a giant in stature and strength, famed in the settlement as
a wolf and bear killer; and in reality one of the kindest men in the
world, and one of the hardest to stir from his natural proprieties.
These miserable intrigues and base machinations aroused his
indignation, and he immediately came to the conclusion to put an end
to them by the interposition of the logic of the strong hand. The
agitators had concocted a plan, which was devised to extort from
Gallitzin some sort of an assent, and the {152} prince could hardly
have escaped their intended violence had he not sought sanctuary in
the chapel of Loretto. But the mob had merely adjourned their intended
excesses; and they were preparing for extreme means to achieve their
ends when John Wakeland, brandishing a sturdy hickory in the midst of
the infatuated mob, declared that, he would "settle," on the spot, any
one who durst threaten the good priest. There was a magical spell in
the _hickory_. The timidly good men, who there, as everywhere else,
had shrunk into a circle of impassive inaction, feeling the influence
of a sturdy support, borrowed courage from the hour; and had it not
been for the interference of Gallitzin, his detractors, to use an
American phrase, would have had 'a rough time of it' From that moment,
a complete revulsion of feeling took place in behalf of the
missionary; while the bishop succeeded in ultimately restoring order
and peace in the little parish. He carefully inquired into all the
facts, and then addressed to the parishioners a letter which was
posted at the church door, and recalled the faithful to the regular
order of things.

"Difficulties, however, of another kind, and of a more serious import,
waited on Gallitzin. From the death of his father, he had been
suddenly cut off from the pecuniary assistance which he had
periodically received from Europe. He himself, as a Catholic priest,
had been, by the laws of Russia, excluded from his paternal heritage;
while his mother, who had exhausted her means in litigations, was
compelled to forego the assistance which, from time to time, she had
extended to her son. In satisfying his boundless charities, and in the
achievements of his plans, the founder of Loretto had somewhat relied
on this inheritance, which thus passed away from his hands. This
disappointment, therefore, brought upon him a new burden of anxiety
and cares. Destitution and poverty might have been easily borne by
him; but he could not make up his mind to give up the idea of founding
an imposing Catholic colony--to abandon the undertaking which he had
initiated--to be compelled to relinquish lands which had been
reclaimed by so much toil and so much care--and, especially, to face
impatient creditors, who might accuse him of thoughtlessly going into
debt, and from such an accusation justify their expression of

As a crowning development to all of these tribulations, the European
mail brought to Gallitzin the news of his beloved mother's death. On
the 17th of April, 1806, in the city of Münster, the excellent
princess had closed her eyes for ever, comforting her disappointment
that she had not been permitted to see her son on earth by the hope
that she would surely meet him in heaven. The narrative of the last
moments of the Princess Gallitzin, received, by the stout-hearted
missionary, through the letters of his sister, of Overberg, and of
Count de Stolberg, supplied a fund of inexpressible comfort; but from
that hour the temporal claims and requirements of his position bore
terribly on his endurance. It required unheard-of efforts to save his
undertaking from the burden of indebtedness, and if, at the hour of
his death, he quit-claimed the property of the Church and left it free
from all and every charge, the blessed consummation came with the
sunset of life only, and that, too, after miracles of constant energy.
And here, especially, looms up the secondary phase of Gallitzin's
character, which had not escaped his father's more searching eye. In
fact, and in answer to a letter of his wife, in which she bitterly
complained of the inertness of their son, then sixteen years of age,
he wrote to her that "deep waters run still; that, to his mind, she
misconceives the disposition of Demetrius, and that he is ever running
against wind and tide." And indeed, to struggle against the torrent of
time and of events was the whole work of his life. And against this
torrent he heaved up the bulk of {153} his writings that have come
down to us. It is easy to conceive that it required no common reason
to induce a man of his temper of mind to write. We have the motive of
this reason in the fact that a Presbyterian preacher of Huntington had
thought fit to assail and calumniate the Catholic Church as an
institution dangerous to the country and to its liberties. Gallitzin
immediately took up the pen in answer, and the necessities of the
controversy turned him into a polemica writer.

There are in America, no less than in other countries, fanatical
sectarians who follow their congenial instincts in sounding the
alarm-cry whenever the Catholic Church marks out new limits of  lawful
conquest. In this instance, the state was declared to be in peril; but
Gallitzin lost no time in confounding the slanderers of Catholicity by
the publication of his "Defense of Catholic Principles," which
appeared in Pittsburgh in the year 1816. This work, written in
English--for the author wielded the English with as much facility as
he did the German language, his mother tongue--was, on both shores of
the ocean, greeted with success. Father Lemcke made a German
translation of the "Defense of Catholic Principles," of which two
editions were published in Ireland and four in the United States,
ranking "in popularity with 'Cobbett's History of the Reformation,' to
which it bears a resemblance in putting a probing finger on the
plague-spot of Protestantism."

The start being once made, Gallitzin followed up his first work with
other publications of an entirely practical character, directed
against certain prevalent moral diseases of the day, which mark an
epoch in the monography of American ideas. Gallitzin was perfectly
familiar with the mode of treatment of the feverish exuberance of
American notions, and he handled them with all the cautious skill of a
prudent practitioner. Everything which he published on these matters,
both in elucidation of his views and as a muniment against the evils
which he denounced, is written in the winning and popular style which
was familiar to his pen. Hence his works were crowned with success,
even amongst the higher classes of society. "Gallitzin's
publications," says his biographer, "exerted an immense influence in
the period when he lived, but especially so among the humbler members
of the community, for whom they were destined. They were found, and
they may still be found, in the form of unpretending pamphlets, in the
hotels and steamboats of the West, for he had them printed at his own
expense and distributed as the Protestant colporteurs disseminate
their Bibles and tracts. The curiosity of the readers enlarged their
circulation everywhere; and I myself have found them as perfectly
thumbed as any spelling-book in spots where I never dreamed of meeting
with them."

In the meantime, Gallitzin, who had hitherto labored under the
protecting shadow of his humility, had begun to attract the attention
of the American world around him. The manner in which he had marked
his entrance in social life--not so much by the power of genius as by
that integrity of character which commanded the respect of public
opinion--had carried his reputation far beyond the limits of the
frontiers, and secured for him an esteem, the proofs of which came
back to him in numerous testimonials gathering from all sides. It was
at this time that he published various pamphlets signed with his real
name: "Demetrius Augustin Gallitzin, Catholic curate of Loretto."

It was natural, when the question of creating a new bishopric came up,
that all eyes should turn to such a man as Gallitzin. There was a
desire, therefore, more than once expressed to see him called to the
episcopal chair; but he persistently repelled the intended dignity,
and exerted his every power to counteract the efforts of {154} those
who were anxious to have it conferred upon him. He asked for one favor
only--that of remaining at Loretto; and, with this view, he consented
to accept the functions of vicar-general to the Bishop of
Philadelphia, which had been recently raised into a diocese.

Since the earlier period when Gallitzin entered on the discharge of
the holy ministry, those regions had witnessed a great development of
the Catholic faith. From all sides arose new parishes, while the field
of labor went on enlarging under the tireless zeal of our missionary.
"It may be safely affirmed," says his biographer, "that during the
protracted years through which he administered to the district of
country which now constitutes the sees of Pittsburg and Erie, he
filled the place and discharged the duties of a bishop." In order to
form a correct judgment as to the importance of his labors, we must go
back, in imagination, to the exordium of the Catholic Church in those
countries, where the pastors were cut off from all sustaining
advice--from all diocesan organization--and where elements the most
discrepant, and prejudices the most stubborn, were found in daily
conflict. How many difficulties, therefore, to be encountered and
overcome in the discrimination, in certain cases, between falsehood
and truth! What prudence of action was required! How many and delicate
problems presented to the decisions of a tender conscience! Gallitzin,
however, was the man for the situation. "The writings," says his
friend, "which his charge as vicar-general had compelled him from time
to time to publish, bear witness not only to his vigilance and zeal,
but also to the great charity which characterized the performance of
his duties." His was a peculiar solicitude for the persecuted and the
oppressed, because he knew from experience how readily, in America,
they may be made the sport of falsehood, of malevolence, and of that
thirst of revenge which exists everywhere. Hence the not
inconsiderable number of persons, both ecclesiastics and laymen, who
looked up to him for protection, and who might, but for its
interpositions, have been for ever lost. His benevolent bearing won
for him the confidence of the other priests who, like himself, had
consecrated their lives to the salvation of souls. The pastor who from
among them became at a later period the archbishop of Baltimore,
having been in 1830 appointed coadjutor and administrator to the
diocese of Philadelphia, immediately wrote to Gallitzin--whom he
styled the propagandist of the faith--to ask the assistance of his
experience and of his prayers, and to advise him that he not only
confirmed his existing powers, but that he also authorized him to use,
without the necessity of any previous application, those with which,
as coadjutor, he was himself invested. These two men were bound till
death by the closest ties of friendship.

All of Gallitzin's actions were stamped with the characteristics of
candor and uprightness. Should the honor of the Church, or the dignity
of her priesthood, be called into question, he knew no such word as
compromise. He shrank from familiarity with that species of half
education of which presumption is a leading feature; and ever, and
everywhere, stood unshaken in his love and assertion of truth--a
persistency which, on more than one occasion, called down upon him the
imputation of an aristocratic and domineering spirit. Those, however,
who, admitted to the closer intimacies of his life, were best
qualified to judge, soon became convinced of the futility of the
charge. If there were any note of distinction about him, it was to be
traced in the loftiness of his conceptions; for he had long cast off
all princely frippery; and the privileged society in which he
especially delighted was that of the poor and the lowly, with whom he
would kindly converse after possessing himself of their wishes and
needs. {155} In the circuit of his missions, it was his pleasure to
pass by the dwellings of opulence and seek the hospitalities of the
humble cottage. There would the prince sit down to rest, surrounded by
joyous children, distributing pictures among them and sharing in their
humble fare.

Such was Gallitzin, shepherd of souls, polemic and vicar-general, at
Loretto, whence the peaceful work of Christian civilization went on
quietly progressing and gradually enlarging the circle of its
benefits. Years had thus passed on, and the pioneer could already mark
the slanting shadows of declining life, when a young missionary came
over from Europe to share in his toils. This was Father Lemcke, a
Benedictine, who, after having been his assistant, became his
successor. Gallitzin was then sixty-four years of age. Father Lemcke
has left us a picturesque account of his first meeting with the
venerable missionary. He had set out from Philadelphia, and after
several days of rough traveling reached Münster, where an Irish family
gave him hospitality. From that village he procured a guide, and at
this point of his narrative we find him with an Irish lad piloting him
to Loretto. "As we had gone," says he, "a couple of miles through the
woods, I caught sight of a sled, drawn by a pair of vigorous horses;
and in the sled a half recumbent traveler, on every lineament of whose
face could be read a character of distinction. He was outwardly
dressed in a sort of threadbare overcoat; and, on his head, a
peasant's hat, so worn and dilapidated that no one would have rescued
it from the garbage of the streets. It occurred to me that some
accident had happened to the old gentleman, and that he was compelled
to resort to this singular mode of conveyance Whilst I was taxing my
brains for a satisfactory solution of the problem, Tom, my guide, who
was trotting ahead, turned round and, pointing to the old man, said:
"Here comes the priest" I immediately coaxed up my nag to the sled.
"Are you, really, the pastor of Loretto?" said I. "I am, sir." "Prince
Gallitzin?" "At your service, sir," he said with a laugh. "You are
probably astonished"--he continued, after I had handed him a letter
from the Bishop of Philadelphia--"at the strangeness of my equipage?
But there's no help for it. You have no doubt already found out that
in these countries you need not dream of a carriage-road. You could
not drive ten yards without danger of an overturn. I am prevented,
since a fall which I have had, from riding on horseback, and it would
be impossible for me now to travel on foot Beside, I carry along
everything required for the celebration of holy mass. I am now going
to a spot where I have a mission, and where the holy sacrifice has
been announced for to-day. Go to Loretto and make yourself at home,
until my return to night; unless, indeed, you should prefer to
accompany me. You may be interested in the visit."

Father Lemcke accordingly followed Gallitzin, and after a ride of
several miles they reached a sort of a hamlet, where there stood a
good Pennsylvania farm, in which all the Catholics of the vicarage had
gathered as on a festive day. The cabin had been transformed into a
chapel, and the good people were there, crowding; some standing,
others kneeling under the projecting shed; and others again, in small
huts or under the foliage of the grand old trees, were awaiting the
appointed hour. All had their prayer-books in their hands. At a sign
from Gallitzin, Father Lemcke proceeded within to receive the
confessions of the faithful; after which the prince celebrated mass,
preached, and administered the sacrament of baptism. For his pious and
good people it was a very festive day. The dinner which followed, and
in which all shared, was a repast marked by the cheerfulness and the
charity of the agapae of the primitive Christians.


By nightfall both priests had reached Loretto. On The Sunday
following, Gallitzin introduced his assistant to his German
parishioners, and then, with a quizzical smile, invited him, without
any further ceremony, to ascend the pulpit. Father Lemcke had to
undergo the ordeal, and it proved not to his disfavor. He had
naturally supposed that the same roof which sheltered Gallitzin would
also protect him. The old priest, however, could not see things in
that light; and a few days after, he took him to Ebensburg, the
principal county town, and there installed him as the pastor of the

Each of the two missionaries who had thus halved the goodly work still
had a respectable circuit to perform. There were stations fifty and
even seventy miles apart, and over this immense extent of territory,
which now constitutes the Pittsburg and Erie bishoprics, there were,
with them, but three or four priests to attend to the work of the
Lord. To Gallitzin was reserved the deep gratification of witnessing
the branching off, from Loretto, of various Catholic parishes, which
were formed in the very manner in which Loretto had been. Twelve miles
north of the primitive colony, up to the head-waters of the
Susquehanna, where lay cheap and rich lands, some of the more
prosperous members of his parish purchased tracts for themselves and
their families, and there laid the grounds of a settlement, to which
they gave the name of St. Joseph, borrowed from the invocation of the
church which Gallitzin had consecrated on that spot. It is now known
on the maps as Carrollton. Among the early settlers and the heads of
families were sturdy John Wakeland, whom the reader may not have
forgotten, and his six sons, as tall and as stalwart as himself, and
all, like him, devoted to the Catholic faith. On the very road to
Loretto, and before the death of the prince, sprang up a rural parish
under the name of St. Augustin. Another was formed with the
appellation of Gallitzin--after the death of the missionary, be it
understood; for his humility during his lifetime never could have
consented to this endowment.

In 1836, Father Lemcke fixed his residence at St Joseph--urged
somewhat to this course by Gallitzin, whose favorite idea had, for
some time, been to witness on that spot the rise and growth of another
Loretto. The old priest, growing into closer intimacy with the younger
missionary, periodically came in his sled to St. Joseph, rejoicing to
behold "a second edition of what he himself had created thirty years
before." So thoroughly had he become linked to this new friend from
far-off Europe, that he never but reluctantly parted from him, and
even shed bitter tears on once hearing that the bishop contemplated
changing Father Lemcke's residence.

Thus was it given to Gallitzin, in the decline of life, to behold
trackless forests converted into fruitful fields. The transient cares
and annoyances of life had disappeared, and a numerous Catholic
population grew around him in the joys of contented toil. The early
settlers who with him had shared the sweat and borne the burden of the
day, had long bidden farewell to their humbler log-cabins. Well
appointed farms, substantial barns, commodious dwellings, surrounded
by beautiful gardens and smiling meadows, wooed the eye as the
rewarding product of their privations and their toils.

In 1839 the old missionary's health began to fail. The load of years
much less than the thousand hardships inseparably connected with the
devotions of apostolic life, weighed heavily on a frame attenuated
indeed, but still erect and resisting. Yet the burden went on pressing
still--the body gradually bent--the step unsteady--the divine fire
which always kindled still animated him; but the voice would refuse
the assistance of its sounds, and the close of his sermons turn into a
peroration of silent {157} tears a thousand times more eloquent then
his spoken words. And yet, with all these warnings, he rejected every
suggestion of precaution and care of himself. To this he would answer,
in his own energetic language, that "as the days had gone by when, by
martyrdom, it was possible for us to testify to God's glory upon
earth, it was our duty, like the toil-worn ox, to remain hitched to
the plough in the field of the Lord." And the event harmonized with
his wish. On Easter Sunday, 1840, Gallitzin, being then seventy years
of age, had early in the morning taken his seat in the confessional.
After the discharge of its duties, he had braced up the remnants of
his strength to ascend the altar for holy sacrifice. He was, however,
compelled to forego the sermon of the day to betake himself to his
bed, from which he was destined never again to rise. The attentive
care of Dr. Rodriguez, his intimate friend, prolonged his existence
for a few weeks; but it was soon ascertained that the noble missionary
was fast sinking under exhausted energies. With the rapidity of
lightning, the sad news was carried abroad. From far and near, old and
young gathered around his dwelling, once more to receive the blessing
of the man whom they revered. So great was the affluence of the
people, that in order to secure a few quiet moments for the glorious
veteran of faith, absorbed in the last meditations and prayers of
earth, it became necessary to warn away the increasing throng of
visitors--and this without his knowledge; for it was his wish to
receive every one of them, and to each to speak the last farewell
which welled up from his loving heart. Yet some did come for whom no
such words passed his lips, which on the contrary moved in utterances
of reproof and blame. Among others came in one of the parishioners, to
whom the dying pastor had been particularly kind. He, however, had
proved ungrateful, and had, indeed, been a cause of much annoyance to
the missionary by habits of drunkenness and other excesses of an
unregulated life. As he entered the room, the venerable pastor turned
to him with a reproachful look and shook his head. This silent
sermonizing produced a deeper impression than had any previous
admonition of Gallitzin. The self-accusing culprit fell upon his
knees, melted to tears, confessed his errors, and promised
thenceforward to amend. The evidence of his sincerity is found in the
statement of Gallitzin's successor, who informs us that he stoutly
held to his promise.

The last scene of this eventful life closed on the sixth of May, when
the missionary prince left this world, accompanied by the prayers of
his parishioners gathered around him; for every apartment of the
house, and every portion of the chapel attached to it, was literally
thronged by a wailing, weeping, and praying community. This supreme
hour revealed the depth and the sincerity of the love which dwelt in
every heart for this man of God. On the day of his burial, whole
populations swarmed from every point--from distances ranging fifty and
sixty miles--to pay to the good father a last tribute of that
affectionate respect which had attended him through life.

The most respectable men of the parish contended for the honor of
bearing his body to the cemetery. In the body of the church, it was a
perfect contest among the congregation to look for the last time on
the feature of him who was thenceforward for ever lost to earth. Those
who were lucky enough, through the pressure of the crowd, to reach the
coffin, kissed in tearful love the icy hands of the missionary; while
the attendants were compelled to resort to force in order to close the
coffin for the final rites of the Church.

It were no easy task, without reference to the work of his
biographer--an ocular witness of Gallitzin's labors--to convey a just
conception of their bearing and extent "When," he says, "we come to
consider the {158} theatre on which Gallitzin inaugurated his immense
labors in so obscure and modest a manner, we realize the amount of
substantial good that can be achieved by an apostolic missionary in
America when, like Gallitzin, he conceives the practical sense of
things and leads them on to their crowning development with the zeal
and perseverance which marked his course. The small county of Cambria,
in Pennsylvania, created in 1807, which is indebted to Gallitzin for a
majority of its settlers, is everywhere, and with every reason,
characterized as the Catholic county. Indeed, when the traveller on
business, or the tourist for pleasure, strikes this point from other
districts of Pennsylvania more controlled by Protestant influences, it
seems to him that he has passed from a comparative desert into a
smiling oasis. This may be easily understood. For all their
journeyings for whole days, over counties twice and thrice more
opulent than this little Catholic county, there is no indication to
tell them what religion is there professed. Not till they have pressed
the soil of Cambria county do they feel that they are in a _truly_
Christian land, as they catch sight of ten Catholic churches and three
monasteries--all of which cropped out of Loretto under Gallitzin's
creative and fostering hands."

From all these results we can frame an accurate judgment of the
prince's career, which was but one continuous struggle--a glorious
struggle, teeming with usefulness. When Gallitzin opened his mission,
the vicar of Christ was persecuted and proscribed. A prisoner, torn
away from his spiritual family, Pius VI. heard the voices of a
_philosophic_ world applauding his abduction, as, ten years later, it
applauded the violence inflicted on the person of Pius VII. It was
just at that dark period which overshadowed the Holy See that the
Church inaugurated her peaceful labors in the United States, and, at
the end of ten years, had marked her beneficent influences by a
progress so rapid that its result could not escape the eye of even the
least observant. While Europe was organizing a settled persecution of
the papal power, the Church in America was growing up and expanding in
influence. Her very adversaries were compelled to bear even reluctant
witness to her triumphs. In one of the meetings of a Bible society
some years ago. Lord Barclay exhibited a summary, in which he lamented
the spread of Catholicity in a country in which he said that in the
year 1790 there was not even a bishop. "Strange," he said, "that
while, in Europe, the power of the see of Rome is overthrown, the Pope
is a prisoner, and Rome is declared to be the second city of the
French empire--strange, I say, that, at this very moment, the power
of the Pope should be rooted in America in this still stranger
manner." Ay! strange indeed, my Lord Barclay; but in no way strange
for those who know that martyrdom is the life of the Church, and that
she woos triumph in persecution. Gallitzin's life is a living,
convincing proof of her triumphs and her hopes.



From The Sixpenny Magazine.



  My soul was restless, and I sought
    The elf's wild haunt, and breath'd sweet airs:
  I track'd the river's devious route:--
    In vain!--my heart was vext with cares.

  I wandered from the noble park,
    The trimly gay parterre to view;
  Thence pluck'd a rose, without one mark
    To rob it of its faultless hue;

  And, home returning, quaintly placed
    My trophy in a tiny tray
  Of antique silver curious traced;
    Then, charg'd with odor, turn'd away.

* * * * *

  I enter'd yestermorn the room
    Where, all forgotten, dwelt my flower
  Unhappy fate! that tender bloom
    Fell, fainting for the genial shower.

  Vanish'd all vigor had; and now--
    The perfume fled--the tints grown dull--
  It had been sin, I did allow,
    For this so choice a bud to pull.

  Then, with sore heart, I brought a stream
    Of clearest water to its cup.
  What wonder if new life 'gan gleam,
    And care restored what hope gave up?

  Lo! leaf by leaf was slowly raised,
    Till olden flashes came at length:
  Each plaintive petal oped, and gazed.
    And thank'd me with its growing strength.

* * * * *

  Our hearts are like thee, little Rose;
    They quicken what time love-beams shine;
  But under dismal clouds of woes
    How can they choose but droop and pine?

  If sympathy with lute attend
    To lull with some resistless psalm,
  Misfortune's darts can never rend:
    Friends soothe, hope cheers, and heaven anoints with balm!



From The Month.





Then methought was witnessed (I speak of the time when Sir Hammond
l'Estrange made the savage speech which caused his lady and me to
exchange affrighted looks) a rare instance of the true womanly courage
which doth sometimes lie at the core of a timid heart. The meek wife,
which dared not so much as to lift up her eyes to her lord if he did
only frown, or to oppose his will in any trifling matter; whose color
I had seen fly from her cheek if he raised his voice, albeit not in
anger against herself, now in the presence of those at table, with a
face as pale as ashes, but a steady voice, and eyes fixed on him, thus
addressed her husband:

"Sir, since we married I have never opposed your will, or in anything
I wot of offended you, or ever would if I could help it. Do not,
therefore, displeasure me so much, I beseech you, in this grave
instance, as to make me an instrument in the capture. And God knoweth
what should follow of one which came to me for help, and to whom the
service I rendered him would prove the means of his ruin if you
persist therein."

"Go to, madam, go to," cries Sir Hammond; "your business doth lie with
poor people, mine with criminals. Go your way, and intrude not
yourself in weightier matters than belong to your sex."

"Sir," she answers, braving his frowning looks, albeit her limbs began
to tremble, "I humbly crave your patience; but I will not leave you,
neither desist from my suit, except thereunto compelled by force. I
would to God my tongue had been plucked out rather than that it should
utter words which should betray to prison, yea, perhaps to death, the
poor man whose wounds I tended."

The cloud on Sir Hammond's brow waxed darker as she spoke. He glanced
at me, and methinks perceived my countenance to be as much disturbed
as his lady's. A sudden thought, I ween, then passed through his mind;
and with a terrible oath he swore that he misliked this strenuous
urging in favor of a vile popish priest, and yet more the manner of
this intercession.

"Heaven shield, madam," he cried, "you have not companied with
recusants so as to become infected with a lack of zeal for the
Protestant religion!"

The color returned for a moment to Lady l'Estrange's cheeks as she

"Sir, I have never, from the time my mother did teach me my prayers,
been of any other way of thinking than that wherein she then
instructed me, or so much as allowed myself one thought contrary to
true Protestant religion; or ever lent an ear, and with God's help
never will, to what papists do advance; but nevertheless, if this
priest do fall into any grievous trouble through my speeches, I shall
be a most unhappy woman all my life."

And then the poor soul, rising from her seat, went round to her
husband's side, and, kneeling, sought to take his hands, beseeching
him in such moving and piteous terms to change his purpose as I could
see did visibly affect some present. But I also noticed in Sir
Hammond's face so resolved an intent as if nothing in earth or heaven
should alter it. A drowning wretch {161} would as soon have moved a
rock to advance toward him as she succeeded in swerving his will by
her entreaties.

A sudden thought inspired me to approach her where she had sunk down
on her knees at her husband's feet, he seeking angrily to push her
away. I took her by the hand and said:

"I pray you, dear lady, come with me. These be indeed matters wherein,
as Sir Hammond saith, women's words do not avail."

Both looked at me surprised; and she, loosing her hold of him,
suffered me to lead her away. We went into the parlor, Mrs. l'Estrange
following us. But as I did try to whisper in her ear that I desired to
speak with her alone, the bell in the dining-room began to ring
violently; upon which she shuddered and cried out:

"Let me go back to him, Mistress Sherwood.  I'll warrant you he is
about to send for the constables; but beshrew me if I die not first at
his feet; for if this man should be hung, peace will be a stranger to
me all my life."

Mistress l'Estrange essayed to comfort her; but failing therein, said
she was very foolish to be so discomposed at what was no fault of
hers, and she should think no more thereon, for in her condition to
fret should be dangerous; and if people would be priests and papists
none could help if they should suffer for it. And then she left the
parlor somewhat ruffled, like good people sometimes feel when they
perceive their words to have no effect. When we were alone, "Lady
l'Estrange," I said, "where is Master Rugeley's house?"

"One mile, or thereabouts, across the heath," she answered.

"And the way to it direct?" I asked.

"Yea, by the footpath," she replied; "but much longer by the high

I went to the window and opened the shutter and the lattice also. The
moon was shining very brightly.

"Is it that cottage near to the wood?" I inquired, pointing to a
thatched roof nigh unto the darksome line of trees against the sky.

"Yea," she answered, "how near it doth seem seen in this light!
Constance, what think you to do?" she exclaimed, when I went to her
cupboard and took out the keys she had showed me that morning opened
the doors of the kitchen garden and the orchard.

"Did you not say," I answered, "that the gentleman now in so great
peril did lodge with Master Rugeley?"

"Would you go there?" she said, looking aghast. "Not alone; you durst
not do it!"

"Twenty times over," I answered, "for to save a man's life, and he--he
a--" But there I stopped; for it was her fellow-creature she desired
to save. Her heart bled not like mine for the flock which should be
left without a shepherd; and albeit our fears were the same, we felt
not alike. I went into the hall, and she pursued me--one-half striving
to stay me from my purpose, one-half urging me to fulfil it; yet
retracting her words as soon as uttered.

"When I issue from the door of the orchard unto the heath," I said,
the while wrapping round me a cloak with a hood to it, "and pursue the
path in front, by what token may I find Master Rugeley's house if the
moon should be obscured?"

"Where two roads do meet," she said, "at the edge of the heath, a tall
oak doth stand near to a gate; a few steps to the right should then
lead to it. But verily, Mistress Constance, I be frightened to let you
go; and oh, I do fear my husbands's anger."

"Would you, then, have a man die by your means?" I asked, thinking for
to cure one terror by another, as indeed it did; for she cried,

"Nay, I will speed you on your way, good Constance; and show so brave
a face during your absence as God shall help me to do; yea, and open
the door for you myself, if my husband should kill me for it!"


Then she took the keys in her hand, and glided like unto a pale ghost
before me through the passage into the hall, so noiselessly that I
should have doubted if aught of flesh and blood could have moved so
lightly, and undid the bars of the back door without so much as a
sound. Then she would fetch some thick shoes for me to wear, which I
did entreat her not to stay me for; but nothing else would content the
poor soul, and, as she had the keys in her hand, I was forced to wait
her return with so much impatience as may be guessed. I heard the
voices of the gentlemen still carousing after supper; and then a
servant's below in the hall, who said the constables had been sent
for, and a warrant issued for the apprehension of a black papist at
Master Rugeley's. Then Milicent returned, and whilst I put on the
shoes she had brought, and she was tying with trembling fingers the
hood of my cloak, the rustling of Mrs. l'Estrange's silk gown was
heard on the stair above our heads, from whence we were like to be
seen; and, fear awakening contrivance, I said aloud,

"Oh, what a rare pastime it should be to dress as a ghost, and
frighten the good lady your sister-in-law! I pray you get me some
white powder to pale my face. Methinks we need some kind of sport to
drive away too much thinking on that dismal business in hand."

The steps over our head sounded more hurried, and we heard the door of
the parlor close with a bang, and the lattice also violently shut.

"Now," I whispered, "give me the keys, good Lady l'Estrange, and go to
your sister yourself. Say I was ashamed to have been overheard to plan
so rank a piece of folly (and verily you will be speaking no other
than the truth), and that you expect I shall not so much as show my
face in the parlor this evening; and lock also my chamber-door, that
none may for a surety know me for to be absent."

"Yea," answered the poor lady, with so deep a sigh as seemed to rend
her heart; "but, God forgive me, I never did think to hide anything
from my husband! And who shall tell me if I be doing right or wrong?"

I could not stay, though I grieved for her; and the sound of her voice
haunted me as I went through the garden, and then the orchard, unto
the common, locking the doors behind me. When this was done, I did
breathe somewhat more freely, and began to run along the straight path
amidst the heath. I wot not if my speed was great--the time seemed
long; yet methinks I did not slacken my pace once, but rather
increased it, till, perceiving the oak, and near it the gate Lady
l'Estrange had mentioned, I stopped to consider where to turn; and
after I had walked a little to the right I saw a cottage and a light
gleaming inside. Then my heart beat very fast; and when I knocked at
the door I felt scarce able to stand. I did so three times, and no
answer came. Then I cried as loudly as I could, "Master Rugeley, I
beseech you open the door." I heard some one stirring within, but no
one came. Then I again cried out, "Oh, for our Blessed Lady's sake,
some one come." At last the lattice opened, and a man's head appeared.

"Who are you?" he said, in a low voice.

"A friend," I answered, in a whisper; "a Catholic. Are yon Master

"Yea," he answered.

"Oh, then, if Mr. Tunstall is here, hide him quickly, or send him
away. I am a friend of Lady l'Estrange's and staying in her house. Sir
Hammond hath received tidings that a priest is in this neighborhood,
and a warrant is issued for to apprehend him. His lady unwittingly,
and sorely troubled she is thereat, showed by her speeches touching
your guest, that he is like to be Mr. Tunstall; and the constables
will soon be here."

"Thank you," he replied whom I was addressing; "but Mr. Tunstall is
not the name of my friend."

Then I feared he did take me for a spy, and I cried out, greatly
moved, "As I do hope to go to heaven one {163} day, and not to hell,
Master Rugeley, I speak the truth, and my warning is an urgent one."

Then I heard some one within the house, who said, "Open the door,
Master Rugeley. I should know that voice. Let the speaker in."

Methought I, too, knew the voice of the person who thus spoke. The
door was opened, and I entered a room dimly lighted by one candle.

"Oh, for God's sake," I cried, "if a priest is here, hide him

"Are you a Catholic, my child?"

I looked up to the person who put this question to me, and gave a
sudden cry, I know not whether of terror or joy; for great as was the
change which the lapse of years, and great inward and outward changes,
had wrought in his aspect, I saw it was my father.

"I am Constance," I cried; "Constance Sherwood! Oh, my dear father!"
and then fell at his feet weeping.

After an instant's, astonishment and fixed gazing on my face, he
recognized me, who was, I doubt not, more changed than himself, and
received me with a great paternal kindness and the tenderest greeting
imaginable, yet tempered with reserve and so much of restraint as
should befit one who, for Christ's sake, had dissevered himself from
the joys, albeit not from the affections, of the natural heart.

"Oh, my good child, my own dear Constance," he said; "hath God in his
bounty given thy poor father a miraculous sight of thee before his
death, or art thou come verily in flesh and blood to warn him of his

"My dear and honored father," I replied, "time presses; peril is
indeed at hand, if you and Mr. Tunstall are the same person."

"The wounds in my hands," he answered, "must prove me such, albeit now
healed by the care of that good Samaritan, Lady l'Estrange. But
prithee, my good child, whence comest thou?"

"Alas!" I said; "and yet not alas, if God should be so good to me as
by my means to save you, I am Sir Hammond's guest, being a friend of
his lady's. I came there yesterday."

"Oh, my good child, I thought not to have seen thee in these thy
grown-up years. Master Rugeley," he added, turning to his host, "this
is the little girl I forsook four years ago, for to obtain the
hundredfold our Lord doth promise."

"My very dear father," I said, "joy is swallowed up in fear. God help
me, I came to warn a stranger (if so be any priest in these times
should be a stranger to a Catholic), and I find you."

"Oh, but I am mightfully pleased," quoth he, "to see thee, my child,
even in this wise, and to hear thee speak like a true daughter of Holy
Church. And Lady l'Estrange is then thy friend?"

"Yea, my dear father; but for God and our lady's sake hide yourself. I
warrant yon the constables may soon be here. Master Rugeley, where can
he be concealed, or whither fly, and I with him?"

"Nay, prithee not so fast," quoth he. "Flight would be useless; and in
the matter of hiding, one should be more easily concealed than two;
beside that, the hollow of a tree, which Master Rugeley will, I ween,
appoint me for a bed-chamber to-night, should hardly lodge us both
with comfort."

"Oh, sir," said Rugeley, "do not tarry."

"For thy sake, no; not for more than one minute, Thomas; but ere I
part from this wench, two questions I must needs ask her."

Then he drew me aside and inquired what facilities I continued to have
in London for the exercise of Catholic religion, and if I was punctual
in the discharge of my spiritual duties. When I had satisfied him
thereon, he asked if the report was true which he heard from a
prisoner for recusancy in Wisbeach Castle, concerning my troth-plight
with Mr. Rookwood.

"Yea," I said, "it is true, if so be you now do add your consent to


He answered he should do so with all his heart, for he knew him to be
a good Catholic and a virtuous gentleman; and as we might lack the
opportunity to receive his blessing later, he should now give it unto
me for both his most dear children. Which he did, laying his hand on
my head with many fervent benisons, couched in such words as these,
that he prayed for us to be stayed up with the shore of God's grace in
this world; and after this transitory life should end, to ascend to
him, and appear pure and unspotted before his glorious seat. Then he
asked me if it was Lady l'Estrange who had detected him; whereupon I
briefly related to him what had occurred, and how sore her grief was

"God bless her," he answered; "and tell her I do thank her and pray
for her with all mime heart."

And more he would have added, but Master Rugeley opened the door
impatiently. So, after kissing once more my father's hand, I went
away, compelled thereunto by fears for his safety, if he should not at
once conceal himself.

Looking back, I saw him and his guide disappear in the thicket, and
then, as I walked on toward Lynn Court, it did almost seem to me as if
the whole of that brief but pregnant interview should have been a
dream; nor could I verily persuade myself that it was not a half
habitant of another world I had seen and spoken with rather than mine
own father; and in first thinking on it I scarcely did fully apprehend
the danger he was in, so as to feel as much pain as I did later, when
the joy and astonishment of that unexpected meeting had given way to
terrifying thoughts. Ever and anon I turned round to gaze on the dark
wood wherein his hopes of safety did lie, and once I knelt down on the
roadside to pray that the night should be also dark and shield his
escape. But still the sense of fear was dulled, and woke not until the
sound of horses' feet on the road struck on my ear, and I saw a party
of men riding across the common. The light in the cottage was
extinguished, but the cruel moon shone out then more brightly than
heretofore. Now I felt so sick and faint that I feared to sink down on
the path, and hurried through the orchard-door and the garden to the
house. When I had unlocked the back door and stood in the hall where a
lately kindled fire made a ruddy light to glow, I tried again to think
I had been dreaming, like one in a nightmare strives to shake off an
oppressive fancy. I could not remain alone, and composed my
countenance for to enter the parlor, when the door thereof opened and
Mrs. l'Estrange came out, who, when she perceived me standing before
her, gave a start, but recovering herself, said, good-naturedly:

"Marry, if this be not the ghost we have been looking for; now
ashamed, I ween, to show itself. I hope, Mistress Sherwood, you do not
haunt quiet folks in their beds at night; for I do, I warn you,
mislike living ghosts, and should be disposed to throw a jug of water
at the head of such a one." And laughing, she took my hand in a kind
manner, which when she did, almost a cry broke from her: "How now,
Milicent! she is as cold as a stone figure. Where has she been
chilling herself?"

Milicent pressed forward and led me to my chamber, wherein a fire had
been lighted, and would make me drink a hot posset. But when I thought
of the cold hollow of a tree wherein my father was enclosed, if it
pleased God no worse mishap had befallen him, little of it could I
force myself to swallow, for now tears had come to my relief, and
concealing my face in the pillow of the bed whereon for weariness I
had stretched myself, I wept very bitterly.

"Is that poor man gone from Rugeley's house?" Milicent whispered.

Alas! she knew not who that poor man was to me, nor with what anguish
I answered: "He is not in the {165} cottage, I hope; but God only
knoweth if his pursuers shall not discover him." The thought of what
would then follow overcame me, and I hid my face with mine hands.

"Oh, Constance," she exclaimed, "was this poor man known to thee, that
thy grief is so great, whose conscience doth not reproach thee as mine

I held out my hand to her without unshading my face with the other,
and said: "Dear Milicent! thou shouldst not sorrow so mach for thine
own part in this sore trial. It was not thy fault. He said so. He
blest thee, and prays for thee."

Uncomforted by my words, she cried again, what she had so often
exclaimed that night, "If this man should die, my happiness is over."

Then once more she asked me if I know this priest, and I was froward
with her (God forgive me, for the suspense and fear overthrew better
feelings for a moment), and I cried, angrily, "Who saith he is a
priest? Who can prove it?"

"Think you so?" she said joyfully; "then all should be right."

And once more, with some misdoubting, I ween, that I concealed
somewhat from her, she inquired touching my knowledge of this
stranger. Then I spoke harshly, and bade her leave me, for I had
sorrow enough without her intermeddling with it; but then grieving for
her, and also afraid to be left alone, I denied my words, and prayed
her to stay, which she did, but did not speak much again. The silence
of the night seemed so deep as if the rustling of a leaf could be
noticed; only now and then the voices of the gentlemen below, and some
loud talking and laughter from some of them was discernible through
the closed doors. Once Lady l'Estrange said: "They be sitting up very
late;  I suppose till the constables return. Oh, when will that be?"

The great clock in the hall then struck twelve; and soon after,
starting up, I cried, "What should be that noise?"

"I do hear nothing," she answered, trembling as a leaf.

"Hush," I replied, and going to the window, opened the lattice. The
sound in the road on the other side of the house was now plain. On
that we looked on naught was to be seen save trees and grass, with the
ghastly moonlight shining on them. A loud opening and shutting of
doors and much stir now took place within the house, and, moved by the
same impulse, we both went out into the passage and half way down the
stairs. Milicent was first. Suddenly she turned round, and falling
down on her knees, with a stifled exclamation, she hid her face
against me, whisperings "He is taken!"

We seemed both turned to stone. O ye which have gone through a like
trial, judge ye; and you who have never been in such straits, imagine
what a daughter should feel who, after long years' absence, beholdeth
a beloved father for one instant, and in the next, under the same roof
where she is a guest, sees him brought in a prisoner and in jeopardy
of his life. Every word which was uttered we could hear where we sat
crouching, fearful to advance--she not daring to look on the man she
had ruined, and I on the countenance of a dear parent, lest the sight
of me should distract him from his defence, if that could be called
such which he was called on to make. They asked him touching his name,
if it was Tunstall. He answered he was known by that name. Then
followed the murtherous question, if he was a Romish priest? To which
he at once assented. Then said Sir Hammond:

"How did you presume, sir, to return into England contrary to the

"Sir," he answered, "as I was lawfully ordained a priest by a Catholic
bishop, by authority derived from the see of Rome" (one person here
exclaimed, "Oh, audacious papist! his {166} tongue should be cat out;"
but Sir Hammond imposed silence), "so likewise," he continued, "am I
lawfully sent to preach the word of God, and to administer the
sacraments to my Catholic countrymen. As the mission of priests
lawfully ordained is from Christ, who did send his apostles even as
his Father sent him, I do humbly conceive no human laws can justly
hinder my return to England, or make it criminal; for this should be
to prefer the ordinances of man to the commands of the supreme
legislator, which is Christ himself."

Loud murmurs were here raised by some present, which Sir Hammond again
silencing, he then inquired if he would take the oath of allegiance to
the queen? He answered (my straining ears taking note of every word he
uttered) that he would gladly pay most willing obedience to her
majesty in all civil matters; but the oath of allegiance, as it was
worded, he could not take, or hold her majesty to possess any
supremacy in spiritual matters. He was beginning to state the reasons
thereof, but was not suffered to proceed, for Sir Hammond,
interrupting him, said he was an escaped prisoner, and by his own
confession condemned, so he should straightway commit him to the gaol
in Norwich. Then I lost my senses almost, and seizing Lady
l'Estrange's arm, I cried, "Save him! he is mine own father, Mr.
Sherwood!" She uttered a sort of cry, and said, "Oh, I have feared
this, since I saw his face!" and running forward, I following her,
affrighted at what should happen, she called out, "It shall not be! He
shall not do it!" and with a face as white as any smock, runs to her
husband, and perceiving the constables to be putting chains on my
father's hands and feet, which I likewise beheld with what feelings
you who read this may think, she falls on her knees and gasps out
these words in such a mournful tone, that I shuddered to hear her,
"Oh, sir! if this man leaves this house a chained prisoner, I shall
never be the like of my-self again. There shall be no more joy for me
in life." And then faints right away, and Sir Hammond carries her in
his arms out of the hall. Mine eyes the while met my father's; who
smiled on me with kind cheer, but signed for me to keep away. I
stretched my arms toward him, and with his chained hand he contrived
yet once more for to bless me; then was hurried out of my sight. Far
more time than I ever did perceive or could remember the length of I
remained in that now deserted hall, motionless, alone, near to the
dying embers, the darkness still increasing, too much confused to
recall at once the comforts which sacred thoughts do yield in such
mishaps, only able to clasp my hand and utter broken sentences of
prayer, such as "God, ha' mercy on us," and the like; till about the
middle of the night, Sir Hammond comes down the stairs, with a lamp in
his hand, and a strange look in his face.

"Mistress Sherwood," he says, "come to my lady. She is very ill, and
hath been in labor for some time. She doth nothing but call for you,
and rave about that accursed priest she will have it she hath
murthered. Come and feign to her he hath escaped."

"O God!" I cried, "my words may fall on her ear, Sir Hammond, but my
face cannot deceive her."

He looked at me amazed and angry. "What meaneth this passion of grief?
What is this old man to you, that his misfortune should thus disorder
you?" And as I could not stay my weeping, he asked in a scornful
manner, "Do papists so dote on their priests as to die of sorrow when
they get their deserts?" This insulting speech did so goad me, that,
unable to restrain myself, I exclaimed, "Sir Hammond, he whom you have
sent to a dungeon, and perhaps to death also (God pardon you for it!),
is my true father!--the best parent and the noblest gentleman that
ever breathed, which for many years I had not seen; and here under
your roof, myself your guest, I {167} have beheld him loaded with
chains, and dared not to speak for fear to injure him yet further,
which I pray God I have not now done, moved thereunto by your cruel

"Your father!" he said amazed; "Mr. Sherwood! These cursed feignings
do work strange mishaps. But he did own himself a priest."

Before I had time to answer, a serving woman ran into the hall, crying
out, "Oh, sir, I pray you come to my lady. She is much worse; and the
nurse says, if her mind is not eased she is like to die before the
child is born."

"Oh, Milicent! sweet Milicent!" I cried, wringing my hands; and when I
looked at that unhappy husband's face, anger vanished and pity took
its place. He turned to me with an imploring countenance as if he
should wish to say, "None but you can save her." I prayed to Our Lady,
who stood and fainted not beneath the Rood, to get me strength for to
do my part in that sick chamber whither I signed to him to lead the
way. "God will help me," I whispered in his ear, "to comfort her."

"God bless you!" he answered in a hoarse voice, and opened the door of
the room in which his sweet lady was sitting in her bed, with a wild
look in her pale blue eyes, which seemed to start out of her head.

"Sir," I heard her say, as he approached, "what hath befallen the poor
man you would not dismiss?"

I took a light in my hand, so that she should see my face, and smiled
on her with such good cheer, as God in his mercy gave me strength to
do even amidst the two-fold anguish of that moment. Then she threw her
arms convulsively round my neck, and her pale lips gasped the same
question as before. I bent over her, and said, "Trouble yourself no
longer, dear lady, touching this prisoner. He is safe (in God's
keeping, I added, internally). He is where he is carefully tended (by
God's angels, I mentally subjoined); he hath no occasion to be afraid
(for God is his strength), and I warrant you is as peaceful as his
nearest friends should wish him to be."

"Is this the truth?" she murmured in my ear.

"Yea," I said, "the truth, the very truth," and kissed her flushed
cheek. Then feeing like to faint, I went away, Sir Hammond leading me
to my chamber, for I could scarce stand.

"God bless you!" he again said, when he left me, and I think he was

I fell into a heavy, albeit troubled, sleep, and when I awoke it was
broad daylight. When the waiting-maid came in, she told me Lady
l'Estrange had been delivered of a dead child and Sir Hammond was
almost beside himself with grief. My lady's mind had wandered ever
since; but she was more tranquil than in the night. Soon after he sent
to ask if he could see me, and I went down to him into the parlor. A
more changed man, in a few hours, I ween, could not be seen, than this
poor gentleman. He spoke not of his lady; but briefly told me he had
sent in the night a messenger on horseback to Norwich, with a letter
to the governor of the gaol, praying him to show as much
consideration, and allow so much liberty as should consist with
prudence, to the prisoner in his custody, sent by him a few hours
before, for that he had discovered him not to be one of the common
sort, nor a lewd person, albeit by his own confession amenable to the
laws, and escaped from another prison. Then he added, that if I wished
to go to Norwich, and visit this prisoner, he would give me a letter
to the governor, and one to a lady, who would conveniently harbor me
for a while in that city, and his coach should take me there, or he
would lend me a horse and a servant to attend me. I answered, I should
be glad to go, and then said somewhat of his lady, hoping she should
now do well. He made no reply for a moment, and then only said,

"God knoweth! she is not like herself at the present."

The words she had so mournfully {168} spoken the day before came into
my mind, "I shall never be like myself again, and there shall be no
more joy in this house." And, methinks, they did haunt him also.

I sat for some time by her bedside that day. She seemed not ill at
ease, but there was something changed in her aspect, and her words
when she spoke had no sense or connection. And here I will set down,
before I relate the events which followed my brief sojourn under their
roof, what I have heard touching the sequel of Sir Hammond and his
wife's lives.

In that perilous and sorely troubled childbirth understanding was
alienated, and the art of the best physicians in England could never
restore it. She was not frantic; but had such a pretty deliration,
that in her ravings there was oftentimes more attractiveness than in
many sane persons' conversation. They mostly ran on pious themes, and
she was wont to sing psalms, and talk of heaven, and that she hoped to
see God there; and in many things she showed her old ability, such as
fine embroidery and the making of preserves. One day her waiting-woman
asked her to dress a person's wounds, which did greatly need it, and
she set herself to do it in her accustomed manner; but at the sight of
the wounds, she was seized with convulsions, and became violently
delirious, so that Sir Hammond sharply reprehended the imprudent
attendant, and forbade the like to be ever proposed to her again. He
gave himself up to live retired with her, and ceased to be a
magistrate, nor ever, that I could hear of, took any part again in the
persecution of Catholics. The distemper which had estranged her mind
in all things else, had left her love and obedience entire to her
husband; and he entertained a more visible fondness, and evinced a
greater respect for her after she was distempered than he had ever
done in the early days of their marriage. Methinks, the gentleness of
her heart, and delicacy of her conscience, which till that misfortune
had never, I ween, been burdened by any, even the least,
self-reproach, and the lack of strength in her mind to endure an
unusual stress, made the stroke of that accidental harm done to
another through her means too heavy for her sufferance, and, as the
poet saith, unsettled reason on her throne. For mine own part, but let
others consider of it as they list, I think that had she been a
Catholic by early training and distinct belief, as verily I hope she
was in rightful intention, albeit unconsciously to herself (as I make
no doubt many are in these days, wherein persons are growing up with
no knowledge of religion except what Protestant parents do instill
into them), that she would have had a greater courage for to bear this
singular trial; which to a feeling natural heart did prove unbearable,
but which to one accustomed to look on suffering as not the greatest
of evils, and to hold such as are borne for conscience sake as great
and glorious, would not have been so overwhelming. But herein I write,
methinks, mine own condemnation, for that in the anguish of filial
grief I failed to point out to her during those cruel moments of
suspense that which in retrospection I do so clearly see. And so, may
God accept the blighting of her young life, and the many sufferings of
mine which I have still to record, as pawns of his intended mercies to
both her and to me in his everlasting kingdom!

When I was about to set out for Norwich, late in the afternoon of that
same day, Sir Hammond's messenger returned from thence with a letter
from the governor of the gaol; wherein he wrote that the prisoner he
had sent the night before was to proceed to London in a few hours with
some other priests and recusants which the government had ordered to
be conveyed thither and committed to divers prisons. He added, that he
had complied with Sir Hammond's request, and shown so much favor to
Mr. Tunstall as to transfer him, as soon as he {169} received his
letter, from the common dungeon to a private cell, and to allow him to
speak with another Catholic prisoner who had desired to see him. Upon
this I prayed Sir Hammond to forward me on my journey to London, as
now I desired nothing so much as to go there forthwith; which he did
with no small alacrity and good disposition. Then, with so much speed
as was possible, and so much suffering from the lapse of each hour
that it seemed to me the journey should never end, I proceeded to what
was now the object of my most impatient pinings--the place where I
should bear tidings of my father, and, if it should be possible,
minister assistance to him in his great straits. At last I reached
Holborn; and, to the no small amazement of my uncle, Mrs. Ward, and
Muriel, revealed to them who Mr. Tunstall was, whose arrival at the
prison of Bridewell Mrs. Ward had had notice of that morning, when she
had been to visit Mr. Watson, which she had contrived to do for some
time past in the manner I will soon relate.


One of the first persons I saw in London was Hubert Rookwood, who,
when he heard (for being Basil's brother I would not conceal it from
him) that my father was in prison at Bridewell, expressed so much
concern therein and resentment of my grief, that I was thereby moved
to more kindly feelings toward him than I had of late entertained. He
said that in the houses of the law which he frequented he had made
friends which he hoped would intercede in his behalf, and therein
obtain, if not his release, yet so much alleviation of the hardships
of a common prison as should render his condition more tolerable, and
that he would lose no time in seeking to move them thereunto; but that
our chief hope would lie in Sir Francis Walsingham, who, albeit much
opposed to papists, had always showed himself willing to assist his
friends of that way of thinking, and often procured for them some
relief, which indeed none had more experienced than Mr. Congleton
himself. Hubert commended the secrecy which had been observed touching
my father's real name; for if he should be publicly known to be
possessed of lands and related to noble families, it should be harder
for any one to get him released than an obscure person; but
nevertheless he craved license to intimate so much of the truth to Sir
Francis as should appear convenient, for he had always observed that
gentlemen are more compassionate to those of their own rank than to
others of meaner birth. Mr. Congleton prayed him to use his own
discretion therein, and said he should acquaint no one himself of it
except his very good friend the Portuguese ambassador, who, if all
other resources failed, might yet obtain of the queen herself some
mitigation of his sentence. Thereupon followed some days of weary
watching and waiting, in which my only comfort was Mistress Ward, who,
by means of the gaoler's wife, who had obliged her in the like manner
before, did get access from time to time to Mr. Watson, and brought
him necessaries. From him she discovered that the prisoner in the
nearest cell to his own was the so-called Mr. Tunstall, and that by
knocks against the wall, ingeniously numbered so as to express the
letters of the alphabet, as one for _a_, two for _b_, and so to the
end thereof, they did communicate. So she straightway began to
practice this management; but time allowed not of many speeches to
pass between them. Yet in this way he sent me his blessing, and that
he was of very good cheer; but that none should try for to visit him,
for he had only one fear, which was to bring others into trouble; and,
for himself, he was much beholden to her majesty, which had provided
him with a quiet lodging and time to look to his soul's welfare; {170}
which evidence of his cheerful and pious spirit comforted me not a
little. Then that dear friend which had brought me this good comfort
spoke of Mr. Watson, and said she desired to procure his escape from
prison more than that of any other person in the same plight, not
excepting my father. "For, good Constance," quoth she, "when a man is
blest with a stout heart and cheerful mind, except it be for the sake
of others, I pray you what kind of service do you think we render him
by delaying the victory he is about to gain, and peradventure
depriving him of the long-desired crown of martyrdom? But this good
Mr. Watson, who as you well know was a zealous priest and pious
missioner, nevertheless, some time after his apprehension and
confinement in Bridewell, by force of torments and other miseries of
that place, was prevailed upon to deny his faith so far as to go once
to the Protestant service--not dragged there by force as some have
been, but compelled thereunto by fear of intolerable sufferings, and
was then set at liberty. But the poor man did not thus better his
condition; for the torments of his mind, looking on himself as an
apostate and traitor to the Church, he found to be more insupportable
than any sufferings his gaolers put upon him. So, after some miserable
weeks, he went to one of the prisons where some other priests were
confined for to seek comfort and counsel from them; and, having
confessed his fault with great and sincere sorrow, he received
absolution, and straightway repaired to that church in Bridewell
wherein he had in a manner denied his faith, and before all the people
at that time therein assembled, declared himself a Catholic, and
willing to go to prison and to death sooner than to join again in
Protestant worship. Whereupon he was laid hold of, dragged to prison,
and thrown into a dungeon so low and so straight that he could neither
stand up in it nor lay himself down at his full length to sleep. They
loaded him with irons, and kept him one whole month on bread and
water; nor would suffer any one to come near him to comfort or speak
with him."

"Alas!" I cried, "and is this, then, the place where my father is

"No,", she answered; "after the space of a month Mr. Watson was
translated to a lodging at the top of the house, wherein the prisoners
are leastways able to stretch their limbs and to see the light; but he
having been before prevailed on to yield against his conscience
touching that point of going to Protestant worship, no peace is left
to him by his persecutors, which never cease to urge on him some sort
of conformity to their religion. And, Constance, when a man hath once
been weak, what security can there be, albeit I deny not hope, that he
shall always after stand firm?"

"But by what means," I eagerly asked, '"do you forecast to procure his

"I have permission," she answered, "to bring him necessaries, which I
do in a basket, on condition that I be searched at going in and coming
out, for to make sure I convey not any letter unto him or from him;
and this was so strictly observed the first month that they must needs
break open the loaves or pies I take to him lest any paper should be
conveyed inside. But they begin now to weary of this strict search,
and do not care at ways to hearken when I speak with him; so he could
tell me the last time I did visit him that he had found a way by which
if he had but a cord long enough for his purpose, he could let himself
down from the top of the house, and so make his escape in the night."

"Oh," I cried, "dear Mistress Ward, but this is a perilous venture, to
aid a prisoner's escape. One which a daughter might run for her
father, oh, how willingly, but for a stranger--"

"A stranger!" she answered. "Is he a stranger for whom Christ died,
and whose precious soul is in danger. {171} even if not a priest; and
being so, is he not entitled to more than common reverence, chiefly in
these days when God's servants minister to us in the midst of such
great straits to both soul and body?'

"I cry God mercy," I said; "I did term him a stranger who gave ghostly
comfort to my dear mother on her death-bed; but oh, dear Mistress
Ward, I thought on your peril, who, he knoweth, hath been as a mother
to me for these many years. And then-if you are resolved to run this
danger, should it not be possible to save my father also by the same
means? Two cords should not be more difficult to convey, methinks,
than one, and the peril not greater."

"If I could speak with him," she replied, "it would not be impossible.
I will tell Muriel to make two instead of one of these cords, which
she doth twine in some way she learnt from a Frenchman, so strong as,
albeit slight, to have the strength of a cable. But without we do
procure two men with a boat for to fetch the prisoners when they
descend, 'tis little use to make the attempt. And it be easier, I
warrant thee, Constance, to run one's self into a manifest danger than
to entice others to the like."

"Should it be safe," I asked, "to speak thereon to Hubert Rookwood? He
did exhibit this morning much zeal in my father's behalf, and promised
to move Sir Francis Walsingham to procure his release."

"How is he disposed touching religion? she asked, in a doubtful

"Alas!" I answered, "there is a secrecy in his nature which in more
ways than one doth prove unvestigable, leastways to me; but when he
comes this evening I will sound him thereon. Would his brother were in
London! Then we should not lack counsel and aid in this matter."

"We do sorely need both," she answered; "for your good uncle, than
which a better man never lived, wanes feeble in body, and hence easily
overcome by the fears such enterprises involve. Mr. Wells is not in
London at this tune, or he should have been a very palladium of
strength in this necessity. Hubert Rookwood hath, I think, a good

"What we do want is a brave heart," I replied, thinking on Basil.

"But wits also," she said.

"Basil hath them too," I answered, forgetting that only in mine own
thinking had he been named.

"Yea," she cried, "who doth doubt it? but, alas! he is not here."

Then I prayed her not to be too rash in the prosecution of her design.
"Touching my father," I said, "I have yet some hope of his release;
and as long as any remaineth, flight should be methinks a too
desperate attempt to be thought of."

"Yea," she answered, "in most cases it would be so." But Mr. Watson's
disposition she perceived to be such as would meet a present danger
and death itself, she thought, with courage, but not of that stamp
which could endure prolonged fears or infliction of torments.

Since my coming to London I had been too much engaged in these weighty
cares to go abroad; but on that day I resolved, if it were possible,
to see my Lady Surrey. A report had reached me that the breach between
her and her husband had so much deepened that a separation had ensued,
which if true, I, which knew her as well almost as mine own self,
could judge what her grief must be. I was also moved to this endeavor
by the hope that if my Lord Arundel was not too sick to be spoken
with, she should perhaps obtain some help through his means for that
dear prisoner whose captivity did weigh so heavily on my heart.

So, with a servant to attend on me, I went through the city to the
Chapter-house, and with a misgiving mind heard from the porter that
Lady Surrey lodged not there, but at Arundel House, whither she had
removed soon after her coming to London. {172} Methought that in the
telling of it this man exhibited a sorrowful countenance; but not
choosing to question one of his sort on so weighty a matter, I went on
to Arundel House, where, after some delay, I succeeded in gaining
admittance to Lady Surrey's chamber, whose manner, when she first saw
me, lacked the warmth which I was used to in her greetings. There
seemed some fear in her lest I should speak unadvisedly that which she
would be loth to hear; and her strangeness and reserve methinks arose
from reluctance to have the wound in her heart probed,--too sore a
one, I ween, even for the tender handling of a friend. I inquired of
her if my Lord Arundel's health had improved. She said he was better,
and like soon to be as well as could be hoped for now-a-days, when his
infirmities had much increased.

"Then you will return to Kenninghall?" I said, letting my speech
outrun discretion.

"No," she replied; "I purpose never more to leave my Lord Arundel or
my Lady Lumley as long as they do live, which I pray God may be many

And then she sat without speaking, biting her lips and wringing the
kerchief she held in her hands, as if to keep her grief from
outbursting. I dared not to comment on her resolve, for I foresaw that
the least word which should express some partaking of her sorrow, or
any question relating to it, would let loose a torrent weakly stayed
by a mightful effort, not like to be of long avail. So I spoke of mine
own troubles, and the events which had occasioned my sudden departure
from Lynn Court. She had heard of Lady l'Estrange's mishap, and that
the following day I had journeyed to London; but naught of the causes
thereof, or of the apprehension of any priest by Sir Hammond's orders.
Which, when she learnt the manner of this misfortune, and the poor
lady's share therein, and that it was my father she had thus
unwittingly discovered, her countenance softened, and throwing her
arms round my neck, she bitterly wept, which at that moment methinks
did her more good than anything else.

"Oh, mine own good Constance," she said, "I doubt not nature riseth
many passionate workings in your soul at this time; but, my dear
wench, when good men are in trouble our grief for them should be as
noble as their virtues. Bethink thee what a worst sorrow it should be
to have a vile father, one that thou must needs love,--for who can
tear out of his heart affection strong as life?--and he should then
prove unworthy. Believe me, Constance, God gives to each, even in this
world, a portion of their deserts. Such griefs as thy present one I
take to be rare instances of his favor. Other sorts of trials are meet
for cowardly souls which refuse to set their lips to a chalice of
suffering, and presently find themselves submerged in a sea of woes.
But can I help thee, sweet one? Is there aught I can do to lighten thy
affliction? Hast thou license for to see thy father?"

"No, dear lady," I answered; "and his name being concealed, I may not
petition as his daughter for this permission; but if my Lord Arundel
should be so good a lord to me as to obtain leave for me to visit this
prisoner, without revealing his name and condition, he should do me
the greatest benefit in the world."

"I will move him thereunto," my lady said. "But he who had formerly no
equal in the queen's favor, and to whom she doth partly owe her crown,
is now in his sickness and old age of so little account in her eyes,
that trifling favors are often denied him to whom she would once have
said: 'Ask of me what thou wilt, and I will give it unto thee.' But
what my poor endeavors can effect through him or others shall not be
lacking in this thy need. But I am not in that condition I was once
like to have enjoyed." Then with her eyes cast on the ground she
seemed for to doubt if she should {173} speak plainly, or still shut
up her grief in silence. As I sat painfully expecting her next words,
the door opened, and two ladies were announced, which she whispered in
mine ear she would fain not have admitted at that time, but that Lord
Arundel's desire did oblige her to entertain them. One was Mistress
Bellamy, and the other her daughter, Mistress Frances, a young
gentlewoman of great beauty and very lively parts, which I had once
before seen at Lady Ingoldsby's house. She was her parents' sole
daughter, and so idolized by them that they seemed to live only to
minister to her fancies. Lord Arundel was much bounden to this family
by ancient ties of friendship, which made him urgent with his
granddaughter that she should admit them to her privacy. I admired in
this instance how suddenly those which have been used to exercise such
self-command as high breeding doth teach can school their exterior to
seem at ease, and even of good cheer, when most ill at ease
interiorly, and with hearts very heavy. Lady Surrey greeted these
visitors with as much courtesy, and listened to their discourse with
as much civility and smiles when called for, as if no burthensome
thoughts did then oppress her.

Many and various themes were touched upon in the random talk which
ensued. First, that wonted one of the queen's marriage, which some
opined should verily now take place with Monsieur d'Alençon; for that
since his stealthy visits to England, she did wear in her bosom a
brooch of jewels in a frog's shape.

"Ay," quoth Mistress Frances, "that stolen visit which awoke the ire
of the poor soul Stubbs, who styled it 'an unmanlike, unprincelike,
French kind of wooing,' and endeth his book of 'The Gaping Gulph' in a
loyal rage: 'Here is, therefore, an imp of the crown of France, to
marry the crowned nymph of England,'--a nymph indeed well stricken in
years. My brother was standing by when Stubbs' hand was cut off; for
nothing else would content that sweet royal nymph, albeit the lawyers
stoutly contended the statute under which he suffered to be null and
void. As soon as his right hand is off, the man takes his hat off with
the left, and cries 'God bless the queen!'"

"Here is a wonder," I exclaimed; "I pray you, what is the art this
queen doth possess by which she holdeth the hearts of her subjects in
so great thrall, albeit so cruel to them which do offend her?"

"Lady Harrington hath told me her majesty's own opinion thereon," said
Mrs. Bellamy; "for one day she did ask her in a merry sort, 'How she
kept her husband's good-will and love?' To which she made reply that
she persuaded her husband of her affection, and in so doing did
command his. Upon which the queen cries out, 'Go to, go to, Mistress
Moll! you are wisely bent, I find. After such sort do I keep the good
wills of all my husbands, my good people; for if they did not rest
assured of some special love toward them, they would not readily yield
me such good obedience.'"

"Tut, tut!" cried Mistress Frances; "all be not such fools as John
Stubbs; and she knoweth how to take rebukes from such as she doth not
dare to offend. By the same token that Sir Philip Sydney hath written
to dissuade her from this French match, and likewise Sir Francis
Walsingham, which last did hint at her advancing years; and her
highness never so much as thought of striking off their hands. But I
warrant you a rebellion shall arise if this queen doth issue such
prohibitions as she hath lately done."

"Of what sort?" asked Lady Surrey.

"First, to forbid," Mrs. Bellamy said, "any new building to be raised
within three thousand paces of the gates of London on pain of
imprisonment, and sundry other penalties; or for more than one family
to inhabit in one house. For her majesty holds it {174} should be an
impossible thing to govern or maintain order in a city larger than
this London at the present time."

Mistress Frances declared this law to be more tolerable than the one
against the size of ladies' ruffs, which were forsooth not to exceed a
certain measure; and officers appointed for to stand at the comers of
streets and to clip such as overpassed the permitted dimensions, which
sooner than submit to she should die.

Lady Surrey smiled, and said she should have judged so from the size
of her fine ruff.

"But her majesty is impartial," quoth Mrs. Bellamy; "for the
gentlemen's rapiers are served in the same manner. And verily this law
hath nearly procured a war with France; for in Smithfield Lane some
clownish constables stayed M. de Castelnau, and laid hands on his
sword for to shorten it to the required length. I leave you to judge.
Lady Surrey, of this ambassador's fury. Sir Henry Seymour, who was
tidying the air in Smithfield at the time, perceived him standing with
the drawn weapon in his hand, threatening to kill whosoever should
approach him, and destruction on this realm of England if the officers
should dare to touch his sword again; and this with such frenzy of
speech in French mixed with English none could understand, that God
knoweth what should have ensued if Sir Henry had not interfered. Her
majesty was forced to make an apology to this mounseer for that her
officers had ignorantly attempted to clip the sword of her good
brother's envoy."

"Why doth she not clip," Mistress Frances said, "if such be her
present humor, the orange manes of her gray Dutch horses, which are
the frightfullest things in the world?"

"Tis said," quoth Mrs. Bellamy, "that a new French embassy is soon
expected, with the dauphin of Auvergne at its head."

"Yea," cried her daughter, "and four handsome English noblemen to meet
them at the Tower stairs, and conduct them to the new banqueting-house
at Westminster,--my Lord Surrey, Lord Windsor, Sir Philip Sydney, and
Sir Fulke Greville. Methinks this should be a very fine sight, if rain
doth not fall to spoil it."

I saw my Lady Surrey's countenance change when her husband was
mentioned; and Mrs. Bellamy looked at her daughter forasmuch as to
check her thoughtless speeches, which caused this young lady to glance
round the room, seeking, as it seemed, for some other topic of

Methinks I should not have preserved so lively a recollection of the
circumstances of this visit if some dismal tidings which reached me
afterward touching this gentlewoman, then so thoughtless and innocent,
had not revived in me the memory of her gay prattle, bright unabashed
eyes, and audacious dealing with subjects so weighty and dangerous,
that any one less bold should have feared to handle them. After the
pause which ensued on the mention of Lord Surrey's name, she took for
her text what had been said touching the prohibitions lately issued
concerning ruffs and rapiers, and began to mock at her majesty's
favorites; yea, and to mimic her majesty herself with so much humor
that her well-acted satire must have needs constrained any one to
laugh. Then, not contented with these dangerous jests, she talked such
direct treason against her highness as to say she hoped to see her
dethroned, and a fair Catholic sovereign to reign in her stead, who
would be less shrewish to young and handsome ladies. Then her mother
cried her, for mercy's sake, to restrain her mad speech, which would
serve one day to bring them all into trouble, for all she meant it in

"Marry, good mother," she answered, "not in jest at all; for I do
verily hold myself bound to no allegiance to this queen, and would
gladly see her get her deserts."

Then Lady Surrey prayed her not to speak so rashly; but methought in
{175} her heart, and somewhat I could perceive of this in her eyes,
she misliked not wholly this young lady's words, who then spoke of
religion; and oh, how zealous therein she did appear, how boldly
affirmed (craving Lady Surrey's pardon, albeit she would warrant, she
said, there was no need to do so, her ladyship she had heard being
half a papist herself) that she had as lief be racked twenty times
over and die also, or her face to be so disfigured that none should
call her ever after anything but a fright--which martyrdom she held
would exceed any yet thought of--than so much as hold her tongue
concerning her faith, or stay from telling her majesty to her face, if
she should have the chance to get speech with her, that she was a foul
heretic, and some other truths beside, which but once to utter in her
presence, come of it what would, should be a delicious pleasure. Then
she railed at the Catholics which blessed the queen before they
suffered for their religion, proving them wrong with ingenious reasons
and fallacious arguments mixed with pleasantries not wholly becoming
such grave themes. But it should have seemed as reasonable to be angry
with a child babbling at random of life and death in the midst of its
play, as with this creature, the lightest of heart, the fairest in
face, the most winsome in manner, and most careless of danger, that
ever did set sail on life's stream.

Oh, how all this rose before me again, when I heard, two years
afterward, that for her bold recusancy--alas! more bold, as the
sequel proved, than deep, more passionate than fervent--this only
cherished daughter, this innocent maiden, the mirror of whose fame no
breath had sullied, and on whose name no shadow had rested, was torn
by the pursuivants from her parents' home, and cast into a prison with
companions at the very aspect of which virtue did shudder. And the
unvaliant courage, the weak bravery, of this indulged and wayward
young lady had no strength wherewith to resist the surging tides of
adversity. No voice of parent, friend, or ghostly father reached her
in that abode of despair. No visible angel visited her, but a fiend in
human form haunted her dungeon. Liberty and pleasure he offered in
exchange for virtue, honor, and faith. She fell; sudden and great was
that fall.

There is a man the name of which hath blenched the cheeks and riven
the hearts of Catholics, one who hath caused many amongst them to lose
their lands and to part from their homes, to die on gibbets and their
limbs to be torn asunder--one Richard Topcliffe. But, methinks, of all
the voices which shall be raised for to accuse him at Christ's
judgment-seat, the loudest will be Frances Bellamy's. Her ruin was his
work; one of those works which, when a man is dead, do follow him;
whither, God knoweth!

Oh, you who saw her, as I did, in her young and innocent years, can
you read this without shuddering? Can you think on it without weeping?
As her fall was sudden, so was the change it wrought. With it vanished
affections, hopes, womanly feelings, memory of the past; nay, methinks
therein I err. Memory did yet abide, but linked with hatred; Satan's
memory of heaven. From depths to depths she hath sunk, and is now
wedded to a mean wretch, the gaoler of her old prison. So rank a
hatred hath grown in her against recusants and mostly priests, that it
rages like a madness in her soul, which thirsts for their blood. Some
months back, about the time I did begin to write this history, news
reached me that she had sold the life of that meek saint, that sweet
poet, Father Southwell, of which even an enemy, Lord Mountjoy, did
say, when he had seen him suffer, "I pray God, where that man's soul
now is, mine may one day be." Her father had concealed him in that
house where she had dwelt in her innocent days. None but the family
knew the secret of its hiding-place. {176}so will be ready in Ireland
She did reveal it, and took gold for her wages! What shall be that
woman's death-bed? What trace doth remain on her soul of what was once
a share in the divine nature? May one of God's ministers be nigh unto
her in that hour for to bid her not despair! If Judas had repented,
Jesus would have pardoned him. Peradventure, misery without hope of
relief overthrew her brain. I do pray for her always. 'Tis a vain
thought perhaps, but I sometimes wish I might, though I see not how to
compass it, yet once speak with her before she or I die. Methinks I
could say such words as should touch some old chord in her dead heart.
God knoweth! That day I write of, little did I ween what her end would
be. But yet it feared me to hear one so young and of so frail an
aspect speak so boastfully; and it seemed even then to my
inexperienced mind, that my Lady Surrey, who had so humbly erewhile
accused herself of cowardice and lamented her weakness, should be in a
safer plight, albeit as yet unreconciled.

The visit I have described had lasted some time, when a servant came
with a message to her ladyship from Mr. Hubert Rookwood, who craved to
be admitted on an urgent matter. She glanced at me somewhat surprised,
upon which I made her a sign that she should condescend to his
request; for I supposed he had seen Sir Francis Walsingham, and was in
haste to confer with me touching that interview; and she ordered him
to be admitted. Mrs. Bellamy and her daughter rose to go soon after
his entrance; and whilst Lady Surrey conducted them to the door he
asked me if her ladyship was privy to the matter in hand. When I had
satisfied him thereof, he related what had passed in an interview he
had with Sir Francis, whom he found ill-disposed at first to stir in
the matter, for he said his frequent remonstrances in favor of
recusants had been like to bring him into odium with some of the more
zealous Protestants, and that he must needs, in every case of that
sort, prove it to be his sole object to bring such persons more
surely, albeit slowly, by means of toleration, to a rightful
conformity; and that with regard to priests he was very loth to

"I was compelled," quoth Hubert, "to use such arguments as fell in
with the scope of his discourse, and to flatter him with the hope of
good results in that which he most desired, if he would procure Mr.
Sherwood's release, which I doubt not he hath power to effect. And in
the end he consented to lend his aid therein, on condition he should
prove on his side so far conformable as to suffer a minister to visit
and confer with him touching religion, which would then be a pretext
for his release, as if it were supposed he was well disposed toward
Protestant religion, and a man more like to embrace the truth when at
liberty than if driven to it by stress of confinement. Then he would
procure," he added, "an order for his passage to France, if he
promised not to return, except he should be willing to obey the laws."

"I fear me much," I answered, "my father will not accept these terms
which Sir Francis doth offer. Methinks he will consider they do
involve some lack of the open profession of his faith."

"It would be madness for one in his plight to refuse them," Hubert
exclaimed, and appealed thereon to Lady Surrey, who said she did
indeed think as he did, for it was not like any better could be

It pained me he should refer to her, who from conformity to the times
could not well conceive how tender a Catholic conscience should feel
at the least approach to dissembling on this point.

"Wherein," he continued, "is the harm for to confer with a minister,
or how can it be construed into a denial of a man's faith to listen to
his arguments, unless, indeed, he feels himself to be in danger of
being shaken by them?"

"You very well know," I exclaimed {177} with some warmth, "that not to
be my meaning, or what I suppose his should be. Our priests do
constantly crave for public disputations touching religion, albeit
they eschew secret ones, which their adversaries make a pretext of to
spread reports of their inability to defend their faith, or
willingness to abandon it. But heaven forbid I should anyways prejudge
this question; and if with a safe conscience--and with no other I am
assured will he do it--my father doth subscribe to this condition,
then God be praised for it!"

"But you will move him to it, Mistress Constance?" he said.

"If I am so happy," I answered, "as to get speech with him, verily I
will entreat him not to throw away his life, so precious to others, if
so be he can save it without detriment to his conscience."

"Conscience!" Hubert exclaimed, "methinks that word is often
misapplied in these days."

"How so?" I asked, investigating his countenance, for I misdoubted his
meaning. Lady Surrey likewise seemed desirous to hear what he should
say on that matter.

"Conscience," he answered, "should make persons, and mostly women,
careful how they injure others, and cause heedless suffering, by a too
great stiffness in refusing conformity to the outward practices which
the laws of the country enforce, when it affects not the weightier
points of faith, which God forbid any Catholic should deny. There is
often as much of pride as of virtue in such rash obstinacy touching
small yieldings as doth involve the ruin of a family, separation of
parents and children, and more evils than can be thought of."

"Hubert," I said, fixing mine eyes on him with a searching look he
cared not, I ween, to meet, for he cast his on a paper he had in his
hand, and raised them not while I spoke, "'sit is by such reasonings
first, and then by such small yieldings as you commend, that some have
been led two or three times in their lives, yea, oftener perhaps, to
profess different religions, and to take such contradictory oaths as
have been by turns prescribed to them under different sovereigns, and
God each time called on to witness their perjuries, whereby truth and
falsehood in matters of faith shall come in time to be words without
any meaning."

Then he: "You do misapprehend me, Mistress Constance, if you think I
would counsel a man to utter a falsehood, or feign to believe that
which in his heart he thinketh to be false. But, in heaven's name, I
pray you, what harm will your father do if he listens to a minister's
discourse, and suffers it to be set forth he doth ponder thereon, and
in the meantime escapes to France? whereas, if he refuses the loophole
now offered to him, he causeth not to himself alone, but to you and
his other friends, more pain and sorrow than can be thought of, and
deprives the Church of one of her servants, when her need of them is

I made no reply to this last speech; for albeit I thought my father
would not accede to these terms, I did not so far trust mine own
judgment thereon as to predict with certainty what his answer should
be. And then Hubert said he had an order from Sir Francis that would
admit me on the morrow to see my father; and he offered to go with me,
and Mistress Ward too, if I listed, to present it, albeit I alone
should enter his cell. I thanked him, and fixed the time of our going.

When he had left  us,  Lady Surrey commended his zeal, and also his
moderate spirit, which did charitably allow, she said, for such as
conformed to the times for the sake of others which their
reconcilement would very much injure.

Before I could reply she changed this discourse, and, putting her
hands on my shoulders and kissing my forehead, said,

"My Lady Lumley hath heard so much from her poor niece of one {178}
Mistress Constance Sherwood, that she doth greatly wish to see this
young gentlewoman and very resolved papist." And then taking me by the
arm she led me to that lady's chamber, where I had as kind a welcome
as ever I received from any one from her ladyship, who said "her dear
Nan's friends should be always as dear to her as her own," and added
many fine commendations greatly exceeding my deserts.



From The London Quarterly Review.


ART. VI.--1. _A Narrative Of Travels on the Amazon and Rio Negro,
etc._By Alfred R. Wallace. London: 1853.

2. _Himalayan Journals; or, Notes of a Naturalist in Bengal, the
Sikkim, and Nepal Himalayas_. By Joseph D. Hooker, M.D., R.N., F.R.S.
London: 1854.

3. _Three Visits to Madagascar during the Years_1853, 1854, 1856,
_with Notices of the Natural History of the Country, etc._ By the Rev.
W. Ellis, F.H.S. London: 1859.

4. _The Tropical World: A Popular Scientific Account of the Natural
History of the Animal and Vegetable Kingdoms._By Dr. G. Hartwig.
London: 1863.

5. _The Naturalist on the River Amazons: A Record of Adventures,
Habits of Animals, etc., during eleven Years of Travel._ By Henry
Walter Bates. London: 1863.

The naturalist will never have to complain, with Alexander, that he
has no more worlds to conquer, so inexhaustible is the wide field of
nature, and so numerous are the vast areas which as yet have never at
all, or only partially, been explored by travellers. What may not be
in store for some future adventurer in little known regions; what new
and wonderful forms of animals and plants may not reward the zealous
traveller, when no less than eight thousand species of animals new to
science have been discovered by Mr. Bates during his eleven years'
residence on the Amazons? Nor is it alone new forms of animated nature
that await the enterprise of the naturalist; a whole mine of valuable
material, the working of which is attended with the greatest pleasure,
lies before him in the discovery of new facts with regard to the
habits, structure, and local distribution of animals and plants. It is
almost impossible to exaggerate the importance to the philosophic
naturalist of such studies in these days of thought and progress. The
collector of natural curiosities may be content with the possession of
a miscellaneous lot of objects, but the man of science pursues his
investigations with a view of discovering, if possible, some of those
wonderful laws which govern the organic world, some of the footprints
of the Creator in the production of the countless forms of animal and
vegetable life with which this beautiful world abounds.

We purpose in this article to bring before the reader's notice a few
gleanings from the natural history of the tropics, merely surmising
that we shall linger with more than ordinary pleasure over the
productions of tropical {179} South America, of which Mr. Bates has
charmingly and most instructively written in his recently published
work, whose title is given at the head of this article; we shall pause
to admire, with Dr. Hooker, some of the productions of the mighty
Himalayan mountains; and we may also visit Madagascar in company with
so trustworthy a traveller as Mr. Ellis.

The ancients, before the time of Alexander's Indian expedition, were
unacquainted with any tropical forms of plants, and great was their
astonishment when they first beheld them:

"Gigantic forms of plants and animals," as Humboldt says, "filled the
imagination with exciting imagery. Writers from whose severe and
scientific style any degree of inspiration is elsewhere entirely
absent, become poetical when describing the habits of the
elephant,--the height of the trees, 'to the summit of which an arrow
cannot reach, and whose leaves are broader then the shields of
infantry,'--the bamboo, a light, feathery, arborescent grass, of which
single joints (_internodia_) served as four-oared boats,--and the
Indian fig-tree, whose pendant branches take root around the parent
stem, which attains a diameter of twenty-eight feet, 'forming,' as
Onesicritus expresses himself with great truth to nature, 'a leafy
canopy similar to a many-pillared tent.'"   [Footnote 24]

  [Footnote 24: "Cosmos," vol. ii., p. 155. Sabine's translation ]

It is not possible for language to describe the glory of the forests
of the Amazon, and yet the silence and gloom of the Brazilian forests,
so often mentioned by travellers, are striking realities. Let us read
Mr. Bates's impressions of the interior of a primeval forest:

"The silence and gloom," he says, "are realities, and the impression
deepens on a longer acquaintance. The few sounds of birds are of that
pensive and mysterious character which intensifies the feeling of
solitude rather than imparts a sense of life and cheerfulness.
Sometimes in the midst of the stillness a sudden yell or scream will
startle one; this comes from some defenceless fruit-eating animal
which is pounced upon by a tiger-cat or stealthy boa-constrictor.
Morning and evening the howling monkeys make a most fearful and
harrowing noise, under which it is difficult to keep up one's buoyancy
of spirit. The feeling of inhospitable wildness which the forest is
calculated to inspire is increased tenfold under this fearful uproar.
Often even in the still hours of mid-day a sudden crash will be heard
resounding afar through the wilderness, as some great bough or entire
tree falls to the ground. There are beside many sounds which it is
impossible to account for. I found the natives generally as much at a
loss in this respect as myself. Sometimes a sound is heard like the
clang of an iron bar against a hard hollow tree, or a piercing cry
rends the air; these are not repeated, and the succeeding silence
tends to heighten the unpleasant impression which they make on the
mind. With the natives it is always the curupira, the wild man, or
spirit of the forest, which produces all noises they are unable to

Mr. Bates has some exceedingly interesting observations on the
tendency of animals and plants of the Brazilian forests to become
climbers. Speaking of a swampy forest of Pará he says:

  "The leafy crowns of the trees, scarcely two of which could be seen
  together of the same kind, were now far away above us, in another
  world as it were. We could only see at times, where there was a
  break above, the tracery of the foliage against the clear blue sky.
  Sometimes the leaves were palmate, at others finely cut or feathery
  like the leaves of mimosae. Below, the tree trunks were everywhere
  linked together by sipos; the woody, flexible stems of climbing and
  creeping trees, whose foliage is far away above, mingled with that
  of the latter {180} independent trees. Some were twisted in strands
  like cables, others had thick stems contorted in every variety of
  shape, entwining snake-like round the tree-trunks, or forming
  gigantic loops and coils among the larger branches; others again
  were of zigzag shape or indented like the steps of a staircase,
  sweeping from the ground to a giddy height."

Of these climbing plants he adds:

  "It interested me much afterward to find these climbing trees do not
  form any particular family or genus. There is no order of plants
  whose especial habit is to climb, but species of many of the most
  diverse families, the bulk of whose members are not climbers, seem
  to have been driven by circumstances to adopt this habit. The orders
  Leguminosae, Guttifenae, Bignoniaceae, Moraceae, and others, furnish
  the greater number. There is even a climbing genus of palms
  (_Desmoncus_), the species of which are called in the Tupí language
  Jacitára. These have slender, thickly-spined, and flexuous stems,
  which twine about the latter trees from one to the other, and grow
  to an incredible length. The leaves, which have the ordinary pinnate
  shape characteristic of the family, are emitted from the stems at
  long intervals, instead of being collected into a dense crown, and
  have at their tips a number of long recurved spines. These
  structures are excellent contrivances to enable the trees to secure
  themselves by in climbing, but they are a great nuisance to the
  traveller, for they sometimes hang over the pathway and catch the
  hat or clothes, dragging off the one or tearing the other as he
  passes. The number and variety of climbing trees in the Amazon
  forests are interesting, taken in connection with the fact of the
  very general tendency of the animals also to become climbers."

Of this tendency amongst animals Mr. Bates thus writes:

  "All the Amazonian, and in fact all South American monkeys, are
  climbers. There is no group answering to the baboons of the old
  world, which live on the ground. The gallinaceous birds of the
  country, the representatives of the fowls and pheasants of Asia and
  Africa, are all adapted by the position of the toes to perch on
  trees, and it is only on trees, at a great height, that they are to
  be seen. A genus of Plantigrade Carnivora, allied to the bears
  (_Cercoleptes_), found only in the Amazonian forests, is entirely
  arboreal, and has a long flexible tail like that of certain monkeys.
  Many other similar instances could be enumerated, but I will mention
  only the Geodephaga, or carnivorous ground beetles, a great
  proportion of whose genera and species in these forest regions are,
  by the structure of their feet, fitted to live exclusively on the
  branches and leaves of trees."

  Strange to the European must be the appearance of the numerous woody
  lianas, or air-roots of the parasitic plants of the family _Araceae_
  of which the well-known cuckoo-pint, or _Arum maculatum_, of this
  country is a non-epiphytous member, which sit on the branches of the
  trees above, and "hang down straight as plumb-lines," some singly,
  others in leashes; some reaching half-way to the ground, others
  touching it, and taking root in the ground. Here, too, in these
  forests of Pará, beside palms of various species, "some twenty to
  thirty feet high, others small and delicate, with stems no thicker
  than a finger," of the genus _Bactris_, producing bunches of fruit
  with grape-like juice, masses of a species of banana (_Urania
  Amizonica_), a beautiful plant with leaves "like broad
  sword-blades," eight feet long, and one foot broad, add fresh
  interest to the scene. These leaves rise straight upward alternately
  from the top of a stem five or six feet high. Various kinds of
  Marants, a family of plants rich in amylaceous qualities (of which
  the _Maranta arundinacea_, though not an American plant, yields the
  best arrowroot of commerce), clothe the ground, conspicuous for
  their {181} broad glossy leaves. Ferns of beautiful and varied forms
  decorate the tree-trunks, together with the large fleshy
  heart-shaped leaves of the Pothos plant. Gigantic grasses, such as
  bamboos, form arches over the pathways. "The appearance of this part
  of the forest was strange in the extreme, description can convey no
  adequate idea of it. The reader who has visited Kew, may form some
  notion by conceiving a vegetation like that in the great palm-house
  spread over a large tract of swampy ground, but he must fancy it
  mingled with large exogenous trees, similar to our oaks and elms,
  covered with creepers and parasites, and figure to himself the
  ground encumbered with fallen and rotting trunks, branches, and
  leaves, the whole illuminated by a glowing vertical sun, and reeking
  with moisture!" Amid these "swampy shades" numerous butterflies
  delight to flit. An entomologist in England is proud, indeed, when
  he succeeds in capturing the beautiful and scarce Camberwell beauty
  (_Vanessa antiopa_) or the splendid purple emperor (_Apatura iris_),
  but these fine species do not exceed three inches in expanse of
  wing, while the glossy blue-and-black _Morpho Achilles_ measure six
  inches or more. The velvety black _Papiloio Sesostris_, with a large
  silky green patch on its wings, and other species of this genus, are
  almost exclusively inhabitants of the moist shades of the forest.
  The beautiful _Epicalea ancea_, "one of the most richly colored of
  the whole tribe of butterflies, being black, decorated with broad
  stripes of pale blue and orange, delights to settle on the broad
  leaves of the Uraniae and other similar plants." But like many other
  natural beauties, it is difficult to gain possession of, darting off
  with lightning speed when approached. Mr. Bates tells us that it is
  the males only of the different species which are brilliantly
  colored, the females being plainer and often so utterly unlike their
  partners that they are generally held to be different species until
  proved to be the same. The observations of this admirable naturalist
  on other points in the history of the butterflies of the Amazons,
  are highly important and deeply interesting. We must recur to this
  subject by-and-by.

We cannot yet tear ourselves away from these forests of Pará. We can
well understand the intense interest with which Mr. Bates visited
these different scenes month after month, in different seasons, so as
to obtain something like a fair notion of their animal and vegetable
productions. It is enough to make a naturalist's mouth water for a
week together to think of the many successful strolls which Mr. Bates
took amid the shades of these forests. For several months, he tells
us, he used to visit this district two or three days every week, and
never failed to obtain some species new to him of bird, reptile, or

  "This district," he says, "seemed to be an epitome of all that the
  humid portions of the Pará forest could produce. This endless
  diversity, the coolness of the air, the varied and strange forms of
  vegetation, the entire freedom from mosquitoes and other pests, and
  even the solemn gloom and silence, combined to make my rambles
  through it always pleasant as well as profitable. Such places are
  paradises to a naturalist, and if he be of a contemplative turn
  there is no situation more favorable for his indulging the tendency.
  There is something in a tropical forest akin to the ocean in its
  effects on the mind--man feels so completely his insignificance
  there and the vastness of nature. A naturalist cannot help
  reflecting on the vegetable forces manifested on so grand a scale
  around him."

Mr. Wallace and Mr. Bates are well-known advocates of Mr. Darwin's
theory of natural selection. The former gentleman was Mr. Bates's
companion in travel for four years, and he has published a very
interesting account of his voyage on his return to England. Whatever
differences of opinion there may be with respect to {182} the
celebrated work which Mr. Darwin gave to the world four or five years
ago, unbiassed and thoughtful naturalists must recognize the force
with which the author supports many of his arguments, and the fairness
with which he encounters every difficulty. The competition displayed
by organized beings is strikingly manifested in the Brazilian forests.
So unmistakable is this fact, that Burmeister, a German traveller, was
painfully impressed with the contemplation of the emulation and
"spirit of restless selfishness" which the vegetation of a tropical
forest displayed. "He thought the softness, earnestness, and repose of
European woodland scenery were far more pleasing, and that these
formed one of the causes of the superior moral character of European
nations;" a curious question, which we leave to the consideration of
moral philosophers. The emulation displayed by the plants and trees of
the forests of Pará is thus spoken of by Mr. Bates:

  "In these tropical forests each plant and tree seems to be striving
  to outvie its fellow, struggling upward toward light and
  air--branch, and leaf, and stem--regardless of its neighbors.
  Parasitic plants are seen fastening with firm grip on others, making
  use of them with reckless indifference as instruments for their own
  advancement. Live and let live is clearly not the maxim taught in
  these wildernesses. There is one kind of parasitic tree very common
  near Pará which exhibits this feature in a very prominent manner. It
  is called the Sipó Matador, or the Murderer Liana. It belongs to the
  fig order, and has been described by Von Martins in the 'Atlas to
  Spix and Martius's Travels.' I observed many specimens. The base of
  its stem would be unable to bear the weight of the upper growth; it
  is obliged, therefore, to support itself on a tree of another
  species. In this it is not essentially different from other climbing
  trees and plants, but the way the matador sets about it is peculiar,
  and produces certainly a disagreeable impression. It springs up
  close to the tree on which it intends to fix itself, and the wood of
  its stem grows by spreading itself like a plastic mould over one
  side of the trunk of its supporter. It then puts forth from each
  side an arm-like branch, which grows rapidly, and looks as though a
  stream of sap were flowing and hardening as it went. This adheres
  closely to the trunk of the victim, and the two arms meet on the
  opposite side and blend together. These arms are put forth at
  somewhat regular intervals in mounting upward, and the victim when
  its strangler is full grown becomes tightly clasped by a number of
  inflexible rings. These rings gradually grow larger as the murderer
  flourishes, rearing its crown of foliage to the sky mingled with
  that of its neighbor, and in course of time they kill it by stopping
  the flow of its sap. The strange spectacle then remains of the
  selfish parasite clasping in its arms the lifeless and decaying body
  of its victim, which had been a help to its own growth. Its ends
  have been served--it has flowered and fruited, reproduced and
  disseminated its kind; and now when the dead trunk moulders away,
  its own end approaches; its support is gone, and itself also falls."

The strangling properties of some of the fig-tree family are indeed
very remarkable, and may be witnessed not only in South America, but
in India, Ceylon, and Australia. Frazer observed several kinds of
_Ficus_, more than 150 feet high, embracing huge ironbark trees in the
forests at Moreton Bay. The _Ficus repens_, according to Sir Emerson
Tennent, is often to be seen clambering over rocks, like ivy, turning
through heaps of stones, or ascending some tall tree to the height of
thirty or forty feet, while the thickness of its own stem does not
exceed a quarter of an inch. The small plants of this family, of which
the Murdering Liana is one species, grow and reproduce their kind from
seeds {183} deposited in the ground; but the huge representatives of
the family, such as the banyan-tree, whose

  "Bended twigs take root, and daughters grow
    About the mother tree;"

and the Peepul, or sacred Bo-tree of the Buddhists (_Ficus
religiosa_), originate from seeds carried by birds to upper portions
of some palm or other tree. Fig-trees, as Sir E. Tennent has remarked,
are "the Thugs of the vegetable world; for, though not necessarily
epiphytic, it may be said that, in point of fact, no single plant
comes to perfection or acquires even partial development without the
destruction of some other on which to fix itself as its supporter."
The mode of growth of these trees is well described by the excellent
writer just mentioned, and we shall make use of his own language:

  "The family generally make their first appearance as slender roots
  hanging from the crown or trunk of some other tree, generally a
  palm, among the moist bases of whose leaves the seed carried thither
  by some bird which had fed upon the fig begins to germinate. This
  root, branching as it descends, envelops the trunk of the supporting
  tree with a net-work of wood, and at length, penetrating the ground,
  attains the dimensions of a stem. But, unlike a _stem_, it throws
  out no buds or flowers; the true stem, with its branches, its
  foliage, and fruit, springs upward from the crown of the tree whence
  the root is seen descending; and from it issue the pendulous
  rootlets, which on reaching the earth fix themselves firmly, and
  form the marvellous growth for which the banyan is so celebrated. In
  the depth of this grove the original tree is incarcerated till,
  literally strangled by the folds and weight of its resistless
  companion, it dies and leaves the fig in undisturbed possession of
  its place."  [Footnote 25]

  [Footnote 25: "Ceylon," i., p. 95]

But not trees alone do these vegetable garrotters embrace in their
fatal grasp, ancient monuments are also destroyed by these formidable
assailants. Sir E. Tennent has given an engraving of a fig-tree on the
ruins at Pollanarrua, in Ceylon, which had fixed itself on the
walls---a curious sight, indeed--"its roots streaming downward over
the ruins as if they had once been fluid, following every sinuosity of
the building and terraces till they reach the earth." An extremely
interesting series of drawings is now to be seen in the Linnean
Society's room at Burlington House, illustrating the mode of growth of
another strangling or murdering tree, of New Zealand, belonging to an
entirely different order from that to which the figs belong
(_Urticaceae_), namely, to one of the _Myrtaceae_. The association of
garrotting habits with those of the stinging nettle family is apt
enough, we may be inclined to think; but it is rather disappointing to
meet with these disagreeable peculiarities in the case of the myrtle
group; but such is the fact: the Rata, or _Metrosideros robusta_--as
we believe is the species---climbs to the summits of mighty trees of
the forest of Wangaroa, and kills them in its iron grasp. But,
notwithstanding these unpleasant impressions which "the reckless
energy of the vegetation might produce" in the traveller's mind, there
is plenty in tropical nature to counteract them:

  "There is the incomparable beauty and variety of the foliage, the
  vivid color, the richness and exuberance everywhere displayed, which
  make the richest woodland scenery in northern Europe a sterile
  desert in comparison. But it is especially the enjoyment of life
  manifested by individual existences which compensates for the
  destruction and pain caused by the inevitable competition. Although
  this competition is nowhere more active, and the dangers to which
  each individual is exposed nowhere more numerous, yet nowhere is
  this enjoyment more vividly displayed."

Mr. Bates mentions a peculiar feature in some of the colossal trees
which here and there monopolize a large {184} space in the forests.
The height of some of these giants he estimates at from 180 to 200
feet, whose "vast dome of foliage rises above the other forest trees
as a domed cathedral does above the other buildings in a city." In
most of the large trees of different species is to be seen "a growth
of buttress-shaped projections around the lower part of their stems.
The spaces between these buttresses--which are generally thin walls of
wood--form spacious chambers, and may be compared to stalls in a
stable; some of them are large enough to hold half-a-dozen persons."
What are these buttresses, how do they originate, and what is their
use? We have already seen how great is the competition amongst the
trees of a primeval forest, and how every square inch is eagerly
battled for by the number of competitors. In consequence of this it is
obvious that lateral growth of roots in the earth is a difficult
matter. "Necessity being the mother of invention," the roots, unable
to expand laterally, "raise themselves ridge-like out of the earth,
growing gradually upward as the increasing height of the tree required
augmented support." A beautiful compensation, truly, and full of deep
interest! As Londoners add upper stories to their houses where
competition has rendered lateral additions impossible, so these
gigantic trees, in order to sustain the massive crown and trunk,
strengthen their roots by upper additions.

One of the most striking features in tropical scenery is the
suddenness with which the leaves and blossoms spring into full beauty.
"Some mornings a single tree would appear in flower amidst what was
the preceding evening a uniform green mass of forest,--a dome of
blossom suddenly created as if by magic." In the early mornings, soon
after dawn, the sky is always without a cloud, the thermometer marking
72° or 73° Fahr. Now all nature is fresh, and the birds in the full
enjoyment of their existence, the "shrill yelping" of the toucans
being frequently heard from their abode amongst the wild fruit-trees
of the forest; flocks of parrots appear in distinct relief against the
blue sky, always two by two, chattering to each other, the pairs being
separated by regular intervals, too high, however, to reveal the
bright colors of their plumage. The greatest heat of the day is about
two o'clock, by which time, the thermometer being 92° or 93° Fahr.,
"every voice of bird or mammal is hushed; only in the trees is heard
at intervals the harsh whirr of a cicada. The leaves, which were so
fresh and moist in early morning, now become lax and drooping, and the
flowers shed their petals. The Indian and mulatto inhabitants sleep in
their hammocks, or sit on mats in the shade, too languid even to

Mr. Bates has given a graphic picture of tropical nature at the
approach of rain:

  "First, the cool sea-breeze which commenced to blow about ten
  o'clock, and which had increased in force with the increasing power
  of the sun, would flag and finally die away. The heat and electric
  tension of the atmosphere would then become almost insupportable.
  Languor and uneasiness would seize on every one; even the denizens
  of the forest betraying it by their motions. White clouds would
  appear in the east and gather into cumuli, with an increasing
  blackness along their lower portions. The whole eastern horizon
  would become almost suddenly black, and this would spread upward,
  the sun at length becoming obscured. Then the rush of a mighty wind
  is heard through the forest, swaying the tree-tops; a vivid flash of
  lightning bursts forth, then a crash of thunder, and down streams
  the deluging rain. Such storms soon cease, leaving bluish-black
  motionless clouds in the sky until night. Meanwhile all nature is
  refreshed; but heaps of flower petals and fallen leaves are seen
  under the trees. Toward evening life revives again, and the ringing
  uproar is resumed from bush and tree. {185} The following morning
  the son again rises in a cloudless sky, and so the cycle is
  completed; spring, summer, and autumn, as it were, in one tropical

With regard to animal life in the Amazonian forests, it appears that
there is a great variety of mammals, birds, and reptiles, but they are
very shy, and widely scattered. Brazil is poor in terrestrial animals,
and the species are of small size. "The huntsman would be disappointed
who expected to find here flocks of animals similar to the buffalo
herds of North America, or the swarms of antelopes and herds of
ponderous pachyderms of southern Africa."

It has already been observed that the mammals of Brazil are, for the
most part, arboreal in their habits; this is especially the case with
the monkeys, or _Cebidae_, a family of quadrumamous animals peculiar
to the new world. The reader may observe the habits of some species of
this group in the monkey-house of the Zoological Society's Gardens in
Regent's Park. The strong muscular tail, with its naked palm under the
tip, which many of the Cebidae possess, renders them peculiarly well
adapted to a forest life. Mr. Bates states that thirty-eight species
of this family of monkey inhabit the Amazon region, and considers the
Coaitás, or spider-monkeys, "as the extreme development of the
American type of apes." The flesh of one species of Coaitás is much
esteemed as an article of food by the natives in some parts of the
country. The Indians, we are told, are very fund of Coaitás as pets.

Some of our readers are doubtless acquainted with the name of Madame
Maria Sibylla Merian, a German lady who was born about the middle of
the seventeenth century. She was much devoted to the study of natural
history, and travelled to Surinam for the purpose of making drawings
of its animal productions; many of these drawings are now in the
British Museum. This estimable lady, amongst other curiosities of
natural history, affirmed the two following ones:--1. The lantern-fly
(_Fulgora lanternaria_) emits so strong a light from its body as to
enable a person in the night-time to read a newspaper by it. 2. The
large spider (_Mygale_) enters the nests of the little humming-birds,
and destroys the inmates. It would occupy too much time to tell of the
mass of evidence which was adduced in denial of these recorded facts,
but, suffice it to say that Madame Merian was set down as an
arch-heretic and inventor, and that no credit was attached to her
statements. With regard to the first-named heresy, the opinion of
modern zoologists is, that there is nothing at all improbable in the
circumstance of the Fulgora emitting a strong light, as luminous
properties are known to exist in other insects, but that the fact has
been rather over-colored by the imagination of the worthy lady. As to
the second question, about the bird-destroying propensities of the
Mygale, let us hear the testimony of so thoroughly trustworthy a
witness as Mr. Bates:

  "In the course of our walk" (between the Tocantins and Cameta) "I
  chanced to verify a fact relating to the habits of a large hairy
  spider of the genus Mygale, in a manner worth recording. The species
  was _M. avicularia_, or one very closely allied to it; the
  individual was nearly two inches in length of body, but the legs
  expanded seven inches, and the entire body and legs were covered
  with coarse grey and reddish hairs. I was attracted by a movement of
  the monster on a tree-trunk; it was close beneath a deep crevice in
  the tree, across which was stretched a dense white web. The lower
  part of the web was broken, and two small birds, finches, were
  entangled in the pieces; they were about the size of the English
  siskin, and I judged the two to be male and female. One of them was
  quite dead, the other lay under the body of the spider not quite
  dead, and was smeared with the filthy liquor or {186} saliva exuded
  by the monster. I drove away the spider and took the birds, but the
  second one soon died. The fact of species of Mygale sallying forth
  at night, mounting trees, and sucking the eggs and young of
  humming-birds, has been recorded long ago by Madame Merian and
  Palisot de Beauvois; but, in the absence of any confirmation, it has
  come to be discredited. From the way the fact has been related it
  would appear that it had been merely derived from the report of
  natives, and had not been witnessed by the narrators. Count
  Langsdorff, in his 'Expedition into the Interior of Brazil,' states
  that he totally disbelieved the story. I found the circumstances to
  be quite a novelty to the residents here about. The Mygales are
  quite common insects; some species make their cells under stones,
  others form artistical tunnels in the earth, and some build their
  dens in the thatch of houses. The natives call them _Aranhas
  carangueijeiras_, or crab spiders. The hairs with which they are
  clothed come off when touched, and cause a peculiar and almost
  maddening irritation. The first specimen that I killed and prepared
  was handled incautiously, and I suffered terribly for three days
  afterward. I think this is not owing to any poisonous quality
  residing in the hairs, but to their being short and hard, and thus
  getting into the fine creases of the skin. Some Mygales are of
  immense size. One day I saw the children belonging to an Indian who
  collected for me with one of these monsters secured by a cord round
  its waist, by which they were leading it about the house as they
  would a dog."

The name of "ant" has only to be mentioned, and the strange habits of
the various species immediately suggest themselves to the mind of the
naturalist, who is always interested in, and amply repaid by, watching
these insects with the closest scrutiny. Brazil abounds in ants, one
species of which, the _Dinoponera grandis_, is an inch and a quarter
in length; but by far the most interesting to the naturalist, as well
as one of the most destructive to the cultivated trees of the country,
is the leaf-carrying ant (_AEcodoma cephalotes_). In some districts,
we are told, it is so abundant that agriculture is almost impossible,
and everywhere complaints are heard of the terrible pest. This insect
derives its specific name of _cephalotes_ from the extraordinary size
of the heads belonging to two of the orders, which, with a third kind,
constitute the colony. The formicarian establishment consists of: 1.
Worker minors; 2. Worker majors; 3. Subterranean workers. The
first-named kind alone does the real active work. The two last contain
the individuals with the enormous heads; their functions are not
clearly ascertained. In color they are a pale reddish-brown, and the
thorax of the true worker, which is the smallest of the orders, is
armed with three pairs of sharp spines; the head is provided with a
pair of similar spines proceeding from the cheeks behind. This ant,
known by the native name of Saüba, has long been celebrated for its
habit of clipping off and carrying away, large quantities of leaves:

  "When employed in this work," Mr. Bates says, "their processions
  look like a multitude of animated leaves on the march. In some
  places I found an accumulation of such leaves, all circular pieces,
  about the size of a sixpence, lying on the pathway, unattended by
  the ants, and at some distance from any colony. Such heaps are
  always found to be removed when the place is revisited next day. In
  course of time I had plenty of opportunities of seeing them at work.
  They mount the tree in multitudes, the individuals being all worker
  minors. Each one places itself on the surface of a leaf, and cuts
  with its sharp scissor-like jaws, and by a sharp jerk detaches the
  piece. Sometimes they let the leaf drop to the ground, where a
  little heap accumulates until carried off by another relay of
  workers; but generally each marches off {187} with the piece it has
  operated upon and as all take the same road to their colony, the
  path they follow becomes in a short time smooth and bare, looking
  like the impression of a cart-wheel through the herbage."

The Saüba ant is peculiar to tropical America, and, though it is
injurious to the wild native trees of the country, it seems to have a
preference to the coffee and orange trees and other imported plants.
The leaves which the Saüba cuts and carries away are used to "thatch
the domes which cover the entrances to their subterranean dwellings,
thereby protecting from the deluging rains the young broods in the
nests beneath." The insects proceed according to a most orderly
method, "the heavily-laden workers, each carrying its segment of leaf
vertically, the lower edge secured in its mandibles, troop up, and
cast their burdens on the hillock; another body of laborers place the
leaves in position, covering them with a layer of earthy granules,
which are brought one by one from the soil beneath." The labors of
this curious insect are immense, and no obstacles stop their
excavations. An allied species of Rio de Janeiro worked a tunnel under
the bed of the river Parabyba, at a place where it is as broad as the
Thames at London Bridge. These ants are sad rogues, being household
plunderers and robbers of the farinha, or mandioca meal, of the poor
inhabitants of Brazil; and Mr. Bates was obliged to lay trains of
gunpowder along their line of march to blow them up, which in the end
resulted in scaring the burglars away. We have already alluded to the
massive heads possessed by the major and subterranean kinds of
neuters, and stated that the work is done by the worker minor or
small-headed kind. With regard to the function of the large-headed
worker major, Mr. Bates was unable to satisfy himself:

  "They are not the soldiers or defenders of the working portion of
  the community, like the armed class in the termites, or white ants,
  for they never fight. The species has no sting, and does not display
  active resistance when interfered with. I once imagined they
  exercised a sort of superintendence over the others; but this
  function is entirely unnecessary in a community where all work with
  a precision and regularity resembling the subordinate parts of a
  piece of machinery. I came to the conclusion, at last, that they
  have no very precisely defined function. They cannot, however, be
  entirely useless to the community, for the sustenance of an idle
  class of such bulky individuals would be too heavy a charge for the
  species to sustain. I think they serve in some sort as passive
  instruments of protection to the real workers. Their enormously
  large, hard, and indestructible heads may be of use in protecting
  them against the attacks of insectivorous animals. They would be, on
  this view, a kind of _pièces de résistance_ serving as a foil
  against onslaughts made on the main body of workers."

But the third order, the subterranean kind, we are told, is the most
curious of all:

  "If the top of a small, fresh hillock, one in which the thatching
  process is going on, be taken off, a broad cylindrical shaft is
  disclosed, at a depth about two feet from the surface. If this be
  probed with a stick, which may be done to the extent of three or
  four feet without touching bottom, a small number of colossal
  fellows will slowly begin to make their way up the smooth sides of
  the mine. Their heads are of the same size as those of the other
  class (worker major); but the front is clothed with hairs instead of
  being polished, and they have in the middle of the forehead a twin
  ocellus, or simple eye, of quite different structure from the
  ordinary compound eyes on the side of the head. This frontal eye is
  totally wanting in the other workers, and is not known in any other
  kind of ant. The apparition of these strange creatures from {188}
  the cavernous depths of the mine reminded one, when I first observed
  them, of the Cyclopes of Homeric fable. They were not very
  pugnacious, as I feared they would be, and I had no difficulty in
  securing a few with my fingers. I never saw them under any
  circumstances than those here related, and what their special
  functions may be I cannot divine."

The naturalist traveller, in the midst of much that interests and
delights him, has to put up with a great deal that is annoying, and
Mr. Bates proved no exception to the rule. The first few nights when
at Caripí, he was much troubled with bats; the room where he slept had
not been occupied for several months, and the roof was open to the
tiles and rafters:

  "On one night," he says, "I was aroused about midnight by the
  rushing noise made by vast hosts of bats sweeping about the room.
  The air was alive with them; they had put out the lamp, and when I
  relighted it, the place appeared blackened with the impish
  multitudes that were whirling round and round. After I had lain
  about well with a stick for a few minutes they disappeared amongst
  the tiles, but when all was still again they returned, and once more
  extinguished the light. I took no further notice of them and went to
  sleep. The next night several got into my hammock; I seized them as
  they were crawling over me, and dashed them against the wall. The
  next morning I found a wound, evidently caused by a bat, on my hip."

Bats remind us of the vampire, a native of South America, concerning
whose blood-sucking properties so much discussion has been from time
to time raised. The vampire bat was very common at Ega; it is the
largest of the South American species. Of this bat Mr. Bates writes:

  "Nothing in animal physiognomy can be more hideous than the
  countenance of this creature when viewed from the front; the large
  leathery ears standing out from the sides and top of the head, the
  erect, spear-shaped appendage on the tip of the nose, the grin, and
  glistening black eyes, all combining to make up a figure that
  reminds one of some mocking imp of fable. No wonder that imaginative
  people have inferred diabolical instincts on the part of so ugly an
  animal. The vampire, however, is the most harmless of all bats, and
  its inoffensive character is well known to residents on the banks of
  the Amazon."

That much fable has attached itself to the history of this curious
creature we are perfectly convinced, and that its blood-sucking
peculiarities have been grossly exaggerated we must allow. When this
bat has been said to perform the operation of drawing blood "by
inserting its aculeated tongue  [Footnote 26] into the vein of a
sleeping person with so much dexterity as not to be felt, at the same
time fanning the air with its large wings, and thus producing a
sensation so delightfully cool that the sleep is rendered still more
profound," it is clear that the mythical element exists to a great
extent in the narrative; but our author's assertion that "the vampire
is the most harmless of all bats" does not tally with the statements
of other naturalists of considerable note. Mr. Wallace says he saw the
effects of the vampire's operations on a young horse, and that the
first morning after its arrival the poor animal presented a most
pitiable appearance, large streams of clotted blood running down from
several wounds on its back and sides:

    [Footnote 26: An Expression used by Mr. Wood in his "Zoögraphy.'
    It is enough to remark that no known bat has an aculeated.]

  "The appearance," Mr. Wallace adds, "was, however, I dare say, worse
  than reality, as the bats have the skill to bleed without giving
  pain, and it is quite possible the horse, like a patient under the
  influence of chloroform, may have known nothing of the matter. The
  danger is in the attacks being repeated every night till the loss of
  blood becomes serious. To prevent this, red peppers are usually
  rubbed {189} on the parts wounded and on all likely places; and this
  will partly check the sanguinivorous appetite of the bats, but not
  entirely, as in spite of this application the poor animal was again
  bitten the next night in fresh places."  [Footnote 27]

    [Footnote 27: "Travels on the Amazon," p. 44.]

Both Mr. Darwin and Mr. Waterton, if we remember rightly, have borne
similar testimony in favor of the opinion that the vampire does suck
blood. A servant of the former gentleman, when near Coquimbo, in
Chili, observed something attached to the withers of one of his
horses, which was restless, and on putting his hand upon the place he
secured a vampire bat. Mr. Waterton, however, could not induce the
vampires to bite him, notwithstanding the now veteran naturalist
[Footnote 28] slept many months in an open loft which the vampires
frequented; but an Indian boy who slept near him had his toes often
"tapped," while fowls were destroyed, and even an unfortunate donkey
was much persecuted, looking, as Mr. Waterton says, "like misery
steeped in vinegar."

  [Footnote 28: Since this article was in type this excellent
  naturalist and kind-hearted gentleman has passed away from amongst

While at Villa Nova, on the lower Amazons, our naturalist was
subjected to another annoyance, in the shape of ticks. The tracts
thereabouts "swarmed with carapátos, ugly ticks, belonging to the
genus _Ixodes_, which mount to the tops of the blades of grass, and
attach themselves to the clothes of passers-by. They are a great
annoyance. It occupied me a full hour to pick them off my flesh after
my diurnal ramble."

Mr. Bates's stay at Ega, on the upper Amazons, and his expeditions in
search of scarlet-faced monkeys, owl-faced night-apes, marmosets,
curl-crested toucans, blind ants, and hundreds of other interesting
animals, must have been particularly enjoyable, if we except the
presence of an abominable gad-fly, which fixes on the flesh of man as
breeding-places for its grub, and causes painful tumors. "Ega was a
fine field for a natural history collector," and Mr. Bates ticketed
with the name of this town more than 3,000 new species of animals.

It is an old and a true saying that you "can have too much of a good
thing." A London alderman would soon grumble had he to dine every day
on turtle only. "The great fresh-water turtle of the Amazons grows in
the upper river to an immense size, a full-grown one measuring nearly
three feet in length by two in breadth, and is a load for the
strongest Indian. . . . . The flesh is very tender, palatable, and
wholesome; but it is very cloying. Every one ends sooner or later by
becoming thoroughly surfeited." Our traveller adds that he became so
sick of turtle in the course of two years that he could not bear the
smell of it, although at the same time nothing else was to be had, and
he was suffering actual hunger. The pools about Ega abound in turtles
and alligators, and the Indians capture a great number of the former
animals by means of sharp steel-pointed arrows, fitted into a peg
which enters the tip of the shaft. This peg is fastened to the
arrow-shaft by means of a piece of twine; and when the missile--which
the people hurl with astonishing skill--pierces the carapace, the peg
drops out and the struck turtle dives to the bottom, the detached
shaft floating on the surface serving to guide the sportsman to his
game. So clever are the natives in the use of the bow and arrow, that
they do not wait till the turtle comes to the surface to breathe, but
shoot at the back of the animal as it moves under the water, and
hardly ever fail to pierce the submerged shell.

One of the most curious and interesting facts in natural history is
the assimilation in many animals of form and color to other objects,
animate or inanimate. Thus the caterpillars termed, from their mode of
progression, "geometric" bear so close a resemblance to the twigs of
the trees or bushes upon which they rest that it is no easy thing to
distinguish them at a {190} glance; the buff-tip moth, when at rest,
looks just like a broken bit of lichen-covered branch, the colored
tips of the wings resembling a section of the wood. The beautiful
Australian parakeets, known as the Batcherrygar parrots, look so much
like the leaves of _Eucalpyti_, or gum-trees, on which they repose,
that, though numbers may be perched upon a branch, they are hardly to
be seen so long as they keep quiet. Some South American beetles (of
the family _Cassidae_) closely resemble glittering drops of dew; some
kinds of spiders mimic flower-buds, "and station themselves motionless
in the axils of leaves and other parts of plants to wait for their
victims." Insects belonging to the genera of _Mantis, Locusta_, and
_Phasma_, often show a wonderful resemblance to leaves or sticks.
Examples of "mimetic analogy" may also be found amongst birds; but
perhaps the most remarkable cases of imitation are to be found among
the butterflies of the valley of the Amazon recently made known to us
by Mr. Bates. There is a family of butterflies named _Heliconidae_, of
a slow flight and feeble structure, very numerous in this South
American region, notwithstanding that the districts Abound with
insectivorous birds. Now, Mr. Bates has observed that where large
numbers of this family are found they are always accompanied by
species of a totally distinct family which closely resemble them in
size, form, color, and markings. So close is the resemblance that Mr.
Bates often found it impossible to distinguish members of one family
from those of the other when the insects were on the wing; and he
observed, moreover, that when a local variety of a species of the
_Heliconidae_ occurred, there was found also a butterfly of another
family imitating that local variety. There is no difficulty at all in
distinguishing the imitators from the imitated, for the latter have
all a family likeness, while the former depart from the normal form
and likeness of the families to which they respectively belong. What
is the meaning of this curious fact? It is this: the _Heliconidae_, or
imitated butterflies, are not persecuted by birds, dragon-flies,
lizards, or other insectivorous enemies, while the members of the
imitating families are subject to much persecution. The butterflies
imitated are said to owe their immunity from persecution to their
offensive odor, while no such fortunate character belongs to the
imitating insects. But how, we naturally ask, has this change of color
and form been effected? Mr. Darwin and Mr. Bates explain it on the
principle of natural selection. Let us suppose that a member of the
persecuted family gave birth to a variety--and there is a tendency in
all animals to produce varieties--exhibiting a very slight resemblance
to some species of  _Heliconidae_. This individual, in consequence of
this slight resemblance, would have a better chance of living and
producing young than those of its relatives which bear no resemblance
whatever to the unmolested family. Some of the offspring of this
slightly favored variety would very probably show more marked
resemblance to the unpersecuted butterflies; and thus the likeness
between insects of totally distinct groups would in course of time be,
according to the law of inheritance, quite complete. This is the
explanation which Mr. Bates gives of this natural phenomenon. The
phenomenon itself is an undoubted one; whether it is or is not
satisfactorily accounted for, cannot at present be determined; we must
wait for further investigation.

We had intended to speak of some of the South American palms, those
wondrous and valuable productions of tropical countries, the
India-rubber trees, and other vegetable productions of the Amazons,
but we must linger no longer with the excellent naturalist from whose
volumes we have derived so much pleasure. Mr. Bates has written a book
full of interest, with the spirit of a real lover of nature and with
the pen of a philosopher.


Leaving, then, the new world, let us cast a glance, in company with
one of the greatest botanists of the day, at what we may call the
tropical features of the Sikkim Himalayas. Though this region is not
strictly speaking within the tropics, yet the vegetation at the base
is of a tropical character. In this wonderful district the naturalist
is able to wander through every zone of vegetation, from the "dense
deep-green dripping forests" at the base of the Himalaya, formed of
giant trees, as the _Duabanga_ and _Terminalia_, with _Cedrela_ and
_Gordonia Wallichii_, mingled with innumerable shrubs and herbs, to
the lichens and mosses of the regions of perpetual snow. The tropical
vegetation of the Sikkim extends from Siligoree, a station on the
verge of the Terai, "that low malarious belt which skirts the base of
the Himalaya from the Sutlej to Brahma-Koond, in Upper Assam."

"Every feature," writes Dr. Hooker, "botanical, geological, and
zoological, is new on entering this district. The change is sudden and
immediate: sea and shore are hardly more conspicuously different; nor
from the edge of the Terai to the limit of perpetual snow is any
botanical region more clearly marked than this which is the
commencement of Himalayan vegetation." The banks of the numerous
tortuous streams are richly clothed with vines and climbing
convolvuluses, with various kinds of _Cucurbitaceae_ and
_Bignoniaceae_. The district of the Terai is very pestilential, and,
though fatal to Europeans, is inhabited by a race called the Mechis
with impunity. As our traveller proceeded to the little bungalow of
Punkabaree, about 1,800 feet in elevation, the bushy timber of the
Terai was found to be replaced by giant forests, with large bamboos
cresting the hills, numerous epiphytical orchids and ferns, with
_Hoya, Seitamineae_, and similar types of the hottest and dampest
climates. All around Punkabaree the hills rise steeply 5,000 or 6,000
feet; from the road at and a little above the bungalow the view is
described by Dr. Hooker as superb and very instructive:

  "Behind (or north) the Himalaya rise in steep confused masses.
  Below, the hill on which I stood, and the ranges as far as the eye
  can reach east and west, throw spurs on the plains of India. These
  are very thickly wooded, and enclose broad, dead-flat, hot, or damp
  valleys, apparently covered with a dense forest. Secondary spurs of
  clay and gravel, like that immediately below Punkabaree, rest on the
  bases of the mountains and seem to form an intermediate neutral
  ground between flat and mountainous India. The Terai district forms
  a very irregular belt, scantily clothed, and intersected by
  innumerable rivulets from the hills, which unite and divide again on
  the flat, till, emerging from the region of many trees, they enter
  the plains, following devious courses, which glisten like silver
  threads. The whole horizon is bounded by the sea-like expanse of the
  plains, which stretch away into the region of sunshine and fine
  weather, as one boundless flat. In the distance the courses of the
  Teesta and Cosi, the great drainers of the snowy Himalayas, and the
  recipients of innumerable smaller rills, are with difficulty traced
  at this the dry season. The ocean-like appearance of this southern
  view is even more conspicuous in the heavens than on the land, the
  clouds arranging themselves after a singularly sea-scape fashion.
  Endless strata run in parallel ribbons over the extreme horizon;
  above these scattered cumuli, also in horizontal lines, are dotted
  against a clear grey sky, which gradually, as the eye is lifted,
  passes into a deep cloudless blue vault, continuously clear to the
  zenith; there the cumuli, in white fleecy masses, again appear;
  till, in the northern celestial hemisphere, they thicken and assume
  the leaden hue of nimbi, discharging their moisture on the dark
  forest-clad hills around. The breezes are south-easterly, bringing
  that {192} vapor from the Indian ocean which is rarefied and
  suspended aloft over the heated plains, but condensed into a drizzle
  when it strikes the cooler flanks of the hills, and into heavy rain
  when it meets their still colder summits. Upon what a gigantic scale
  does nature here operate! Vapors raised from an ocean whose nearest
  shore is more than 400 miles distant are safely transported without
  the loss of one drop of water, to support the rank luxuriance of
  this far distant region. This and other offices fulfilled, the waste
  waters are returned by the Cosi and Teesta to the ocean, and again
  exhaled, exported, expended, recollected, and returned."

Many travellers complain of the annoyance caused to them by leeches.
Legions of these pests abound in the water-courses and dense jungles
of the Sikkim, and though their bite is painless, it is followed by
considerable effusion of blood. "They puncture through thick worsted
stockings, and even trousers; and when full roll in the form of a
little soft ball into the bottom of the shoe, where their presence is
hardly felt in walking."

A thousand feet higher, above the bungalow of Punkabaree, the
vegetation is very rich, the prevalent timber being of enormous size,
"and scaled by climbing _Leguminosae_, as _Bauhinias_ and _Robinias_,
which sometimes sheathe the trunks or span the forest with huge
cables, joining tree to tree." Their trunks are also clothed with
orchids; and still more beautifully with pothos, peppers, vines, and

"The beauty of the drapery of the pothos leaves (_Scindapsus_) is
pre-eminent, whether for the graceful folds the foliage assumes or for
the liveliness of its color. Of the more conspicuous smaller trees the
wild banana is the most abundant; its crown of very beautiful foliage
contrasting with the smaller-leaved plants amongst which it nestles;
next comes a screwpine (_Pandanus_) with a straight stem and a tuft of
leaves, each eight or ten feet long, waving on all sides.
_Araliaceae_, with smooth or armed slender trunks, and _Mappa_-like
_Euphorbiaceae_ spread their long petioles horizontally forth, each
terminated with an ample leaf some feet in diameter. Bamboo abounds
everywhere; its dense tufts of culms, 100 feet and upward high, are as
thick as a man's thigh at the base. Twenty or thirty species of ferns
(including a tree fern) were luxuriant and handsome. Foliaceous
lichens and a few mosses appeared at 2,000 feet. Such is the
vegetation of the roads through the tropical forests of Outer

As we ascend about 2,000 feet higher, we find many plants of the
temperate zone mingling with the tropical vegetation, amongst which "a
very English-looking bramble," bearing a good yellow fruit, is the
first to mark the change; next, mighty oaks with large lamellated cups
and magnificent foliage succeed, till along the ridge of the mountain
to Kursiong, at an elevation of about 4,800 feet, the change in the
flora is complete. Here the vegetation recalls to mind home
impressions: "the oak flowering, the birch bursting into leaf, the
violet, _Chrysosplenium, Stellaria and Arum, Vaccinium_, wild
strawberry, maple, geranium, bramble. A colder wind blew here; mosses
and lichens carpeted the banks and roadsides; the birds and insects
were very different from those below, and everything proclaimed the
marked change in the vegetation." And yet even at this elevation we
meet with forms of tropical plants, "pothos, bananas, palms, figs,
pepper, numbers of epiphytal orchids, and similar genuine tropical

The hill-station of Darjiling, the well-known sanitarium, where the
health of Europeans is recruited by a temperate climate, is about 370
miles to the north of Calcutta. The ridge "varies in height from 6,500
to 7,500 feet above the level of the sea, 8,000 feet being the
elevation at which the mean temperature most nearly coincides with
that of London, viz., 50°." {193} The forests around Darjiling are
composed principally of magnolias, oaks, laurels, with birch, alder,
maple, holly. Dr. Hooker draws especial attention to the absence of
_Leguminosae_, "the most prominent botanical feature in the vegetation
of the region," which, he says, is too high for the tropical tribes of
the warmer elevation, too low for the Alpines, and probably too moist
for those of temperate regions; cool, equable, humid climates being
generally unfavorable to the above-named order. "The supremacy of this
temperate region consists in the infinite number of forest trees, in
the absence (in the usual proportion, at any rate) of such common
orders as _Compositae, Leguminosae, Cruciferae_ and _Ranunculaceae_,
and of grasses amongst Monocotyledons, and in the predominance of the
rarer and more local families, as those of rhododendron, camellia,
magnolia, ivy, cornel, honeysuckle, hydrangea, begonia, and epiphytic

We regret that want of space prevents us dwelling longer on the scenes
of tropical Himalaya, so graphically described by Dr. Hooker. We will
conclude this imperfect sketch with our traveller's description of the
scenery along the banks of the great Rungeet, 6,000 feet below

  "Leaving the forest, the path led along the river bank and over the
  great masses of rock which strewed its course. The beautiful
  India-rubber fig was common. . . . On the forest skirts, _Hoya_,
  parasitical _Orchidiae_, and ferns abounded; the Chaulmoogra, whose
  fruit is used to intoxicate fish, was very common, as was an immense
  mulberry-tree, that yields a milky juice and produces a long, green,
  sweet fruit. Large fish, chiefly cyprinoid, were abundant in the
  beautifully clear water of the river. But by far the most striking
  feature consisted in the amazing quantity of superb butterflies,
  large tropical swallow-tails, black, with scarlet or yellow eyes on
  their wings. They were seen everywhere, sailing majestically through
  the still, hot air, or fluttering from one scorching rock to
  another, and especially loving to settle on the damp sand of the
  river; where they sat by thousands, with erect wings, balancing
  themselves with a rocking motion, as their heavy sails inclined them
  to one side or the other, resembling a crowded fleet of yachts on a
  calm day. Such an entomological display cannot be surpassed.
  _Cicindelae_ and the great _Cicadeae_ were everywhere lighting on
  the ground, when they uttered a short sharp creaking sound, and anon
  disappeared as if by magic. Beautiful whip-snakes were gleaming in
  the sun; they hold on by a few coils of the tall round a twig, the
  greater part of their body stretched out horizontally, occasionally
  retracting and darting an unerring aim at some insect. The
  narrowness of the gorge, and the excessive steepness of the bounding
  hills, prevented any view except of the opposite mountain-face,
  which was one dense forest, in which the wild banana was

One of the most remarkable botanical discoveries of modern days is
that of a very curious and anomalous genus of plants, named by Dr.
Hooker _Welwitschia_ in honor of its discoverer. Dr. Frederic
Welwitsch, who first noticed this singular plant in a letter to Sir
William Hooker, dated August, 1860. "I have been assured," says Dr.
Hooker in his valuable memoir of this plant, "by those who remember
it, that since the discovery of the _Rafflesia Arnoldii_, no vegetable
production has excited so great an interest as the subject of the
present memoir." We well remember this singular plant, having seen a
specimen in the Kew Herbarium soon after its arrival in this country.
The following is Dr. Hooker's account of its appearance and prominent

  "The _Welwitschia_ is a woody plant, said to attain a century in
  duration, with an obconic trunk about two feet long, of which a few
  inches rise {194} above the soil, presenting the appearance of a
  flat, two-lobed depressed mass, sometimes (according to Dr.
  Welwitsch) attaining fourteen feet in circumference (!) and looking
  like a round table. When full grown, it is dark brown, hard, and
  cracked over the whole surface (much like the burnt crust of a loaf
  of bread); the lower portion forms a stout tap-root, buried in the
  soil and branching downward at the end. From deep grooves in the
  circumference of the depressed mass two enormous leaves are given
  off, each six feet long when full grown, one corresponding to each
  lobe. These are quite flat, linear, very leathery, and split to the
  base into innumerable thongs that lie curling upon the surface of
  the soil. Its discoverer describes these same two leaves as being
  present from the earliest condition of the plant, and assures me
  that they are in fact developed from the two cotyledons of the seed,
  and are persistent, being replaced by no others. From the
  circumference of the tabular mass, above but close to the insertion
  of the leaves, spring stout dichotomously branched cymes, nearly a
  foot high, bearing small erect scarlet cones, which eventually
  become oblong and attain the size of those of the common spruce fir.
  The scales of the cones are very closely imbricated, and contain
  when young and still very small solitary flowers, which in some
  cases are hermaphrodite (structurally but not functionally), in
  others female."

After describing these flowers in botanical terms. Dr. Hooker adds,
"The mature cone is tetragonous, and contains a broadly winged scale.
Its discoverer observes that the whole plant exudes a resin, and that
it is called 'tumbo' by the natives. It inhabits the elevated sandy
plateau near Cape Negro (lat 14° 40' S. to 23° S.) on the south-west
coast of Africa." Dr. Hooker regards the _Welwitschia_ as "the only
perennial flowering-plant which at no period has other vegetative
organs than those proper to the embryo itself,--the main axis being
represented by the radicle, which becomes a gigantic caulicle and
develops a root from its base, and inflorescences from its plumulary
end, and the leaves being the two cotyledons in a very highly
developed and specialized condition."   [Footnote 29]

  [Footnote 29: "Transactions of the Linnean Society," vol. xxiv.,
  part i.]

Few countries present more objects of interest to the naturalist than
the island of Madagascar, amongst the botanical treasures of which
island the water yam or lace-leaf (_Ouviranidra fenestralis_) claims
especial notice. This beautiful and singular plant, which belongs to
the natural order _Naiadaceae_, was first made known to the scientific
world by du Petit Thouars in 1822. Horticulturists are indebted to Mr.
Ellis, the well-known author of "Polynesian Researches," for the
introduction of this singular plant into England, specimens of which
may be seen in the Royal Gardens at Kew and elsewhere:

  "This plant," says Mr. Ellis, "is not only extremely curious, but
  also very valuable to the natives, who, at certain seasons of the
  year, gather it as an article of food--the fleshy root when cooked
  yielding a farinaceous substance resembling the yam. Hence its
  native name, _ouvirandrano_, literally, yam of the water;--_ouvi_ in
  the Malagasy and Polynesian languages signifying yam, and _rano_ in
  the former and some of the latter signifying water. The ouvirandra
  is not only a rare and curious, but a singularly beautiful plant,
  both in structure and color. From the several crowns of the
  branching root, growing often a foot or more deep in the water, a
  number of graceful leaves, nine or ten inches long and two or three
  inches wide, spread out horizontally just beneath the surface of the
  water. The flower-stalks rise from the centre of the leaves, and the
  branching or forked flower is curious; but the structure of the leaf
  is peculiarly so, and seems like a living fibrous skeleton rather
  than an entire leaf. The {195} longitudinal fibres extend in curved
  lined along its entire length, and are united by thread-like fibres
  or veins, crossing them at right angles from side to side, at a
  short distance from each other. The whole leaf looks as if composed
  of fine tendrils, wrought after a most regular pattern, so as to
  resemble a piece of bright-green lace or open needlework. Each leaf
  rises from the crown on the root like a short delicate-looking pale
  green or yellow fibre; gradually unfolding its feathery-looking
  sides and increasing its size as it spreads beneath the water. The
  leaves in their several stages of growth pass through almost every
  gradation of color, from a pale yellow to a dark olive-green,
  becoming brown or even black before they finally decay; air-bubbles
  of considerable size frequently appearing under the full-formed and
  healthy leaves. It is scarcely possible to imagine any object of the
  kind more attractive and beautiful than a full-grown specimen of
  this plant, with its dark green leaves forming the limit of a circle
  two or three feet in diameter, and in the transparent water within
  that circle presenting leaves in every stage of development, both as
  to color and size. Nor is it the least curious to notice that these
  slender and fragile structures, apparently not more substantial than
  the gossamer and flexible as a feather, still possess a tenacity and
  wiriness which allow the delicate leaf to be raised by the hand to
  the surface of the water without injury."

No natural order of plants has created or continues to create a
greater degree of interest amongst travellers and botanists than the
_Orchidaceae_, of which more than three thousand species have been
described; the anomalous structure of their reproductory parts, the
singularity in form of the floral envelopes, the grotesque resemblance
which many kinds bear to some object or other of the animal world, the
rarity, beauty, and delicious fragrance of some forms--all combine to
render these plants of great value and interest. As inhabitants of hot
and damp localities, orchids are in general epiphytes, as in the
Brazilian forests, in the lower portions of the Himalayan mountains,
and in the islands of the Indian archipelago; when they occur in
temperate regions they are terrestrial in their mode of growth; in
extremely dry or cold climates, orchidaceous plants are unknown. Two
rare and beautiful epiphytal orchids, the _Angraecum sesquipedale_ and
_A. superbum_, were obtained by Mr. Ellis in Madagascar and Mauritius,
and introduced into this country. Of the former, the largest flowered
of all the orchids, Dr. Lindley has given the following description:

  "The plant forms a stem about eighteen inches high, covered with
  long leathery leaves in two ranks, like _Venda tricolor_ and its
  allies; but they have a much more beautiful appearance, owing to a
  drooping habit, and a delicate bloom which clothes their surface.
  From the axils of the uppermost of these leaves appear short stiff
  flower-stalks, each bearing three and sometimes five flowers,
  extending seven inches in breadth and the same in height. They are
  furnished with a firm, curved, tapering, tail-like spur, about
  fourteen inches long. When first open, the flower is slightly tinged
  with green except the tip, which is almost pure white; after a short
  time the green disappears, and the whole surface acquires the
  softest waxy texture and perfect whiteness. In this condition they
  remain, preserving all their delicate beauty, for more than five
  weeks. Even before they expand, the greenish buds, which are three
  inches long, have a very noble appearance."

To the scientific naturalist few subjects are more full of deep
interest than the question of the geographical distribution of
animals. Dr. Sclater, the active secretary of the Zoological Society
of London, has contributed an instructive paper, "On the Mammals of
Madagascar," to the second, number {196} of the "Quarterly Journal of
Science," from which we gather the following facts: As a general rule,
it is found that the faunae and florae of such countries as are most
nearly contiguous do most nearly resemble one another, while, on the
other hand, those tracts of land which are furthest asunder are
inhabited by most different forms of animal and vegetable life. Now,
Madagascar, with the Mascarene islands, is a strange exception to the
rule; for the forms of mammalia which are found in these islands are
very different from the forms which occur in the contiguous coast of
Africa, although the channel between Madagascar and the continent is
in one place not more than 200 miles: "The numerous mammals of the
orders Ruminantia, Pachydermata, and Proboscidea, so characteristic of
the Ethiopian fauna, are entirely absent from Madagascar. The same is
the case with the larger species of carnivora which are found
throughout the African continent, but do not extend into Madagascar.
Again, the highly organized types of Quadrumana which prevail in the
forests of the mainland are utterly wanting in the neighboring island;
their place being there occupied by several genera of the inferior
family of _Lemurs_," Dr. Sclater shows that this anomaly is not
confined to the orders already enumerated, but that similar
irregularities prevail to a greater or lesser extent in every part of
the mammalian series, and that, in short, the anomalies presented to
us of the forms of life prevalent in the island of Madagascar "are so
striking that claims have been put forward in its favor to be
considered as a distinct primary geographical region of the earth."
Dr. Sclater also draws attention to the very curious fact, "quite
unparalleled, as far as is hitherto known, in any other fauna, that
nearly two-thirds of the whole number of known species of the mammals
of this island are members of one peculiar group of Quadrumana." The
family of _Lemuridae_ contains no less than eight generic types, all
different from those found in Africa and India, although this group is
also represented in Africa by the abnormal form _Perodicticus_, and in
India by _Nycticebus_ and _Loris_, two allied genera. The celebrated
Aye Aye (_Chiromys Madagascariensis_), a specimen of which anomalous
animal is at present in the new monkey-house in the Zoological
Society's Gardens, Regent's Park, is considered by Prof. Owen to be
more nearly allied to some of the African Galagos than to any other
form of animal. Of insectivora, the genera _Centetes, Ericulus_, and
_Echinogale_, small animals resembling hedge-hogs in outward
appearance, are thought to be most nearly allied to an American genus.
From the anomalies in the mammalian fauna of this island. Dr. Sclater
arrives at the following deductions, which, however, as they are based
upon the hypothesis of the derivative origin of species, cannot at
present be deemed altogether conclusive:

  "1. Madagascar has never been connected with Africa, _as it at
  present exists_. This would seem probable from the absence of
  certain all-pervading Ethiopian types in Madagascar, such as
  _Antelope, Hippopotamus Felis_, etc. But, on the other hand, the
  presence of _Lemurs_ in Africa renders it certain that Africa as it
  at present exists, contains land that once formed part of

  "2. Madagascar and the Mascarene islands (which are universally
  acknowledged to belong to the same category) must have remained for
  a long epoch separated from every other part of the globe, in order
  to have acquired the many peculiarities now exhibited in their
  mammal fauna--_e.g._, _Lemur, Chiromys, Eupleres, Centetes,_
  etc.--to be elaborated by the gradual modification of pre-existing

  "3. Some land-connection must have existed in former ages between
  Madagascar and India, whereon the original stock, whence the present
  Lemuridae of Africa, Madagascar, and India, are descended,


  "4. It must be likewise allowed that some sort of connection must
  also have existed between Madagascar and land which now forms part
  of the new world--in order to permit the derivation of the
  _Centetinae_ from a common stock with the _Solenodon_, and to
  account for the fact that the Lemuridae, as a body, are certainly
  more nearly allied to the weaker forms of American monkeys than to
  any of the Simiidae of the old world.

  "The anomalies of the mammal fauna of Madagascar can best be
  explained by supposing that, anterior to the existence of Africa in
  its present shape, a large continent occupied parts of the Atlantic
  and Indian oceans, stretching out toward (what is now) America on
  the west, and to India and its islands on the east; that this
  continent was broken up into islands, of which some became
  amalgamated with the present continent of Africa, and some possibly
  with what is now Asia--and that in Madagascar and the Mascarene
  islands we have existing relics of this great continent."

We fain would have lingered on the natural products of this
interesting island, to drink of the refreshing liquid furnished by the
traveller-tree, and to admire the sago palms and other vegetable
forms, but space forbids our dwelling longer on the natural
productions of the tropics.  [Footnote 30] We could have spoken of the
aspects of tropical nature as it appears in Borneo, Java, Sumatra, and
other islands of the Pacific ocean, but we must stop. We ought not,
however, to conclude these gleanings without a brief notice of Dr.
Hartwig's popular book, whose title we have placed at the head of this
article. There are those who look with contempt on popular science of
all kinds, and regard with undisguised aversion such compilations as
the one before us. We do not share these feelings in the least degree;
on the contrary, we welcome most heartily such introductions to the
study of natural history. True, they may be sometimes of little
scientific value, but they are very useful stepping-stones to
something more solid. They are more especially intended for the young,
but those of mature years may derive much profit by a perusal of many
of these works, and even the naturalist may read them with pleasure
and instruction. The numerous beautifully illustrated and carefully
compiled works on natural history, such as the book before us,
together with "The Sea and its Living Wonders," by the same writer,
with Routledge's admirable "Natural History," and several of the
Christian Knowledge Society's publications, which have appeared within
the last few years, are an encouraging sign of the growing interest
which the rising generation takes in the study of the great Creator's
works, and we heartily wish them "God-speed."

  [Footnote 30: In our own territory of the Seychelles Islands, 4° to
  5° S., 300 miles N. E. of the great island Just alluded to, we see
  one of the strangest of vegetable productions, the double cocoa-nut,
  or Lodoicea, which was fully described by Mr. Ward in the "Journal
  of the Linnean Society, 1864:" "The shortest period before the tree
  puts forth its buds is 30 years, and 100 years must elapse before it
  attains its full growth. One plant in the garden at Government
  House, planted 15 years ago, is quite in its infancy, about 16 feet
  in height, but with no stem yet visible, the long leaves shooting
  from, the earth like the Traveler's Palm (_Urania specioea_), and
  much resembling it in shape, but much larger. Unlike the cocoa-nut
  trees, which bend to every gale and are never quite straight, the
  coco-de-mer trees are as upright as iron pillars. At the ago of 30
  the trees first put forth blossoms. The female tree alone produces
  the nut, and is 6 feet shorter than the male, which attains a height
  of 100 feet. From fructification to full maturity a period of nearly
  10 years elapses." But the remarkable point is the arrangement of
  the roots, unlike any other tree. "The base of the trunk is of a
  bulbous form, and this bulb fits into a natural bowl or socket about
  2-1/2 feet in diameter and 1-1/2 foot in depth, narrowing to the
  bottom. This bowl is pierced with hundreds of small oval holes about
  the size of thimbles, with hollow tubes corresponding on the
  outside, through which the roots penetrate the ground on all sides,
  never, however, becoming attached to the bowl, their partial
  elasticity affording an almost imperceptible, but very necessary
  _play_ to the parent stem when struggling against the force of
  violent gales. This bowl is of the same substance as the shell of
  the nut, only much thicker. As far as can be ascertained, it never
  rots or wears out. It has been found quite perfect and entire in
  every respect 60 years after the tree has been cut down. At Curiense
  many sockets are still remaining which are known to have belonged to
  trees cut down by the first settlers in the Island (1742)." One of
  these sockets is to be seen in the Museum of woods at Kew.]



From Chamber's Journal.


  Links upon the forehead come--
    Strokes alike of time and grief,
  Branches from the heart beneath
    That will never bear a leaf.

  Come the summer, come the spring,
    Still they keep their wintry hue;
  Deepening, stretching o'er the brow.
    Shadows lift them into view.

  Straight and crooked, right and left.
    On the strong and on the weak--
  Upward to the hoary head.
    Downward to the hollow cheek.

  Shadows from the life within,
    Tarrying ere they pass away,
  Plant these stems of sorrow there,
    Growing in the night and day.

  Light that fills the eye afresh
    From some inward moving grace,
  Casting from it, as a sun.
    Quiet rays upon the face--

  Makes these ruts of time appear
    Winding, widening in their space,
  Drawing loving eyes and thoughts
    All their history to trace.

  Whilst upheaved by a smile,
    Radiant in the breast of light,
  These eternal scores of grief
    Tell of many an inner night.

  Stories come up from their roots.
    Half unfolded in their course,
  Showing how a hundred pangs
    Long ago became their source.



From The Lamp.




Any help which old Murdock was in the habit of getting from his son
upon the farm, and it was at no time of much value, either in labor or
advice, had latterly dwindled down to a mere careless questioning as
to how matters were going on, and his father began to fear that he was
"beginning to go to the bad." Poor old man, how little of the truth he

There was now always something cranky and unpleasant in Tom's manner.
He was often from home for days together, and, when at home, often out
at night until very late; and if questioned in the kindest manner by
his father upon the subject, his answers were snappish and
unsatisfactory. Poor old Mick--deluded Mick--laid down both his
wanderings and his crankiness to the score of his love for Winny
Cavana, and the uncertainty of his suit.

From one or two encouraging and cheery expressions his father had
addressed to him, Tom knew this to be the view his father had taken of
his case, and he was quite willing to indulge the delusion. Now that
matters had come to an open rupture between him and Winny--for
notwithstanding his father's hopes, he had none--it was convenient for
him that his father should continue of the same mind--nay, more, his
father himself had suggested a step, which, if he could manage with
his usual ability, might turn to his profit, and relieve to a certain
extent some of the perplexities by which he was beset.

Old Mick had spent a long and fatiguing day, not merely in his
peregrinations through the farm, but from anxiety and watching, having
observed Winny go out earlier than usual, and seeing that Tom soon
after had followed her down the road. He was rather surprised in about
an hour afterward to see Winny return alone, and at not having seen
Tom for nearly two hours later in the day, when he returned cross and
disappointed, as we have seen. The "untoward circumstances," detailed
in the conversation after dinner with his son, had not the same
depressing effects upon the old man as upon Tom; for he really
believed that they were not only not past cure, but according to his
notions of how such matters generally went on, that they were on a
fair road to success. He therefore enjoyed a night's sound sleep,
while Tom lay tossing and tumbling, and planning and scheming,--and
occasionally cursing Edward Lennon, whom he could not persuade himself
was not, as his father said, at the bottom of all this. It was near
morning, therefore, before he had fretted himself to sleep.

Early the next day old Mick determined to ascertain the actual state
of facts. He was up betimes, and having seen what was necessary to be
done for the day upon the farm, he set the operations going, and
returned to breakfast. Tom had not yet stirred; and as Nancy had told
the old masther that she "heered him struggling with the bed-clothes,
an' talkin' to himself until nearly morning," he would not allow her
to call him, but went to breakfast by himself, telling her to have a
fresh pot of tay, an' a dacent breakfast for him when he got up. "Poor
fellow," he said to himself, "I did not think that girl had so firm a
hoult of him."


Old Mick's anticipations of how matters really stood, and his
confidence in Ned Cavana's firmness, were doomed to be shaken, if not
altogether disappointed. Old Ned saw him hanging "about the borders"
with a watchful look directed toward his house. He took it for granted
that Tom had mentioned something of what had occurred to him, and he
knew at once what he was lingering about for.

Ned had undoubtedly led old Murdock to suppose that he would be "as
stout as a bull" with Winny about marrying his son; but when Ned had
spoken thus sternly upon the subject, he had not anticipated any
opposition upon Winny's part to the match. He did not see how she
could object, nor did he see why. Mick had imbibed some slight idea of
the kind from what Tom had told him; but Ned had combated this idea
with great decision, and some sternness; more by way of showing his
neighbor how he could exercise his parental authority, than from any
great dread that he would ever be called on to assert it.

But Ned Cavana knew not the nature Class his own heart. He had
miscalculated the extent of his love for Winny, or the influence her
affectionate and devoted life could exercise over that love, in a case
where such a dispute might come between them. Thus we have seen him
yield to that influence almost without argument, and certainly without
a harsh or angry word. When it came to the point that he had to
confront her tears, where was the fury with which he met old Murdock's
insinuations and suggestions?--where the threats of cutting her off,
not _with_ but _without_ a shilling, and leaving it all to the
Church?--where the steady determination with which he had resolved to
"bring her to her senses?"--all, all lost in the affectionate smile
which beamed upon her pleading love.

Ned Cavana knew now that old Murdock was on the watch for him. He
believed that Tom had told him what had taken place between him and
Winny; and although he did not dread any alteration in his promise to
his daughter, he felt that he could deal more stoutly with old Murdock
with the recollection of Winny's tears fresh on her cheeks, than if
the matter were to lie over for any time. He therefore strolled
through the farmyard, and out on the lane we have already spoken of,
and turned down toward the fields at the back of his garden. This
movement was not, of course, unnoticed by the man who was on the watch
for some such, and accordingly he sloped down toward the gate, at
which he and his son had held the conversation--a conversation which
had confirmed Winny in her preconceived opinion of Tom Murdock's
character and motives.

The two old men thus met once again at the same spot at which the
reader first saw them together.

"I'm glad you cum out, Ned," said Murdock, "for I was watin to see
you, to tell you about Tom. He done his part yesterda' illegant, an'
you may spake to the little girl now as soon as you plaise."

"I have spoken to her, Mick. She tould me all about it herself, last

"Well, she didn't resave Tom at all the way he thought she would, nor
the way she led him to think she would, aidher. I hope she tould the
thruth to you, Ned, and didn't make b'lief to be shy an' resarved, as
she did to Tom. Poor boy, he's greatly down about it."

"She did; she tould me the whole thruth, Mick avic, and it's all no
use; she won't marry Tom--that's the long an' the short of it."

"Why, then, she mightn't be cosherin wid him the way she was, Ned, and
ladin the poor young boy asthray as to her intintions when she brought
him to the point."

"My little girl never done anything of the kind, Mick; she'd scorn to
do it."

"Well, no matther; she done it now, Ned; and as for Tom, he's the
{201} very boy that i'd nather humbug a little girl, nor allow her to
humbug him. Did you spake stout to her, Ned?"

"I said all that was necessary, Mick awochal: but I seen it was no
use, an' I wouldn't disthress the crathur."

"Disthress the crathur, _aniow!_ Athen may be it's what you don't much
care how that poor boy 'ithin there is disthressed through her mains."

"As for that, Mick, it needn't, nor it won't, disthress Tom a bit.
There's many a fine girl in the parish that i'd answer Tom betther nor
my little girl; and when I find that she's not for him, Mick awochal,
I tell you I won't disthress the colleen by harsh mains, so say no
more about it."

"Athen, Ned, I think you tuck it aisy enugh afther all you tould me
d'other day; you'd do this, an' you'd do that, an' you'd cut her off
wid a shillin', an' you'd bring her to her senses, an' what wouldn't
you do, Ned? I tould you to be studdy, or she'd cum over you wid her
pillaver; and I tell you now what I tould you then, that it is all
through the mains of that pauper Lennon she has done this--a purty
_scauhawn_ for her to be wastin' your mains an' your hard earnin's
upon. Arrah, Ned, I wondher you haven't more sense than to be
deludhered by that beggarman out of your little girl an' your money."

"No, Mick, young Lennon has nothing to say to it; if he never was
born, Winny wouldn't marry Tom. I would not misbelieve Winny on her
word, let alone her oath; an' she tould me she tuck her oath to Tom
that she'd never marry him. He taxed her wid young Lennon, an' so did
I; an' she declared, an' I believe her there too, Mick, that there
never was a word between them on such a subject; an' let there be no
more now between us. It can't be helped. But I will not disthress my
little girl by spakin' to her any more about Tom."

"Oh, very well, Ned; that'll do. But, be the book, Tom's not the boy
that'll let himself be med a fool of by any one; an' I'm the very
fellow that is able an' willin' to back him up in it."

"Athen what do you mane, Mick?--for the devil a wan of me can
undherstan' that threat, af it beant the law you mane, an' sure the
gandher in the yard beyant id have more sense than to think iv that.
My little girl never held out the smallest cumhither upon Tom; but,
instead iv that, she tells me that she always med scarse iv herself
wheen he was to the fore. So af it be law you mane, Mick, you may do
your worst."

"No, it isn't the law I mane, Ned. Law is dear at best, an' twiste as
dear at worst; but I mane to say that I'll back up poor Tom 'ithin
there, that's brakin' his heart about Winny; an' if you have any
regard for her, you'll do the same thing; an' you'll see we'll bring
the thing round, as we ought; that's what I mane. The girl can't deny
but what she med much iv Tom, until that other spalpeen cum across
her. Tom's no fool, an' knows what a girl mains very well."

"She does deny it, Mick, an' so she can. But there's no use, I tell
you, in sayin' any more about it. I can see plane an' aisy enough that
Winny isn't for him. I tould her I wouldn't strive to force her likin'
or dislikin', an' I won't; so just tell Tom that the girl is in
earnest. She tould him so herself, an' you may tell him the same
thing. He can't think so much about her, Mick, as you let on, for
there never was any courting betune them from first to last. I'll
spake to you no more about it, Mick, an' you needn't spake to me."

With this final resolve, Ned turned his back completely round upon his
neighbor, and walked with a hasty but firm step into the house.


Old Mick stood for some moments looking after him in a state of
perplexed surprise. He had some fears, though they were not very
great, that Winny's influence over her father was sufficiently strong
to determine him according to her wishes, if she was really averse to
a match with his son; but this latter was a point upon which he had
scarcely any fears at all; except such as were suggested by the hints
his son himself had thrown out about young Lennon. Upon this part of
the case he had spoken to Ned in such a way as to make him determined
to be very strict and decided in his opposition to any leaning on his
daughter's part in that quarter.

Old Mick, as he stood and looked, was perplexed on both these parts of
the case. If he believed that Winny Cavana had really and decidedly
refused to marry his son, he could only do so upon the supposition
that young Lennon was the mainspring of the whole movement. And,
again, to suppose she had preferred a "secret colloguing with that
pauper," behind her father's back, to an open and straight-forward
match with a rich young man, and what he called a handsomer man than
ever Lennon was, or ever would be, and with her father's full consent,
was what he could not bring himself to believe of any sensible girl.
But this he did believe, that if "that young whelp" was really not at
the bottom of Winny's refusal, a marriage with his son, be it brought
about _by what means it could_, would end in a reconciliation, not
only of Winny to so great a match, but of old Ned, as a necessary
consequence, to his daughter's acquiescence.

With these thoughts, and counter-thoughts, he too turned toward his
house, where he found Tom just going to his breakfast, in no very good
humor with the past, the present, or the future.

His father "bid him the time of day," and said "he had to look after a
cow that was on for cavin'," an' that he'd be back by the time he had
done his breakfast. This was a mere piece of consideration upon old
Mick's part.

Loss of appetite and uneasiness of manner in a handsome young man of
two-and-twenty is unhesitatingly set down by the old crones of a
parish to his being "in love," and they are seldom at a loss to supply
the _colleen dhass_ to whom these symptoms are attributable. In Tom's
case, however, there were other matters than love which were
accountable for the miserable attempt at breakfast he had made,
notwithstanding the elaborate preparations Nancy Feehily had made to
tempt him. His father was surprised to find him so soon following him
to the fields. But Tom, knowing his father's energy of action when a
matter was on his mind, suspected he had not been to that hour of the
day without managing an interview with old Cavana, and was on the
fidgets to know what passed. But love--as love--had nothing whatever
to say to his want of relish for so good a breakfast as had been set
before him.

He met his father returning toward the house, not far from the
celebrated gate already so often mentioned in this story. The spot
where they now met was a little more favorable for a conference than
the gate in question, for, unlike it, there was no private bower for
eavesdroppers to secrete themselves in.

"Well, father," said Tom, breaking into the subject at once, "have you
seen the old fogie about Winny?"

"I have, Tom, an' matthers is worse nor I thought. She has cum round
him most complately; for the present anyhow."

"I told you how it would be, father, and be d--!"

"Whist, Tom, don't be talking that way; there's wan thing I'm afther
being purty sure of, an' that is, that that spalpeen has nothin' to
say to it. It's all perverseness just for a while, an' she'll cum
round afther a bit."

"Well, father. I'll cut my stick for that bit, be it long or short; so
tell me, what can you do for me about money? You know if she was never
in the place, it's nothing to keep me here stravaging about the road."

"Thrue for you, Tom avic. It isn't easy, however, layin' a man's {203}
hand upon what you'd want wid you for a start; but sure my credit is
good in the bank, an' sure I'll put my name upon a bill-stamp for you
for twenty or thirty pounds. Take my advice an' don't go past your
aunt's in Armagh. Tom, she's an illigant fine woman, an' will resave
you wid a _ceade mille a faltha_, an' revive you out an' out afore you
put a month over you. There's not a man in Armagh has a betther thrade
than her husband, Bill Wilson the carpenter--cabinet-maker, I b'lieve
they call him--an' b'lieve my words, she'll make the most of her
brother's son. Who knows, Tom avic? Arrah, maybe you'd do betther down
there nor at home. Any way Winny won't be gone afore you come back,
an' if we can't manage wan thing maybe we would another--_thig um,

"Well, I hope so; but, father, I'll be off before Sunday, and this is

"You'll have lashins of time, Tom; but the sorra wan but I'll be very
lonely; for although, Tom, you do be wandhering from home by day, and
stopping out late sometimes by night, sure I know you're not far off,
an' I always hear you lettin' yourself in betune night an' mornin'.
Though Caesar doesn't bark at you, I hear him whinin' an' shufflin'
when you're coming to the back doore?"

"No matter about that now, father; I suppose I can get the money
tomorrow or after, and start for my aunt's?"

"Any minute, Tom. I'm never without a bill-stamp in the house in
regard of the fairs. Come in, and I'll dhraw it out at wanst, an' I'll
engage they'll give you the money on it at the bank; don't be the
laste taste aleared of that, Tom."

Whether Tom then intended to be guided by his father's advice, and not
go past his aunt's in Armagh, it is not easy to say; but at all events
he "let on" that he would not do so. When he got his heels loose, with
a trifle of cash in his pocket, he could turn his steps in any
direction he wished.

They then returned to the house, and old Mick, putting on his
spectacles, opened a table-drawer in the parlor, where he kept his
writing materials, accounts, receipts, etc. After some discussion,
which had well-nigh ended in an argument, as to whether the amount
should be twenty or thirty pounds, a bill was ultimately drawn by the
son upon the father for the former sum, at three months. Tom had,
other reasons than the mere increase of ten pounds in the amount, for
wishing to have the word thirty instead of twenty written in the bill;
however, he could not screw more than the latter sum out of the old
man, which he said was ample to take him to his aunt's in Armagh,
where he'd get lashins an' lavins of the best of everything. Tom knew
that for this purpose it would be ample, and therefore failed to bring
forward any arguments to sustain his view as to the necessity of
making it thirty; but as it was he himself who wrote it out, he patted
the blotting-paper over it in great haste--a matter which was not, of
course, observed by the old man, nor if it had been would he have
supposed there was anything unusual, much less for a purpose, in the
act. The father having read it carefully over, and seeing that it was
all correct, wrote his name with some dignity of manner across the
bill. This portion of the writing Tom took care to let dry without any
blotting at all, for he held it to the fire instead. Neither did the
old man observe this unusual course, the manifest mode being to have
used the blotting-paper, as in the first instance.

The matter being now thus far perfected, Tom asked his father if he
could have Blackberry--one of the farm horses--to go into C. O. S.
early next morning.

"An' welcome, Tom, if he was worth a hundred pounds," said the old
man, locking the drawer.



Tom spent the remainder of that day very quietly, most of it in his
own room. His first employment, whatever it may have been, was over an
old portfolio, where he kept his own writing materials. What were the
chief subjects of his caligraphy is not known. Perhaps love-letters to
such of his numerous _enamoratas_ as could read may have formed a
portion, nor is it impossible but the police might have given a trifle
to have laid their hands upon some others. Neither were likely to see
the light, however, as Tom Murdock kept that old portfolio carefully
locked up in his box.

The next morning at an unusually early hour for him Tom proceeded upon
Blackberry, fully caparisoned with the best saddle and bridle in the
place, to C. O. S.; where, after ten o'clock, he found no difficulty
in procuring cash upon his father's acceptance.

Now, although in the first instance Tom had no notion of stopping at
his aunt's in Armagh, or perhaps of going there at all, upon
reflection he changed his mind altogether upon the subject. He had
some congenial spirits there beside his aunt--spirits with whom he
occasionally had had personal communication as well as more frequent
epistolary correspondence. Beyond Armagh, therefore, upon second
thoughts, he resolved not to go upon this occasion. As to any
depression of spirits on account of Winny Cavana, he had none, except
the loss of her fortune, which would have stood to him so well in his
present circumstances. And here he remembered that his father had told
him the interest of "that same" was all he could have touched, and
even that at only three per cent.; so that for the mere present he had
done as well, if not better. What he had drawn out of the bank upon
his father's credit, would settle the two harassing and intricate
cases, which two different attorneys, on the part of those whom he had
most grievously wronged, had threatened to expose in a court of law.
He would have some over--he took care of that--to take him to Armagh
and back, where he could not manage _this time_ to go at the expense
of "the fund." He did not purpose, however, to stop very long at his
aunt's. He would tell Winny when he came back that her refusal of him
had driven him away--he knew nor cared not whither; but that he found
it impossible to live without sometimes seeing her, if it was only
from his own door to hers: yes, he would follow that business up the
moment he returned. In the meantime it might not be without some good
effect his being absent for a short time.

Such were the thoughts and plans with which Tom, after he had settled
with the attorneys, left his poor old father, we may say completely
alone; for after the rather sharp words which had taken place between
the two old men, he could hardly continue his customary visits, or
half-casual, half-projected meetings with Ned Cavana, by their
respective mearings. Hitherto in this respect, more than in actual
visits, the intercourse between these two old men had been habitual,
indeed it may be said of daily occurrence, mutually watched for. If
one saw the other overlooking his men, either sowing or reaping, or
planting or digging, according to the time of the year, the habit
almost amounted to a rule, that, whichever saw the other first, quit
his own men, and sloped over toward his neighbor to have a look at
what was going on, and having there exhausted the pros and cons of
whatever the work might be, a general chat was kept up and the visit
returned on the spot.

Now, however, matters were to a great extent changed. This "untoward
circumstance" between Tom Murdock and Winny Cavana, together with the
subsequent conversation upon the subject between the fathers, rendered
this friendly {205} intercourse impossible. From all his son had told
him, old Mick thought Winny Cavana had treated him badly, and he
considered that old Ned had "gone back of his word" to himself. He was
a plucky, proud old cock, and his advice to Tom would be "to see it
out with the pair of them, without any _pillaver_."

What he meant by "seeing it out" he hardly knew himself, for he had
repudiated the law in a most decided manner when taxed with it by Ned.
What, then, could he mean by "seeing it out?" Perhaps Tom would not
require his advice upon the subject.

From this day forth, however, old Mick was not the man he used to be.
A man at his age, however well he may have worn--ay, even to have
obtained the name of an evergreen--generally does so having his mind
at ease as well as his body in health--the one begets the other; and
so an old man thrives, and often looks as well at seventy as he did at
sixty. But these old evergreens sometimes begin to fail suddenly if
the cold wind of disappointment blows roughly upon their hitherto
happy hearts; and Tom Murdock was not three weeks away, when the
remarks of the people returning from the chapel, respecting old Mick,
were that "they never saw a man so gone in the time." And the fact was

Old Mick Murdock had been all his life a cheerful, chatty man, one
with whom it was a comfort to "be a piece of the road home." Moreover,
he had always been erect in person, with a pair of cheeks like a
scarlet Crofton apple--not the occasional smooth flush of delicacy,
but the constant hard rough tint of health. There were many young men
in the parish whom a walk alongside of old Mick Murdock for a couple
of miles would put out of breath, while you would not see a heave,
however slight, out of old Mick's chest.

Look on him now: "he has not a word to throw to a dog," as the saying
has it; he is beginning to stoop in his gait, and more than once
already he has struck his heel against the ground in walking. As yet
it is not a drag, and those indications of a break-up in his
constitution are comparatively slight. Ere long, however, you will see
him with a stick, and you will be hardly able to recognize him as the
Mick Murdock of a few months before.

Tom, as we have seen, having settled with the attorneys, started for
his aunt's; where, as his father had predicted, he was received with
open arms, and a joyful clapping of hands and a _ceade mille a
faltha_. "Oh, then, Tom, avic macree, but it's you that's welcome; an'
shure I needn't ax you how you are. Oh, but it's you that's grown the
fine young man since I seen you last. An' let me see--how long ago is
that now, Tom agra? It'll be four years coming Easthre Sunda' next
since I was down in Rathcashmore. An' how is Mick a wochal? an' how's
_herself_, Tom, the 'colleen dhass' you know?" And she gave him a poke
with her finger between the ribs. "Ah, Tom avic, yon needn't look so
shy; shure I know all about it, an' why wouldn't I? It'll be an
illigant match for the pair iv ye; as good for the wan as for the
other--coming Shraft, Tom, eh? In troth Winny will be a comfort to
you, as well as a creedit; that's what she will, won't she, Tom?"

"Let me alone now, aunt; I'm tired after the journey; and it's not of
her I'm thinking."

"See that now--arra _na bocklish_, Tom, don't be afther telling me
that; shure didn't Mick himself write to me two or three times to let
me know how matthers was going on, and the grand party he gev on
Hallow-Eve, and the fun ye all had, and how you danced wid her a'most
the whole night."

"Nonsense, aunt! Did he tell you how anybody else danced?"

"No, the sorra word he said about any wan that was there, barrin'
yourself an' herself."

"Well, never heed her now. I'll {206} tell you more about her
to-morrow or next day, and maybe ask your advice upon the subject at
the same time."

Their conversation was here interrupted, as Tom thought very
opportunely, by the entrance of Bill Wilson, whose welcome for his
wife's nephew was as hearty, in a manner, as that which he had
received from herself. The conversation, of course, now "became
general;" and Bill Wilron, although he had never been out of Armagh,
seemed to have everybody down about Tom's country pat by heart, for he
asked for them all by name, not forgetting, although he left her to
the last, to ask for Winny Cavana. It was evident to Tom, from his
manner, that he was up to the project in that quarter; and as evident
that, like his aunt, he knew nothing of how matters up to this had
turned out, or how they were likely to end. He answered his uncle's
questions, however, with reasonable self-possession; and his aunt,
having perceived from his last observation to herself that there was
"a screw loose," turned the conversation very naturally to the subject
of Tom's physical probabilities, saying,

"Athen, Tom jewel, maybe it's what you're hungry, an' would like to
take something to eat afore dinner; shure an' shure it's the first
question I ought to have asked you."

"No, aunt, I thank you kindly, I'll take nothing until your dinner;
there's a friend of mine lives in the skirts of the town; I want to
see him, and I'll be back in less than an hour."

"A friend of yours, Tom? athen shure if he is, he ought to be a friend
of ours; who is he, Tom a wochal?"

"Oh, no, aunt, you never heard of him. He's a boy I have a message to
from, a friend in the country."

"Why, then, Tom, you'll be wanting to know the way in this strange
place, an' shure I'll send the girl wid you to show you. Shure how
could you know, an' you never in Armagh afore?"

"No, aunt, I say, I have a tongue in my head, and I'm not an
_onshiough_. I'll find him out without taking your girl from her

"Athen, Tom jewel, whoever bought you for an _onshiough_ would lay out
his money badly, I'm thinking; an' although you were never in this big
city afore, the devil a bit afeared I am but you'll find your way, an'
well have lashins iv everything that's good for you, and a _ceade
mille a faltha_ when you come back."

Tom then left them, bidding them a temporary good-bye. He he did not
think it at all necessary to enlighten his aunt to the fact that he
had paid periodical visits to Armagh from time to time, and had on
these occasions passed her very door. But these visits were of short
duration, and have been only hinted at. They were sufficient, however,
to familiarize him with the portions of the city to which he now
directed his steps. But as we are not aware of the precise spot to
which he went, nor acquainted with those whose society he sought, we
shall not follow him.

His aunt, after he had left, was in no degree sparing in her praise of
him to her husband, who had never seen him before, but who indorsed
every word she said with the greatest promptitude and good-humor, "as
far as he could see."

Bill Wilson was no fool. He gave his wife's nephew a hearty and a
sincere welcome, and he knew it would be an ungracious thing not to
acquiesce in all that she said to his advantage; but it was an
indiscreet slip to add the words "as far as he could see." It implied
a caution on his part which did not say much for the confidence he
ought to have felt in his wife's opinion, and went merely to
corroborate her praises of his personal appearance.

"As far as you can see,' Bill! Well, indeed, that far you can find no
fault at all, at all; that's shure an' sartin. Where would you find
the likes iv him, as far as that same goes, William Wilson?--not in
Armagh, let me tell you. I ax you did you {207} ever see a finer head
iv hair, or a finer pair iv ejes in a man's head, or a handsomer nose,
or a purtier mouth? An' the whiskers, Bill!--ah, them's the dark
whiskers from Slieve-dhu; none of your moss-colored whiskers that you
see about here, Bill. Look at the hoith iv him!  He's no leprahaun,
Bill Wilson; an' I say if you go out an' walk the town for three
hours, you'll not meet the likes iv him till you come back again to
where he is himself'."

"Faix, an' I won't try that, Mary, for I believe every word you're
afther sayin'. But, shure, I didn't mane to make Little of the young
man at all."

"You said 'as far as you could see,' Bill; an' shure we all know how
far that is. But amn't I tellin' you what is beyant your sight,--what
he is to the backbone, for larnin', an' everythin' that's good, manly,
an' honest? There now, Bill, I hope you don't misdoubt me,--'as far as
you can see,' indeed!"

"Well, Mary, I meant nothing against him by that; indeed I believe,
and I am shure, he's as good as he's handsome. But I must go out now
to the workshop to look after the men. Let me know when he comes

Tom was not so long away as he had intended. The person whom he went
to look for was not at home, and he returned to his aunt at once. He
had not many acquaintances in Armagh, and they were such as might be
better pleased with a visit _after dark_ than so early in the day.

Before "the dinner" was prepared, Tom had another chat with his aunt,
and, as a matter of course, she could not altogether avoid the subject
of Winny Cavana. She had been given to understand by her brother that
a successful courtship was carrying on between Tom and her. But the
humor in which Tom had received her first quizzing upon the subject at
once told that intelligent lady of the "loose screw" on some side of
the question. Upon so important a matter, a married woman, and own
aunt to such a fine young man, one of the parties concerned, Mrs.
Wilson could not permit herself to remain ignorant. Her direct
questions in the first instance, and her dexterous cross-examination
afterward, showed Tom the folly of hoping to evade a full confession
of his having been refused; and it may be believed that he set forth
in no small degree how ill-treated he had been by the said Winny
Cavana _and_ her father.

His aunt consoled him, so far as she could, with hopes that matters
might not be so bad as he apprehended; reminding him at the same time
of the extent of the sea, and the number of good fishes which must
still be in it uncaught. That shrewd woman could also perceive, from
Tom's manner, under his confession, as well as his first ill-humor,
that the loss of Winny Cavana's fortune, and the reversion of her fat
farm, were more matters of regret to him than the loss of herself.

"And why not?" she thought, under the impression of Winny's
ill-treatment of such a fine han'som' young fellow as her nephew.
"Shure, couldn't he have his pick an' choice of any girl in that, or
in any other parish; ay, or among her acquaintances in Armagh, for
that matter? But as for young Lennon! she was sartin shure Winny
couldn't be such a born idgiot as to make much of the likes of him
where Tom was to the fore."

She thus encouraged her nephew, taking much the same view of his case
as old Mick had done, and giving him pretty much the same advice--
"not to dhraw back at all, but to persavare an' get a hoult in her by
hook or by crook, an' thrust to a reconciliation aftherwards. He might
take her word for it, it was more make b'lief than anything else.
Don't give it up, Tom; them sort of girls like persavarince; I know I
did, a wochal, in my time. What's on her mind is, {208} that it's
afther her money you are, an' Not hersel'."

"The devil a much she's out there, aunt; but I wish I could make her
think otherwise."

"Lissen here, Tom; 'a council's no command,' they say, an' my advice
is this. Let on when you go back that you could get an illigant fine
girl in Armagh wid twiste her fortune; but that nothing would tempt
you to forsake your own little girl at home, that was a piece iv your
heart since ye were both the hoith of a creepeen; do you see? an' I'll
back you up in it. Tell her she may bestow her fortune upon Kate
Mulvey or any one she likes; that herself is all you want. You know
she won't do that when it comes to the point."

"Not a bad plan, aunt. But sure I should let on to my father, and to
every one in the neighborhood; and they'll be asking me who she is,
and about her father and her mother, and all about her; and I should
have answers ready, if I mean the thing to look like the truth."

"An' won't I give you all that as pat as A, B, C? Don't I know the
very girl that'll answer to a T, Tom?"

"Why then, aunt dear, mightn't you bring me across her in earnest?"

"Faix, an' I could not, Tom, for a very good reason--that I'm not
acquainted wid her, except to see her sometimes; an' I know her name,
an' who she is, an' her father's name, an' how he med his money.
They're as proud as paycocks, I can tell you; an nayther the wan nor
the other would look the same side iv the street wid the likes iv us,
Tom; but they don't know that at Rathcash; an' shure, if Winny thries
to find out about them, she'll find that you're tellin' the truth as
far as the names an' money goes, an  I'll let on to be as thick as two
pickpockets wid them."

Tom was silent. The closing words of his aunt's speech made him wish
that he could pick some of their pockets of about a hundred pounds.

The plan, however, seemed a good one, and had the effect of putting
Tom Murdock into good humor; and when Bill Wilson joined them at
dinner Tom was so agreeable and chatty, that Bill thought his wife,
although she was Tom's aunt, had not said a word too much for him; and
he regretted more than ever that he had used the words "so far as he
could see." He anticipated--nay, he dreaded--that they would be
brought up to him again that night with greater force than ever.


The most part of ready cash, whatever the sum may have been, which Tom
had received at the bank, having been, as he called it, "swallowed up
by them cormorants, the attorneys," he had, after all, but a trifling
balance in his pocket. He was determined, therefore, to live quietly
for some time at his aunt's upon "the lashins and lavins," taking her
advice, and arranging with her his plan of operations upon his return
to Rathcashmore. And his aunt's advice, in a prudent and worldly point
of view, was not to be controverted, if anything could tend toward the
attainment of his object; that was the question.

It was impossible, however, that Tom could rest altogether satisfied
with the company of his aunt and her husband, and three or four
children between ten and seventeen years of age;  particularly as the
eldest of his cousins was a long-necked boy with big, stuck-out ears,
who worked in his father's shop, instead of a graceful girl with dark
hair and fine eyes, whose domestic duties must keep her in the house
as her mother's assistant, or perhaps enable her, when she could be
spared, to guide him through the principal parts of the town, of which
he would have feigned the most profound ignorance. But the eldest
child just past seventeen, as we have seen. {209} happened to be a
boy, not a girl, and Tom did not consider this the best arrangement
that could be wished. In consequence, he sometimes spent an evening
from home, with one or other, or perhaps with all the congenial
spirits with whom, as a _delegate_--for the truth may be
confessed--from another county, he could claim brotherhood. On this
occasion, however, he was not on official business in Armagh; and
whatever intercourse took place between them was of a purely social

Tom was not altogether such a _mauvais sujet_ as perhaps the reader
has set him down in his own mind to be, from the inuendos which have
been thrown out respecting him, as well as the actual portions of his
character which have made themselves manifest. It must be
confessed--nay, I believe it has been admitted not many lines
above--that he was a Ribbonman; and although that includes all that is
murderous and wicked, when a necessity arises, yet in the absence of
such necessity a Ribbonman may not be altogether void of certain good
points in his character. It is the frightful _obligation_ which he
_labors_ under that makes a villain of him, should circumstances
require the aid of his iniquity. Apart from this, and from what is
termed an agrarian grievance, a Ribbonman may not be a bad family-man,
although the training he undergoes in "The Lodge" is ill calculated to
nourish his domestic sympathies.

Tom had now been upward of a month enjoying the hospitality of his
aunt; and notwithstanding that she had done all in her power to
entertain him, and "make much" of him, he was beginning to tire of the
eternal smoke and flags, and stacks of chimneys, which were always the
same to the eye: no bright "blast of sun," no sudden dark cloud, made
any difference in them; there they were, always the same dark color,
no matter what light shone upon them. No wonder, then, Tom Murdock
began once more to long for the fresh breeze that blew about the wild
hills of Rathcashmore, the green fields of his father's farm, and the
purple heather of Slieve-dhu, with the white rocks of Slieve-bawn by
her side.

Absence too had done more really to touch Tom's heart with respect to
Winny Cavana than to wean him from the "saucy slut," as he had called
her in pique on his departure. He had "come across,"--this is the
Irish mode of expressing, "had been introduced,"--through his aunt's
assistance, several of what she called illigant fine girls, nieces of
her husband's and others, and his heart confessed that none of them
"were a patch" upon Winny Cavana, after all. He thus became fidgety,
and began to speak of returning home. Of course the aunt opposed her
hospitality to such a step, for the present at least: "Just as we were
beginning to enjoy you, Tom avic," said she; and of course her husband
made a show of joining her, although he knew there had been more beer
drunk in the house in the last month than in the six preceding ones;
neither did the cold meat turn out to half the account. He knew this
by his pocket, not by his knowledge of the cookery. Tom, however, made
no promise of further sojourn than "to put the following Sunday over
him," and it was now Thursday. But the next morning's post hurried
matters. It brought him a letter from his father, which prevented his
aunt from pressing his stay beyond the following day, when it was
finally settled by Tom that he would start for home. "It ran thus," as
is the common mode of introducing a letter in a novel or story:

"DEAR TOM,--This comes to you hoppin' to find you in good health,
which I am sorry to say it does not lave me at present; but thank God
for all his mercies. I was very lonesum entirely afther you left me;
an the more, dear Tom, as I had not my ould neighbor Ned Cavana to
spake to, as used to be the case afore that {210} young chisel of a
daughter of his cam round him to brake wid us. She's there still,
seemingly as proud as ever; but she'll be taken down a peg wan of
these days, mark my words. I have wan piece of good news for you, Tom
avic; an' that is, that young Lennon never darkened their doore since
you went; and more be token, she never spoke a word to him on Sunda's
after mass, but went straight home with her father from the chapel.
This I seen myself; for although I have been very daunny since you
left me, I med bowld wid myself not to lose prayers any Sunda' wet or
dhry, for no other purpose but to watch herself an' that chap. So,
dear Tom, you needn't be afeared of him. I think, indeed; I seen him
going down the road the three Sunda's wid Kate Mulvey; so I think
Winny tould the truth to her father about him. Dear Tom, I have not
been well at all at all for the last three weeks, an' I am not able to
be out all day as I used to be, an' I hardly know how matthers are
goin' on upon the farm. I see old Ned a'most every day from the doore
or the garden, where I sometimes go out when it's fine; I see him
wandherin' about his farm as brisk an' as hard as ever. I think
nothin' would give that man a brash. Dear Tom, I did not like writin'
to you to say I was lonesum or unwell until you had taken a turn out
of yourself at your aunt's; but I am not gettin' betther, an' I think
the sight iv you would do me good. Tell your aunt to let you cum home
to me now. Indeed, dear Tom, I'm too long alone; an' havin' no wan to
spake to makes me fret, though I wouldn't interfere wid you for a
while afther you went. If ould Ned Cavana was the man I tuck him to
be, he wouldn't let the few words that cum betune us keep him away
from me all this time, an' I not well; but he never put to me, nor
from me, since you left, nor I to him. Dear Tom, cum back to me as
soon as you can, an' maybe we'll get the betther of him an' Winny,
afther all. Hopin' your aunt, an' the childer, an' Bill himself, is
all in good health, I remain your father till death,
     "Michael Murdock."

Tom, as I have hinted, was not without his good points, and, as he
read over the above letter from his poor lonely father, his heart
smote him for having been so long away, and where, to tell the truth
to himself, he had no great fun or pleasure. His conscience, moreover,
accused him of one glaring act of ingratitude and villany, he might
call it, toward the poor old man. There was something tender and
self-sacrificing in the letter, yet it was not without a complaining
tone all through, that brought all Tom's better feelings uppermost in
his heart; and he resolved to start for home early the next morning.
He now felt that he had business at home, which at one time he had
never contemplated taking the smallest trouble about, beside keeping
his poor old father better company than he had hitherto done. Yet,
with all this softening of his disposition, he was never more
determined to carry out his object with respect to Winny Cavana, by
fair means---or by _foul!_

What his father had said about young Lennon gave him hopes that, in
the end, a scheme which he had planned for the latter might not be

Tom knew there could be no use in writing to his father to say he
would so soon be home with him. The nearest post-town was seven miles
from Rathcashmore; and although any person "going in had orders" to
call at the post-office, and bring out all letters for the neighbors
of both the Rathcashes, yet were he to write now, his letter was sure
to lie there for some days, and he would undoubtedly be home before
its receipt. Thus he argued, and therefore endeavored to content
himself with the resolution he had formed to make no delay; and
whatever "his traps" may have been, they were got together and locked
in his box at once.


He had engaged to meet a _particular friend_ on the following evening,
Friday, partly on _business_ previous to returning to _his own part_
the country. But he would now anticipate this visit by going there at
once, so as to enable him to leave for home early next morning. He
hoped to find his father better than his letter might lead him to
suppose; and he had no doubt his presence and society, which he was
determined should be more constant and sympathizing than heretofore,
would serve to cheer him.

Nothing, then, which his aunt could say, and certainly nothing which
her husband had added to what she did say, had any effect toward
altering Tom's resolution to start for home on the following morning.
By this means he hoped to reach his father on the evening of the
second day,--railways had not been then established in any part of
Ireland, not even the Dublin and Kingstown line,--and he would save
the poor old man from the lonesome necessity of going to church on
Sunday, "be it wet or dry."

He carried out his determination without check or hindrance, and
arrived at the end of the lane leading up to Rathcashmore house soon
after dusk in the evening of Saturday. He travelled by car from C--k;
and the horse being neither too spirited, nor too _fresh_, after his
journey, stood quietly on the road, with his head down, and his off
fore-leg in the "first position," until the driver returned, having
left Tom Murdock's box above at the house.

The meeting between old Mick and his son was as tender and
affectionate on the old man's part as could well be, and as much so on
Tom's as could well be expected. Old Mick had some secret
anticipations--presentiment, perhaps, I should have called it--that
they would never part again in this world, until they parted for the
last time. Daily he felt an increasing weakness of limb, weariness of
mind, which whispered to his heart that that parting was not far
distant. His son's arrival, however, had the effect which he had
promised to himself. He seemed to improve both in spirits and in
health. If he had not thrown away the stick,--which the reader was
forewarned he would adopt,--he made more use of it cutting at the
_kippeens_, and whatever else came in his way, than as a help to his



From The St. James' Magazine.


In 1828 the learned Arago, a Frenchman, published a remarkable work on
the history of the steam-engine. It contains much information that had
hitherto been little known on the scientific labor and discoveries of
Salomon de Caus. He cites the work of the latter, entitled "_Les
Raisons des Forces Mouvantes_," which was first published at Frankfort
in 1615, and reprinted at Paris in 1624; and M. Arago draws from it
the conclusion that Salomon de Caus was the original inventor of the

Six years after this notice of the life and labor of the French
engineer, there appeared in "_Le Musée des Familles_" a letter from
Marion Delorme, supposed to have been written on the 3d of February,
1641, to her lover Cinq-Mars, in which she tells him that she is doing
the honors of Paris to an English lord, the Marquis of Worcester, and
showing him all {212} the curiosities of that city. She goes on to say
that among other institutions she had taken milord to Bicêtre, where a
madman was confined for insisting on a wonderful discovery he had made
on the application of steam from boiling water; that the
superintendent of the asylum had shown a book to the marquis written
on the subject by this lunatic; and that after reading a few pages the
English nobleman begged for an interview with Salomon de Caus, from
which he returned in a grave and pensive mood, declaring that this man
was one of the greatest geniuses of his age.

Such is the substance of the letter of Marion Delorme; and the editor
of "_Le Musée des Familles_" adds that the Marquis of Worcester
appropriated the discovery to himself, and recorded it in his work
entitled "Century of Inventions," thus causing himself to be looked
upon by his countrymen as the inventor of the steam-engine.

The anecdote became very popular, and was copied into standard works,
represented in engravings, etc., etc. At length some incredulous
authors examined more closely into the matter, and found that not only
had Salomon de Caus never been confined in a lunatic asylum, but that
he had held the appointment of engineer and architect to Louis XIII.
up to his death in 1630, while Marion Delorme is asserted to have
visited Bicêtre in 1641!

On tracing this mystification to its source, we find that M. Henri
Berthoud, a literary man of some repute, and a constant contributor to
"_Le Musée des Familles_," confesses that the letter imputed to Marion
Delorme was in fact written by himself!

But the most curious part of the story is that the world refused to
believe in M. Berthoud's confession, so great a hold had the anecdote
taken on the public mind; and a Paris newspaper went so far even as to
declare that the original autograph of this letter was to be seen in a
library in Normandy, in which province Salomon de Caus was born. M.
Berthoud wrote again denying its existence, and offered a million to
any one who would produce the letter. From that time the affair was no
more spoken of, and Salomon de Caus was allowed to remain in
undisputed possession of his fame, as having been the first to point
out the use of steam in his work, "_Les Raisons des Forces
Mouvantes_." He had previously been employed as engineer to Henry,
Prince of Wales, son of James I., and he published a volume in folio,
in London, "_La perspective avec les Raisons des Ombres et Miroirs_."

In his dedication of another work to the queen of England, 15th of
September, 1614, we find some allusion made to the construction of
hydraulic machines. On his return to France he, as before said, was
appointed engineer to Louis XIII., and was doubtless patronized by
Cardinal Richelieu, that great promoter of the arts and letters.

The writings of Salomon de Caus were held in much estimation among
learned men during the whole of the seventeenth century. He had,
however, been anticipated in the discovery of steam for the propelling
of large bodies, for on the 17th of April, 1543, the Spaniard, Don
Blasco de Garay, launched a steam-vessel at Barcelona, in presence of
the Emperor Charles V. It was an old ship of 200 tons, called the
_Santissima Trinidad_, which had been fitted up for the experiment,
and which moved at the rate of ten miles an hour.

The inventor of this first steamer was merely looked upon as an
enthusiast, whose imagination had run mad; and his only encouragement
was a donation of 200,000 maravedis from his sovereign, but the
emperor no more dreamt of using the discovery than did Napoleon I.,
three centuries later, when the ingenious Fulton suggested to him the
application of steam to navigation. It is well known that Fulton was
not even permitted to make an essay of this new {213} propelling force
before the French emperor. So then, we must date the fact of the
introduction of steam navigation as far back as 1543; anterior to the
discovery of Salomon de Caus in 1615; to the Marquis of Worcester in
1663; to Captain Savary in 1693; to Dr. Papin in 1696; and to Fulton
and others, who all lay claim to the original idea.

But perhaps we may be wrong in denying originality to these men, for
we have no proof that either of them had any knowledge of the
discoveries of his predecessor.

It was only on the 18th of March, 1816, that the first steam-vessel
appeared in France, making her entrance into the seaport of Havre; she
was the _Eliza_, which had left Newhaven, in England, on the previous

From The Fortnightly Review.


No one can write upon the clouds without some reference to Mr.
Ruskin's labors. Few will forget the four chapters in the first volume
of "Modern Painters," dealing first with men's apathy for those forms
of beauty which daily flit around us, and ending with the magnificent
contrast between Turner and Claude, showing with what difference they
had rendered the calm of the mist and the shock of the tempest, the
crimson of the dawn and the fire of sunset We are, indeed, all of us
too apathetic, and the summer and the winter clouds are alike unheeded
by us. And yet our grey English clouds have impressed themselves upon
even our language and our daily speech. Our word "sky" has nothing in
common with the _ciel_ of the French and the _cielo_ of the Italians,
which through the Latin _coelum_ refer to the clear blue chasm of the
air. Our "sky" is connected with the Old-English _seua_, and literally
means "the place of shadows." Our "welkin" is connected with _wolcen_,
"a cloud," and is derived from a root which points to the incessant,
rolling, billowy motion of the clouds.

But if we have failed to notice the clouds and their beauty, others
have not failed. Men, seeing their power, feeling their blessings,
have worshipped them. Upon them our Scandinavian ancestors built their
creeds, and from them created their gods and goddesses. The beauty and
the delicacy of the early Aryan mythology is interwoven with the
storm-cloud, which alike inspires the story of the Odyssey and solves
the mystery of OEdipus. Mr. Ruskin has already quoted from
Aristophanes. We could wish that he had supplemented the Athenian
poet, who gives merely the latter sensuous mythological view of the
clouds, with passages from the fathers, who so deeply penetrated into
both their beauty and their moral aspect. With them the clouds appear
no longer puissant goddesses, daughters of Father Ocean, thronging in
troops from Maeotis and Mimas, their golden pitchers filled with the
waters of the Nile. Their fleecy forms told them of him who "giveth
snow like wool, and scattereth the hoar frost like ashes," of him who
"maketh the clouds his chariots, and rideth on the wings of the wind."
They could not feel the whirlwind's blast without remembering that it
had borne Elijah heavenward, nor hear the thunder without remembering
the thunder and lightning which clothed God on Sinai, {214} nor watch
the evening rack without remembering that the clouds, such perhaps as
they were gazing at, had received their Master out of his disciples'
sight, and that again from them he should descend at his second
coming. In these days of atmospheric laws, of measurements of
rainfalls, and weather forecasts, we cannot by the utmost effort of
the imagination place ourselves in their position. To them, as to the
first Christians, heaven was directly above their heads, divided from
the earth only by the screen of clouds. They must have regarded those
white ethereal shadows, those dark rolling masses, in much the same
way as the early sacred painters,--peopled each flake with cherubs and
angels, and heard the air rustle with wings.

Be this as it may. Even if religion inspired them with such thoughts,
they certainly were not insensible to the beauty which daily blossoms
in the sky. "There is," cries St. Chrysostom, "a meadow on the earth
and a meadow, too, in the sky. There are the various flowers of the
stars, the rose below, the rainbow above."  [Footnote 31] "Look up to
heaven," he says, "and see how much more beautiful it is than the roof
of palaces. The pavement of the palace above is much more grand than
the roof below."  [Footnote 32] His writings are full of metaphors
drawn from the sky and the clouds. He speaks of "snow-storms of
miracles," and "thick-falling showers of cares," and cries, "When God
doth comfort, though sorrows come upon thee by thousands like
snow-flakes, thou shalt be above them all." He reproaches men for
looking down like swine to the earth, and not up to the sky,
[Footnote 33] which he declares is the fairest of roofs, guiding them
by its beauty to their Maker.  [Footnote 34] And filled with that
democratic spirit which so burns in all his writings, he cries to the
poor man, "Seest thou this heaven here, how beautiful, how vast it is,
how it is placed on high? This beauty the rich man enjoyeth not more
than thou, nor is it in his power to thrust thee aside, and make it
all his own; for as it was made for him, so it was, too, for thee. . .
. . . Do not all enjoy it equally--rich and poor? . . . . . Yea,
rather, if I must speak somewhat marvellously, we poor enjoy it more
than they. . . . . The poor more than any enjoy the luxury of the
elements."   [Footnote 35]

  [Footnote 31: "Homilies on the Statues." The Oxford Translation.]

  [Footnote 32: "Homilies on 1 Thessalonians iv. 12." ]

  [Footnote 33:  "Homilles on St. Matthew." Part II. ]

  [Footnote 34: "Homilles on St. John." Part II.]

  [Footnote 35: "Homilles on 2 Corinthians." ]

The passage is full of the deepest interest. Mr. Ruskin has shown us
with what mixed feelings the Greeks loved the clouds, and how the
mediaevalist feared them. It would be well to know how they have been
and are still viewed in England by the lower classes. For, as we
before said, the upper classes care little about the clouds. The
[Greek text] (changeful days) of England pass by unnoticed, except to
fill up a gap in a conversation. St. Swithin is our national saint,
but we are not enthusiastic devotees. Only when a picnic or a cricket
match is involved do we trouble ourselves about the clouds. Then the
barometer is studied, and the weathercock becomes an object of
interest. In short, only when our pleasures are at stake do we care
whether the day is wet or fine. On the other hand, life with the poor,
man depends on the weather. Three continuous wet days in London throw
no less than twenty thousand people out of employment. Fine weather is
the poor man's bread-winner, his comforter, his physician. He may
therefore be pardoned if, with Ulysses, he in the first place regards
it from an economical point of view. Thus the laborers in the north
midland counties speak of showery weather as "rich weather,"--that
is, not only enriching the crops, but themselves. On the contrary, as
producing a different effect on their calling, the sailors on the
north-east {215} coast speak of such weather as "shabby weather," and
call rain--useless to them--"dirt." This indeed must be the case. In
the lowest as in the earliest stages of society, this utilitarian
spirit--not necessarily base, but co-existent with even a passionate
love of beauty--must prevail. The laborer whose day's wage depends on
the clouds, and the fisherman whose meal rests with the winds, will
naturally first think of them as subservient to the needs of life.
Badly clothed, and ill-fed, they cannot possibly appreciate Mr.
Kingsley's admiration of the east wind. The fisherman only knows it as
producing a dearth of fish. To the midland peasant it is his "red
wind,"--just as Virgil spoke of _nigerrimus Auster_, and as the Greeks
called the north wind "the black wind," still the _bise_ of the
Mediterranean. In the east of England the nightingale is not the bird
of song, not Ben Jonson's "dear good angel of the spring," but the
"barley-bird," because it arrives when the barley is sown. For, on the
whole, barley is more important to the peasant than song, and
therefore the bird is thus called. Nevertheless the song may be highly
prized, but it is still secondary. Thus we stumble upon a curious
explanation of the utilitarian spirit observed in Homer and the
earliest painters. And the terms of our country-people throw a plain
light upon the Homeric epithets "fruitful" ([Greek text]), and "loamy"
([Greek text]), applied to the earth; and the phrases of our fishermen
curiously illustrate the terms "barren" ([Greek text]), and "teeming
with fish" ([Greek text]), as applied to the sea. Society in the same
or parallel stage ever gives the same utterance.

The reality, too, of the elements, as Lear and Jacques would say,
touches the poor to the quick. Hence in the north they simply call
rain "waters," just in the same way as the Greeks used [Greek text]
whilst in the midland counties they nearly as often say "it is
wetting" as "it is raining." Their proverbs, too, smack of the
fierceness of men who have struggled with the storm. So the Anglian
countryman sings of the first three days of March,

  "First comes David, then comes Chad.
  Then comes Winnol blowing like mad."

Their vocabulary, too, teems with words expressive of every shade and
variety of weather. Our skies and clouds have entered far more into
the composition of popular phrases than we are commonly aware. Such
trivial expressions as "being under a cloud," "laying up for a rainy
day," unconsciously reflect the character of our weather. Its power
overshadows even the altar and the grave in the common rhyme:

  "Happy the bride whom the sun shines on.
  Happy the dead whom the rain rains on."

And the rhyme at one time really exercised a spell. You find it used
by lovers amongst our Elizabethan dramatists, who so faithfully
reflected the spirit of the day. Thus, in Webster's _Duchess of
Malfy_, Ferdinand cries to the duchess about her lover:

                "Let not the sun
  Shine on him till he's dead."
            _Act iii. Sc._ 2

But the poor possess an abundance of such expressions. And as life is
real to them, so their sayings are quickened with reality. Thus, "to
be born in a frost" is in Yorkshire an euphemism for being foolish. In
the same county, "to obtain anything under the wind" means to obtain
it secretly. In Norfolk the ploughman says "there is a good steward
when the wind-frost blows." Just consider, too, the richness of their
vocabulary of weather-terms, and the observation which it implies.
Take Yorkshire alone, and there we shall find "dag," "douk," "pell,"
"pelse," "rouk," "rag," "sops," all standing for different kinds and
degrees of rain and showers. There the white winter-mist is the "hag"
the hoar-frost the "rind," the snow-flakes "clarts of snow," and the
summer heat-mist the "gossamer," as Wedgwood {216} notices, the
_Marien fäden_ of Germany. Go into the eastern counties, and the
dialect is as rich. The sea-mist is the "sea-fret" and the "sea-roke."
The heavy rain, which soaks into the earth, is the "ground-rain." The
light rain is the "smur" in Suffolk, the "brange" in Essex, and the
"dag" in Norfolk, from which last word the various corruptions
"water-dogs" and "sun-dogs" are formed.

Passing, however, from words, let us note a few of the weather-rhymes
and weather-proverbs which show what accurate observers necessity has
made our peasants. There is not a village where the local phenomena of
mists and clouds are not preserved in some rhyme. From Cumberland to
Devonshire the land echoes with these weather-saws. In the former
county we have--

  "If Skiddaw hath a cap,
  Criffel wots full well of that."

In the latter, the rhyme--this time really a rhyme--runs:

  "When Haldon wears a hat,
  Let Kenton beware of a skat."

The Warwickshire and Worcestershire peasants in the Vale of Evesham
repeat a similar couplet about their own Bredon, and the
Leicestershire and Lincolnshire churls about their Belvoir.
Weather-rhymes lie treasured up throughout the midland counties about

  "The green-blue mackerel sky,
  Never holds three days dry;"

in the northern counties about "mony haws, mony snaws," and in the
eastern of the "near bur, rain fur."' In England we, too, can rhyme
about _la journée du pèlerin_. For centuries the village poet has sung
of "mare's tails" and "hen-scrattins," and the great "Noah's Ark
cloud," and the "weather-head," of the changes of the moon, how

  "Saturday change, and Sunday full,
  Never did good, nor never wull."

For the peasant in his rude fashion is a meteorologist and has studied
the ways of the clouds, "water wagons," as in some counties he calls
them. From him Aratus might have filled another _Diosemeia_, and
Virgil improved his first Greorgic. Our Elizabethan dramatists have
borrowed some of their most life-like touches from the peasant's
weather-lore. Thus Cunningham, in Beaumont and Fletcher's _Wit at
Several Weapons_, says of wrangling:

  "It never comes but, like a storm of hail,
   'Tis sure to bring fine weather in the tail on't."
                  _Act. iii., Sc._ 1.

And Webster, borrowing from the sailor, makes Silvio say of the
cardinal that he

  "Lifts up hit nose like a fool porpoise before storm."
    _Duchess of Malfy, Act, iii., Sc. 3._

Shakespeare borrows from both peasant and sailor. His finest
descriptions of cloud scenery, as we shall show, are based upon
popular phrases. Two of his most beautiful similes illustrate the
villager's weather lore. Thus Lucrece is described:

  "And round about her tear-distrained eye.
  Blue circles streamed like rainbows in the sky.
  Those water-galls in her dim element,
  Foretell new storms to those already spent."

And again, in _All's Well that Ends Well_, the countess says to

        "What's the matter
  That this distempered messenger of wet,
  The many-colored Iris, rounds thine eye?"
        _Act. i., Sc. 3._

And the peasant's rhymes and sayings undoubtedly contain some germs of
truth, or they could never have so long held their ground. Admiral
Fitzroy, in his "Weather Book," has rightly given a collection of such
saws, though it might with advantage be greatly enlarged. Science has
before now been forestalled by some bold guess of the vulgar. And
often has some happy intuition outstripped the slow labor of the
inductive process.

But with the English peasant a sense of the beautiful accompanies that
of the useful. Living ever out of doors, he names his clouds after
natural objects. He thus gives a {217} reality to them which is
unknown to scientific nomenclature. The "lamb storms" of Derbyshire,
and the "pewit storms" in Yorkskire, significantly mark the time of
year when the lambs are yeaned in the cloughs, and the pewits return
to the moors to breed. His symbolism is always true. The peasant in
the eastern counties talks of "bulfinch skies" to express the lovely
warm vermilion tints of sunset clouds. Tennyson's "daffodil sky" is
not truer, nor Homer's [Greek text] more poetical. In Devonshire the
peasan has his "lamb's-wool sky" the _tenuia lanae vellera_ of Virgil.
In parts of the midland counties he has his "sheep clouds" the
_schäffchen am himmel_ of the German, the same clouds which the
Norfolk peasant boy has described with so perfect a touch:

       "Detached in ranges through the air,
  Spotless as snow, and countless as they're fair.
  Scattered immensely wide from east to west,
  The beauteous semblance of a flock at rest."

The Derbyshire countryman knows the hard stratified masses of cloud
(_cumulo-strati_) by the happy name of "rock clouds" and the great
white rolling avalanches (_cumuli_) as "snow packs" and "wool packs"
the former being rounder than the latter, which lie in folds pressed
and packed upon one another. Further living amongst hills and
mountains, watching them, as Wordsworth says, "grow" at night,
enlarging with the darkness, he finely calls the great hill at the
entrance to Dovedale, Thorpe Cloud. He had seen it apparently shift
and move with the changes of light and atmosphere, and he could only
liken it to a cloud. Perhaps, even at times, some faint glimmering
might flit across his mind of the instability of the hills, and the
rack to him thus became a symbol of the world's unsubstantial pageant.

The midland counties peasant, too, employs such old-world phrases as
the sun is "wading" when it is straggling through a heavy scud, and
the sun is "sitting" when her dark side is turned toward the earth.
The poets themselves may be in vain searched for a finer expression
than the first. The beginning of Sidney's sonnet, which Wordsworth has

  "With how sad steps,
    O moon, thou climb'st the sky,"

and Milton's description,

      "As if her head she bow'd
  Stooping through a fleecy cloud,"

are somewhat parallel. But the peasant's expression is equally fine.
Most readers of "Modern Painters" will remember Mr. Ruskin's vivid
description of what he so well calls the "helmet cloud," which rests
on the peaks of mountains. But long before Mr. Ruskin wrote, the
Westmoreland and Cumberland dalesman named the cloud that at times
floats round the tor of Cross Fell by the still better names "helm
cloud" and "helm bar."

We could indeed wish that Mr. Ruskin had more deeply studied peasant
life and peasant habits. The meaning of the clouds in Turner^s
"Salisbury" and "Stonehenge" would have then been more thoroughly
appreciated. Fine and poetical as is Mr. Ruskin's interpretation, yet
we venture to think that he misses the truth when, in this case, he
refers Turner's inspiration to Greek sources. To those who have lived
near the Plain, and have mixed with the shepherds, the meaning and the
symbolism come far nearer home, and more closely touch the heart.
Turner was here no Greek, except as all men who love beauty are
Greeks. Here he was, at all events, intensely English. Sprung like so
many great poets and painters from the lower class, he could
sympathize with the shepherds of the Plain. To them, as to the
shepherd in the "Iliad," standing on the hill-top facing the sea,
shepherding their flocks, far away from any village, on the vast
treeless down, the clouds become a constant source of fear or joy.
Their hearts gladden as the light white clouds roll up from the
English Channel, and then, as they say, "purl round" and retreat.
{218} In spring and summer they joyfully hail the "water dogs," the
"gossamer" of the Yorkshire peasant, which herald the fine weather.
They, above all other English peasants, solitary on that wide plain,
watch with fear the "sun-galls," Shakespeare's "water-galls," as the
broken bits and patches of rainbows are called, hanging glorious, but
wrathful, in the far horizon. They mark with dread "the messengers"
and "water streamers," and at night, too, anxiously note the amber
"wheel-cloud" round the moon.

With all this, like a true poet, Turner sympathized. He entered into
the reality of shepherd life upon the Plain; its joys and its dangers.
In one picture, therefore, he has given us the rain-clouds showering
their blessings upon man, and in the other revealed the dread
fatalistic power that ever darkens the background of life.

But we must leave the peasant, and turn to the fisherman. More even
than the peasant, he naturally regards the weather in its effects upon
his calling. The rain with him--we are speaking more especially now of
the North Country fisherman--is "dirt," and a rainy sky a "dirty sky."
The "water-galls" of the Salisbury shepherd, from which Shakespeare
took those most exquisite similes, have with him lost their beauty,
and are changed into "sea-devils," evil prophets of tempest. The
flying clouds, that herald the storm, are with him "the flying devil
and his imps." He realizes the danger, and therefore christens the
clouds with rough names.

He too, like the peasant, is learned in weather-lore, and keeps an
almanac of weather-rhymes in his memory. In such fishing villages as
Staithes and Runswick, on the north-east Yorkshire coast, a large
collection might easily be formed. They partake of the roughness and
the truthfulness of the inhabitants. Such jingles as:

  "When wind comes before rain
  Then let your topsails remain:
  But if the wind follows rain.
  Then you may close reef again,"

are certainly more accurate in sense than rhythm. Again, the couplet:

  "When the sun crosses line, and wind's in the east.
  It will hand (hold) that way meast, first quarter at least,"

contains a warning not always to be despised. The riddle of the
"brough," that amber halo of clouds seen sometimes round the moon,
which the shepherds of Salisbury Plain call "the wheel," and the
midland peasants "the burr," is solved by the rhyming adage:

  "A far off brough
  Means a near hand rough."

But we must not be too critical, and demand both sense and rhythm. It
is something if in poetry we obtain truth. At all events, the
Yorkshire fishermen's rhymes are quite as good as a great many of
those in which Apollo formerly conveyed his prophecies to mankind. And
we think that Admiral Fitzroy might have profitably added some of them
to his collection.

Many a time have we seen at some little fishing village the fishermen
all detained by some "breeder," or "flyer," whose meaning their eyes
alone could read. If the threatened storm has not visited the coast,
yet the heavy sea tumbling in without a breath of air has shown that
the gale has broken not far distant. Still mistakes arise. Life is
constantly sacrificed. But the glory and the pride of science is,
that, whilst serving the sublimest ends, it still helps the humblest.
We may be unable to control the elements. But we shall triumph over
the law by obeying the law. The day will come when the notion of
chance will be altogether eliminated, and the law by which the clouds
are governed recognized. And in the blessings of science all men are
partakers. Alike shall the fisherman steer his craft with a firmer
faith in the essential goodness of all things, and the hand of the
artist gain strength and his eye see a {219} deeper beauty when each
knows that the clouds are as regular in their movements as the stars.

Of course men living by the sea, daily watching the clouds, life
itself hanging upon a knowledge, however uncertain, of the meaning of
their color and their shapes, have naturally named them in a rude
fashion. Landsmen, who only now and then gaze at the clouds, are apt
to regard them as ever changing. But not "a wisp" flies in the highest
air, not "a creeper" rises out of the sea, whose shapes are not
moulded by a definite law. Day by day the same forms repeat themselves
with unceasing regularity. The clouds might be mapped out like the
land and sea over which they fly. More than half a century has passed
since Howard first gave them names. After him Forster wrote, and like
him illustrated his theory with diagrams of the principal cloud-forms.
And now Admiral Fitzroy has so improved upon their nomenclature, that
there is not a cloud that cannot be scientifically named and defined.
But our sailors and fishermen have long ago known these facts. Not a
stray waif of film flecks the heavens which they have not christened.
They know all kinds and shapes, from the "crow-nests," those tiny
white spots (_cirriti_) dotting the sky, up to the glorious "Queen
Anne's feather," waving far away into the horizon its soft downy
plume, rippled and barred by the wind.

Thus to take a few examples. The North Yorkshire fisherman has his
"dyer's neif," a small dark purple cloud, so called from its supposed
resemblance to the black grained fist (neif) of a dyer. Some three
thousand years ago, Elijah's servant, on Mount Carmel, cried that he
saw a little cloud rising out of the sea like a man's hand. And still
on the Yorkshire coast the fisherman utters the same language, and
knows that cloud still as the forerunner of storm and rain. Quite as
striking, too, is the way in which his names of clouds throw a light
upon Shakespeare. All readers will remember the passage between Hamlet
and Polonins, ending with "Very like a whale;" a phrase which has
passed into a proverb for anything very improbable. And no actor can
utter it on the stage without producing a peal of laughter. Yet the
proverb and the laughter are equally inappropriate. The names of the
clouds in the passage are all real names. The "dromedary cloud," or,
as Shakespeare calls it, "the camel cloud," is well known to sailors.
It is a species of cumulus, a white, packed, humped cloud, and when
seen in the southern hemisphere is said to foretell heat; but, in the
northern, cold. It is also called the "hunchback cloud." "See, there's
the hunchback; look at its pads," North Country fishermen will say.
The "weasel-cloud" also is known, though not so well, and is more
often called "the hog-cloud" and the "wind-bog," from its being the
forerunner of wind. But the "whale-cloud" is as well known to sailors,
especially those employed in the Greenland trade, as the
"bridge-cloud," or "feather-cloud," or any other well recognized form.
"We shall hae a bit o' a puff, lads. See that sea-devil; and yonder's
a regular finner to the norrard," have we heard North Sea captains
say. A "finner," it should be explained, is a small whale. If ever
there was a realist, Shakespeare was. He drew direct from nature. But,
like a true artist, he knew how to mould and shape mere barren
naturalism by the vitalizing power of the imagination. In its white
heat he fused all things. And so, noting the common names of clouds as
daily used in conversation by sailors and fishermen and seafaring
folk, he could rise from the satire of Hamlet to the high pathetic
pitch of Antony's speech:

  "Sometime we see a cloud that's dragonish;
  A vapor, sometime, like a bear or lion,
  A towered citadel, a pendent rock,
  A forked mountain, or blue promontory.
  With trees upon't, that nod into the world,
  And mock our eyes with air. Thou hast these signs;
  They are black vesper's pageants.

  _Eros._  Ay, my lord.

    That which is now a horse, even with a thought
    The rack dislimns; and makes it indistinct
    As water is in water.

 _Eros._  It does, my lord.

     My good knave, Eros, now thy captain is
     Even such a body."

  _Anthony and Cleopatra, Act iv, Sc._ 12.


Here the whole scene is colored by the imagination and ennobled by
human pathos, such as no other man ever possessed. But the basis of
the thought is the simplest naturalism, such as other men had seen and
observed a thousand times before. The Flying Dragon is mentioned as
far back as the latter part of the sixteenth century by Hyll in his
"Contemplation of Mysteries," where the first rude ideas of weather
forecasts may be found. The "pendent rock" and "forked mountain" are
nothing more than the "rock-clouds" of the Derbyshire peasant,
concerning which a local rhyme runs:

  "When clouds appear like rocks and towers,
  The earth's refreshed by fragrant showers."

We must not, however, lose sight of our North Country fisherman. If to
him the sky is at times black with terror, yet it is also splendid
with beauty. In fine weather it is his garden, the heavenly "meadow,"
as St. Chrysostom would say, blossomed over with flakes and garlands
of cloud-bloom, white and peach-colored. He has his names for them,
his "crow buds," and his "cherry flowers," and the great "tree cloud"
with its purple branches. It is, too, his fairyland full of loveliest
shapes flying and wandering here and there, "pigeons," as he calls
those white detached winged "flyers," "flying fish," "streamers," and
pencilled "plumes."

Thus far of the peasant and the sailor. They certainly more than any
one else recognize the terror and the beauty of cloud scenery. The
well-to-do man knows the clouds only as they affect his pleasures.
Life is not dependent upon them, and he therefore misses that true
enjoyment which springs from reality. On the whole, he thinks with the
Epicurean that rain ought to fall by night, whilst his wife sighs for
Italy and blue skies. But let us, on the contrary, love the grey
cloud, and rather hold with that fine old skipper, who, after enduring
six months of unbroken weather in the Bay of Naples, cried out on
seeing a cloud, "Turn out, boys, turn out; here's weather as is
weather; none of your everlasting blue sky." Let us rather love the
storm-rack that beats against our island. This it is that gives the
color to the cheeks of our maidens; this that has moulded our
features, and deepened the lines of our faces, and hardened the
national character.

Let us be thankful, with Mr. Raskin, that nowhere can the swiftness of
the rain-cloud be seen as in England, nowhere in such perfection as
among the Derbyshire hills; nowhere the keenness of the storm be felt
as on a Yorkshire wold.  [Footnote 36] But in these days even the
power of the elements is threatened. We have seen in Derbyshire, when
the west wind blows, the cloughs filled, not with troops of clouds
dashing slantwise up the valleys, but choked with dull rolling
Lancashire smoke; seen, under this canopy of fog, the snow on the
Edges turn yellow and brown. One by one, too, the blast furnaces are
burning up the Yorkshire moors. And instead of white wreaths of clouds
crowning the wolds, a pillar of fire lights them up by night, and a
cloud of smoke darkens them by day.

  [Footnote 36: "Modern Painter," vol v., part vii., chap. iv., § 14.]

Luckily the sea-coast still remains unpolluted. And if any one really
wishes to study the clouds, let him go to the North Yorkshire and
Northumberland coasts in winter. Then will he understand something of
their majesty and power; then will he see the true purple wind-tints,
see the sky a wilderness full of strange weird creatures--"wild hogs,"
those purple hump-backed clouds running one after another in a line,
and the "Flying Devil and his imps" marshalling the storm, which is
banking up out of the German ocean; see, too, the "Norway bishop"
rise--a man's figure clothed {221} in white, with outstretched arms,
under whose ban many a fisherman from Staithes and Runswick has sunk;
see the figure melt and disappear in a mist of sleet and snow and
hail; and then, last of all, see "the weather-gleam," when all objects
loom against the one pale rift of sky, as ships loom in an east wind.

These sights have never been painted, and never can. Even Turner
cannot give them. For who can give that which is the greatest pleasure
in watching the clouds, the feeling of change? Yon cannot paint the
movement of the rack, as the vapor shifts from form to form, now a
mountain, now a dragon, now a fish, each change answering to the
changes of the spirit. Only the poets can paint the clouds and their
lessons--only Shelley and Shakespeare. But put away even Shakespeare
himself. Love them, study them from nature. And, as St. Chrysostom
says, the poor man, more than any one else, enjoys "the luxury of the
elements." The lawyer may hold _cujus solum ejus ad coelum_; but he
who most enjoys the clouds, as with all things else, is their real
possessor. And the artist and the poor man, though they may not have a
rood of ground to call their own, here reign over an empire.


Translated from the German.






The Catholic reunions, both in Belgium and in Germany, have taken a
special interest in Christian art; for religion is at once the source
and the end of true art. "Religion," says Lasaulx, "is the soul of
every useful measure, the vivifying principle in the life of nations,
the permanent basis of true philanthropy. In its infancy, as well as
during its most flourishing periods, at all times and among all
nations, art has ever been the handmaid of religion. What is the last
and highest aim of architecture? The erection of churches. How has
sculpture won its noblest triumphs? In pagan antiquity, by
representations of the heathen deities; since the dawn of
Christianity, by presenting to the admiration of the world statues of
our Saviour and his saints. In like manner the noblest subjects of
painting have been furnished by religion, and by history, both sacred
and profane. And do we not meet with the same phenomenon in music and
religions poetry? Hence we may safely conclude that art is the
barometer of a nation's civilization, and above all of its religious
status. A people animated with a lively faith will not hesitate to
manifest it outwardly, sparing neither trouble nor expense, and art
affords the most suitable means of giving expression to its feelings.
If, on the other hand, art is neglected by a nation, it is a certain
sign that its mental and spiritual condition is abnormal; that it must
be under the influence of some disturbing agency.

Art, in its relations to religion and the Church, is one of the
subjects that have claimed the attention of the Catholic congresses;
they discussed the principles of religious architecture, painting,
sculpture, and of church music; they considered the subject of
decorating the sanctuaries of religion in all its branches, and
examined the highest and most important problems of art.

Art, as cultivated during the first {222} ages of Christianity and
during the middle ages, is a subject complete in itself, for we can
trace its use, its progress, and decay, as well as the development of
the ideas which gave it life. Between Christian and pagan art there is
no doubt a connecting link; in fact, we may safely assert that in this
respect, no less than in all others, there is a great unbroken chain
that unites the present age with antiquity. Still, no one can deny
that there is a great and immense difference between Christian nations
and those of antiquity. For, since the birth of Christianity, we may
trace in history a new, active, and all-pervading principle. What the
greatest minds of the pagan world scarcely suspected, has become the
common property of all nations and of all men. Christianity is built
on foundations very different from those on which rested the cumbrous
fabric of paganism. It has impressed an original character on art, in
every branch of which it has produced results of undoubted excellence,
worthy of our admiration. Christian art suffers not by comparison with
the masterpieces of antiquity. Narrow-minded and prejudiced persons
only will maintain that the Greeks alone excelled in the arts. The
independence and excellence of Christian art, compared with that of
classic Greece and Rome, is by no means generally admitted; for many
are unwilling to allow to the Church the credit, which it may justly
claim, of promoting and patronizing the arts. During the last century
art has lacked its proper basis--truth, for art is founded on truth.
But since nations have been led astray by the erroneous idea that art
was revived at Florence, and thence spread over all Europe, it has
lost its independence, confined itself to mere imitations of the
Greeks and Romans, and gradually decayed more and more. In the history
of art no period appears darker than the so-called age of renaissance,
and since then Christian art has been either misunderstood or entirely
despised. Not long ago the masterpieces of Gothic architecture were
looked upon as barbarous; paintings on wood which had for ages graced
the European temples were removed, broken to pieces, and burnt, and
alters of the most elaborate workmanship were treated as mere rubbish.
To level to the ground the noble cathedrals of the thirteenth and
fourteenth centuries was considered a service to art. And this was
done, not by the ignorant, but by the protectors of learning; nay, by
artists themselves, who were foremost in the work of destruction. A
French architect published an essay to prove that it would advance the
interests of art to turn the cathedral of Spires into a warehouse. On
the cathedrals of Cologne and Strasbourg, also, French architects,
living at the beginning of the nineteenth century, had pronounced
sentence of condemnation. No later than 1825, when Charles X. was
crowned in the cathedral of Rheims, the heads of two hundred statues
were struck off, through fear that the statues might be thrown down on
occasion of the royal salute. No one seems to have thought of
fastening the images; in fact, why should they trouble themselves
about the workmanship of barbarians? During the revolution of 1789,
the French had unfortunately acquired too much skill in smashing the
statues that crowned their grandest cathedrals.

During the period of which we speak, how false was the appreciation of
what is beautiful in art! To man's proud spirit it is humiliating,
indeed, to know his own weakness; to know that for years he may remain
in the darkness of error, without having the strength to burst the
chains that fetter him.

At the beginning of the present century more correct ideas on this
subject were entertained and spread by several eminent German artists,
and for the last thirty years justice has been done to the claims of
the middle ages. Actively co-operating with this {223} movement, the
Catholic conventions of Germany and Belgium have achieved many
desirable results.

At Malines, in 1864, the section for Christian art was very numerously
attended; more than a hundred archaeologists and artists from every
country in Europe had there met to take part in lively and interesting
debates on Christian art, whilst seventy musicians, professionals, and
amateurs held their sessions in another part of the building. Several
years ago, I was present at the general meeting of the German
architects at Frankfort, but I own that in interest their discussions
fell far below those to which I listened at Malines. In 1857, at the
general reunion of the Christian art associations in Germany, which
met at Regensburg, several hundred commissioners were present, and on
that occasion were displayed the same enthusiasm, the same freshness
and interest, which distinguished the discussions at Malines. But this
zeal has long died out; the Christian art associations of Germany
never met again; and at Würzburg, Frankfort, and Aix-la-Chapelle, the
Catholic conventions scarcely deigned to notice Christian art.

The chairman of the section for Christian art at Malines was Viscount
du Bus de Ghisignies. The viscount's appearance is noble and striking;
he seems to have been born to command. In the heat of the combat du
Bus never loses his self-possession; his clear and steady eye watches
the battle; not a word escapes his notice; fair and unprejudiced, he
deals out equal justice to all. If the opinions of a speaker clash
with his own, he twirls his martial moustache with more than ordinary
vigor; but he allows to every one the rights he may justly claim. As
chairman, his duties are not unattended with difficulty. Romans and
Teutons, Frenchman and Britons, Dutchmen and Belgians, meet
alternately in friendly strife; many a blow is exchanged, principle
clashes with principle, and deeply-seated prejudices are uprooted.
Convinced that the harmony of mind, as that of sounds, is the product
of contrast, du Bus acted in accordance with his convictions and nobly
fulfilled the task assigned him. The debates of his section were more
animated and more instructive than those of any other.

At the right of du Bus sat the vice-president of the section.
Professor Cartuyvels, of Louvain, a man well-versed in parliamentary
usage, in which he was excelled by no one except, perhaps, by A.
Reichensperger. A young clergyman from Brabant, Cartuyvels displays a
master mind; equally skilled in aesthetics and in the philosophy and
history of art, the value of these acquirements is enhanced by his
knowledge of the liturgy, of canon law, and of holy writ. He is
thoroughly acquainted with the works of the great masters of Germany
and Italy. His words proclaim the enthusiasm with which he devotes all
the faculties of his soul to the service of Christian art.

Always prepared to speak, he boldly upholds the principles which he
deems correct. He defends them with ardor and confidence of success,
and he seldom fails to carry his point; few are able to cope with him.
It was a glorious sight to see A. Reichensperger and Cartuyvels
engaged in discussion; for

  "Sublimest beauty comes to light
  When powerful extremes unite!"

James Weale was a representative of England and English art at
Malines. For many years Weale has made Bruges his home, and exerted
considerable influence on Belgian art; nevertheless, he is a thorough
Englishman. He is a convert and a disciple of Canon Oakley. By
becoming a Catholic, as is often the case in England, Weale incurred
pecuniary losses; but this sacrifice has only purified and
strengthened his love for the Church. The trials he has undergone have
unveiled the heroic qualities of his heart The greater number of
English converts (and this no one who has had {224} the happiness of
personal acquaintance with them will dispute) are men distinguished
for their great learning and affable manners, and Weale is no
exception to this rule. His principles of art are rigorous, I had
almost said exclusive, but he is convinced of their correctness. In
his views he is unique and definite; he propounds them with uncommon
clearness and precision. When opposing false principles, he is not
very choice in his expressions, generally preferring the strongest.
Weale is the uncompromising enemy of all sham and equivocation. In the
domain of art fails attainments are immense. He knows England, the
Netherlands, Germany, France, and Italy. His quick eye instantly
discovers the merits of a painting. That the clergy may become
familiar with every branch of Christian art, is his most ardent
desire. At Bruges Weale publishes "_Le Beffroi_," an archaeological
journal; he would have been the most suitable candidate for the newly
founded chair of archaeology at Louvain.

Having spoken of Weale, we are now led to notice his friend Bethune,
of Ghent. He is a painter, but confines himself chiefly to painting on
glass. Brought up in the school of the celebrated English architect,
Welby Pugin, who, though only forty years of age when he died, in
1852, had already built more than two hundred churches and chapels,
his figures are distinguished by purity of style; he carries out in
practice the theories of Weale. However, he does not by any means
reject everything modern, but judiciously seeks to combine the
beauties of the modern with those of the ancient style of art. Bethune
is remarkable both for his piety and his learning, and this accounts
for the charm and instructiveness of his conversation. He admires
Germany and German art, without being blind to its defects; on the
contrary, his criticisms on the best productions of modern German
painting are severe, not to say harsh. His paintings on glass are in
marked contrast to the productions of the Munich school. He does not
delight in great historical paintings on glass, which tend to make us
forget that we are looking at a window, but seeks to attain unity of
design by subordinating his picture to the plan of the architect. In
the debates at Malines, Bethune did not take so prominent a part as
Weale. Another active member of the section of Christian art was
Bethune's brother, Canon F. A. L. Bethune, professor of archaeology in
the seminary at Bruges. Among the French members, Lavedan deserves to
be mentioned in the first instance. He is a well-known French
journalist, who seems to have a great taste for the fine arts. With
untiring ardor he spoke on every question discussed, and, in spite of
being somewhat prolix, his remarks were always listened to with
pleasure. Although noted rather for wit and polite literature than for
depth of learning, he was master of the situation, and to unhorse him
was not an easy task. He pleaded eloquently for the establishment of a
permanent art exhibition. Whilst Lavedan, like Weale, applies himself
to the theory of art, Jaumot, like Bethune, is a practical artist. Of
the few artists that France can boast of, Jaumot is one of the best;
but he was not permitted to exhibit his cartoons, and has not met with
the encouragement so indispensable to the artist Jaumot complainant of
this at Malines, and maintained that the Belgian clergy are much
better acquainted with the principles of Christian art than the clergy
of France. The Abbe Carion attracted attention by his profound
knowledge of archaeology; all his remarks proved that he understands
thoroughly the subject he treated, though he does not present his
ideas in so pleasing a manner as others. Any seminary may justly be
proud of such professors as Messrs. Carion, Bethune, and Cartuyvels.
No one contributed more to the merriment of the assembly than Van
Schendel, of Antwerp, {225} an old painter, who delights in sketches
of Dutch family life. He railed at everything, and at times he became
quite sarcastic. To find fault seemed to be his sole purpose; whether
justly or not, was of little consequence. He succeeded most admirably
in boring the chairman. Van Schendel seems to dislike the French
language, for he always preferred to speak Dutch. I might speak of
many more, but I shall only mention Delbig, a German painter, residing
at Liege; Alfred Geelhand, Leon de Monge, Martin, Isard, Mommaerts, of
Brussels; Bordeau; de Fleury, an enthusiastic admirer of Flandrin, the
great French painter; Van de Necker, the Abbé Huguet, and the Abbé Van

I cannot forbear speaking of A. Reichensperger, of Cologne. For almost
a quarter of a century Reichensperger has been the champion of
Christian art, not only in Germany, where he is looked upon as the
foremost defender of German art during the middle ages, but also in
France and England. In Cologne he had been at the head of the society
for completing the cathedral. In the Prussian chambers at Berlin he
has always exerted himself in favor of true art. He was president of
the general meeting of the Christian art unions, held at Regensburg in
1857, and distinguished himself as an orator at the congress of
artists that assembled at Antwerp some years ago. He was also present
at Malines, and his presence was of great advantage to the Romanic
delegates. Reichensperger is delighted to meet with opposition; nay,
he calls it forth, for without it he appears dissatisfied. In fact, a
debate is impossible without opposition. At Malines, it is true,
opponents were not wanting, but he vanquished them all. Manfully
upholding his German principles, he convinced many of their
correctness. Reichensperger has often earned applause, he has been the
hero of many a parliamentary triumph, during the twelve years that he
has been considered one of the five best speakers in the Prussian
parliament, but in the Petit Seminaire at Malines he gained his most
brilliant successes. His French may not at all times be classical; but
his pointed expressions charmed his French audience. His style is not
florid, but his speeches sparkle with wit, humor, and sarcasm. His
ready logic completely astounded his adversaries. All his remarks
called forth thundering applause, which finally grew so noisy that the
chairman of the first section, "_Les OEuvres Religieuses_" deemed it
necessary to interfere and request a little more moderation.

But what was the subject of all these learned deliberations? Many
questions were discussed, and variety constituted one of the principal
charms of the proceedings, AEthetics were treated in the first place;
the learned speakers philosophized concerning the ideas of truth, of
goodness, and of beauty. One hundred and two years have rolled by
since Baumgarten, the father of aesthetics, died. In 1750 and 1758 he
published the two volumes of his celebrated work entitled
"_AEsthetica_." For more than a hundred years, therefore, aesthetics
have been cultivated with more or less zeal, but with very little
success; the science seems to stagnate because the principles on which
it is based are unsound. Hence most books on aesthetics are loathed.
The best among the recent works on this subject was written by
Lasaulx; but a philosophy of art, from a Catholic point of view, we do
not yet possess, for Dursch's "AEsthetics" has many defects. Jacobs'
"Art and the Church" might, if completed, have supplied a want long

The discussions on the beautiful led to no important results. Of more
practical consequence was the resolution condemning French pictures.
Mommaerts made an attempt to establish in Brussels a society whose
object was to be the diffusion of pictures artistically
unobjectionable. At Paris Meniolle, assisted by German artists, {226}
intends to do the same for France, where hitherto Schulgen, of
Düsseldorf, has, so to say, held a monopoly. I hope that both projects
may be successful, and escape the fate of many similar enterprises,
which are nipped in the bud. In all likelihood no similar society will
do so much good, and extend its influence so far, as the Düsseldorf
association for the diffusion of good pictures.

Much time was spent in discussing the establishment of museums like
those of Sydenham and Kensington, near London, and in listening to
speeches on fresco paintings, on the stations of the cross, on
exhibitions of works of art, and on the encouragement of artists. On
motion of Weale, a resolution was adopted to found a Belgian national
museum at Louvain, and Reichensperger prevailed on the assembly to
pledge itself to further the completion of St. Rombaut's cathedral at

Let this suffice. The musicians would complain, perhaps, were we to
pass them unnoticed. At the request of the general committee at
Brussels, Canon Devroye and Chevalier H. Van Elewyk had prepared eight
theses for discussion. These propositions treat of choral music, of
the education of organists, of the influence of religious music, of
the establishment of societies for the promotion of church music, and
the like. It was proposed to found a musical academy, in which a
special department for religious music is to be established.

Canon Devroye presided; his interesting remarks were always listened
to with pleasure. Dr. Paul Alberdingk-Thijm, of Amsterdam, formerly of
Louvain, was vice-president. He is well acquainted with Gregorian
music and church music in general--of German music also; even of our
most common popular songs he has a thorough practical knowledge; many
of our German songs he renders with exquisite taste. We shall see more
of him hereafter. Verooitte, of Paris, was chosen to be honorary
vice-president. He is well known in France. He founded the academy for
religious music in Paris, which has been in successful operation for
some time, and has contributed materially to raise the character of
religious music in that country. Chevalier Van Elewyk has done all in
his power to establish in Louvain a society for the promotion of
church music, and his exertions were not in vain. A society having the
same object in view was formed at Amsterdam. At Malines there were
also several organ-builders, whose practical advice was of great
advantage to the musical section; the foremost among them were
Cavaillé-Coll, of Paris; Mercklin, of Brussels; and Loret, of Malines.

One of the most remarkable personages at the congress was F. Hermann,
prior of the Carmelites in London. F. Hermann Cohen, the pianist is a
native of Hamburg, and greatly esteemed by the Catholics of Germany.
The manner of his conversion was most wonderful and in many of its
features resembled that of Alphonsus Ratisbonne. Whenever I saw F.
Hermann, in his fine Carmelite habit, I thought of another great
musician, Liszt, whom I had seen and admired at Rome, and of the
Franciscan, F. Singer, who invented the wonderful instrument to the
tones of which I had the pleasure of listening at the general
convention held at Salzburg in 1857. True, F. Hermann is not only an
eminent musician--God has gifted him with many other endowments; as an
orator, especially, he is overpowering, able to move the most
unfeeling. Another monk, a fine and imposing figure and a master of
religious music, the Franciscan friar Egidius, of Jerusalem, offered
very valuable advice. Friar Julian, of Brussels, who has supplied
three nations with organists, took an active part in the debates.
Beside these I shall mention, Arthur de la Croix, of Tournay, who has
written several works on religious music; the Abbé Loth, of Rouen, who
deserves honorable mention as one of {227} the most zealous promoters
of church music; Lemmens, editor of "_L'Organiste Catholique_;" Emile
Laminne, of Tongres, who most eloquently insists on the cultivation of
music in seminaries, and on the appointment of a special committee for
music in every diocese. F. Faa di Bruno, of St. Peter's, in London,
spoke on oratorios; the Abbé Deschutter, of Antwerp, on sacred music
at concerts, Edmund Duval presented a paper on the accompaniment of
plain chant. L'Abbé de Mayer, Prof. Deyoght, and Hafkenscheid, of
Amsterdam, also made important suggestions. On motion of Dr. Paul
Alberdingk-Thijm, the most eminent authorities on sacred music were
appointed corresponding members. The following were elected: Meluzzi,
musical director at St. Peter's, Rome; Dandini, secretary of the
academy of St. Cecilia at Rome; Don Hilarion Eslava, of Madrid; the
Duke de San Clemente, of Florence; John Lambert, of London; Tornan,
archaeologist at Paris; Charles Verooitte, of Paris; the Abbé Loth, of
Rome; Friar Egidius, of Jerusalem; F. Hermann, of London; T. J.
Alberdingk-Thijm, publisher at Amsterdam; and F. Stein, pastor of St.
Ursula's, Cologne.

Hitherto very little has been done for the reformation of church
music; in Germany, as elsewhere, there still exist many reasons for
complaining. Nevertheless, the Gregorian chant is no more antiquated
than the ceremonies of the Church, her liturgy, her liturgical
language, or the vestments used at her offices. Who is there that does
not admire the melody of the sacred hymns, their perfect form, their
solemnity, and their dignity? Moreover, the plain chant demands no
violent exertion on the part of the singer. The voice is strained
neither by difficult figures nor by unnatural intervals, nor does it
require the same compass as the modern music. Unlike instrumental
music, choral music does not stun the hearer by its noisy effect, so
unbecoming divine service.

Nor has sufficient attention been paid to several other points; to the
more thorough study of the liturgy, and of the sacred hymns of the
Church, and to the cultivation of popular music.

Lastly, we must briefly notice the exhibition connected with the
congress of Malines. It was very interesting, and formed a pleasing
feature of the first and particularly of the second congress. Those
who contributed most towards its success were, James Weale, of Bruges,
Bethune, of Ghent, Canon de Bleser, and Abbé Deloigne. Many weeks of
patient research, under the most favorable circumstances, would not
enable us to meet with so many specimens of mediaeval art; in fact,
the collection was of great importance to the student of archaeology.

The works of living masters, too, were on exhibition, and many of them
called forth our especial interest and admiration. They proved
conclusively that the attempts recently made to restore Christian art
to its pristine purity have not been altogether fruitless. In many
places our artisans have again begun to study the medieval art, and
many of them rival in the excellence of their productions the masters
of the middle ages. How beautiful were many pieces of bronze statuary,
of jewelry, and of embroidery, that we found at Malines! The bronze
chandeliers, candelabra, and desks sent by Hart, of London, surpassed
in purity of style and beauty the best works of the old Belgian
masters. The Romanic and Gothic ciboria, chalices, remonstrances,
chandeliers, reliquaries, censers, crosses, croziers, and the like,
contributed by such artists as Bourdon de Bruyne, of Ghent, Martin
Vogeno, of Aix-la-Chapelle, Hellner, of Kempen-on-the-Rhine, rivalled
the most admired productions of the middle ages; the three artists
above-mentioned fully deserved the prizes awarded them by the
congress. Among the sculptors whose statuary graced the exhibition,
well-merited praise was bestowed on de Broeck and Van Wint, of
Antwerp, and {228} Pieckerey, of Bruges. The paintings on glass, also,
exhibited by Westlake, of London, met with general approbation. The
committee which awarded the premiums consisted of Voisin, of Tournay;
von Bock, of Aix-la-Chapelle; Van Drival, of Arras; Felix Bethune and
John Bethune, of Ghent; Cartuyvels, of Liege; Weale, of Bruges; and
Helbeig, of Liege.

Lambotte, of Liege, Reinhold Aasters, of Aix-la-Chapelle, John Goyers,
of Malines, and several others had sent samples of workmanship in
gold. The silk embroideries of Von Lambrechts-Martin, of Louvain,
attracted considerable attention, as did also the sculptures of
Champigneulle, of Metz, and of Phyffers, a Belgian sculptor living in
London. Many other names I have forgotten; but on the whole the
English and Germans excelled the French and Belgians. J.F. Casaretto,
of Crefeld, had brought to Malines a number of vestments, banners,
chasubles, copes, etc, and displayed them to advantage at the Hotel
Liederkercke. They attracted the notice of the Belgian bishops no less
than of the foreign clergy, and their excellence was acknowledged by
all, especially by Bishop Dupanloup, of Orleans. In Germany, for the
last twelve years, Casaretto has enjoyed the patronage of the bishops
and clergy. Though there were at Malines many excellent samples of
workmanship, there was also much that did not soar above mediocrity,
and much that fell beneath it. Even many experienced artisans are
guilty of gross mistakes; some goldsmiths, for instance, manufacture
patens entirely unfit for use. The paten should be perfectly smooth
and even, without any ornament. In Malines there were many chalices
whose feet were so made that it would be next to impossible to hold
them firmly without injuring the hand of the celebrant. In many of the
remonstrances and other sacred vessels, also, serious defects were
noticeable, a proof that there is still room for improvement. To
attain a proper degree of perfection, there should be a closer union
of the mechanical and the fine arts and of both with science. Let our
artisans be acquainted with the principles of art, let them be
thoroughly instructed in the rules laid down by the Church for the
guidance of the artist, let them come into closer contact with men of
science; in fine, let them, thus instructed, be penetrated by the
spirit of faith, purified and ennobled thereby, and they will
certainly produce workmanship worthy of our admiration. On this
subject many useful suggestions were made by Cardinal Wiseman in 1863,
in his well-known lecture on the "Connection between Science and Art."

The results of the debates of the section on art were, as we stated
above, the establishment of a professorship of ecclesiastical
archaeology at Louvain and the foundation of a national museum at the
same place. Considering the many reasons as eloquently urged in its
favor, we doubt not that active and immediate measures will be taken
for the completion of the cathedral of Malines. On the success of the
German artists at the Malines exhibition we lay the more stress
because, at the same time, Ittenbach, of Düsseldorf, surpassed all his
competitors at the Antwerp exhibition of paintings, and the historical
painter, Edward Steinle, of Frankfort-on-the-Main, by his cartoons,
exhibited at Brussels, gained new triumphs for true Christian art. To
the latter fact, Güffers and Swerts, the best Belgian painters,
cheerfully bore witness. In the debates at Malines the superiority of
German art was repeatedly acknowledged by representatives of all

To return to our fatherland. At the head of the movement for the
regeneration of art in Germany, which distinguished the first half of
the nineteenth century was a Catholic prince, King Louis I. of
Bavaria. It was he, also, who, partly by renovating the cathedrals of
Regensburg, Bamberg, and Spires, and partly by erecting so {229} many
beautiful temples at Munich, rescued Christian art from the disrepute
into which it had fallen. Rarely has so much been done for art in so
short a time as in Bavaria under Louis I.; few monarchs have been more
liberal patrons of every department of art. Many are of opinion that
King Louis' protection should have been confined to German art, but
his great soul scorned such narrow-minded ideas, and he extended his
care to ancient classical art. Foremost among those who, since 1842,
strove to regenerate Christian art in its purely German form was King
Louis' friend, Cardinal Geissel, of Cologne. The association for
completing the cathedral of Cologne called forth great artistic
activity; in that famous edifice was seen the symbol of the Catholic
Church in Germany, and of the final return of all Germany to the one
true faith.

To their exertions we must ascribe the advancement of Christian art
previous to the meeting of the first Catholic general convention.
These conventions have always upheld the claims of Christian art. At
Linz, in 1850, was founded the "Christian Art Union of Germany." In a
few years this society spread over every part of our country. The
Rhenish art unions were the most active, and exercised considerable
influence on those of southwestern Germany; the latter, however, have
proved more lasting and have accomplished more important results.

When once fairly established, the Christian art union held several
general meetings, the first of which took place at Cologne in
September, 1856. The beginning was insignificant, for scarcely a
hundred delegates assembled, and many of these hailed from the Rhenish
provinces. In spite of this drawback, the transactions were far more
interesting than those of many so-called "historical associations,"
that busied themselves with Celtic, Roman, and German antiquities.
Nay, considering the merit of the speeches delivered, they compare
favorably with those of the German architectural society. A still more
brilliant future, however, was in store for the Christian art union.
In 1857, the second general meeting was held at Regensburg, at which
the number of archaeologists and artists amounted to several hundred.
For three days they assembled in the splendid church of St. Ulric,
discussed some most important questions, and listened to several
brilliant speeches. The treasures of mediaeval art, sent from every
part of the diocese of Regensburg, formed a magnificent collection,
for, among all the cities of Germany, Regensburg is one of the richest
in monuments of mediaeval times, whilst its cathedral is one of the
finest in the world. A. Reichensperger, the chairman, enforced strict
order in debate; next to him sat Dr. F. Streber, professor at Munich.
As a successful student of numismatics, his fame was European; in fact
he was a man of superior learning. His best work is his "History of
Christian Art," which was not published previous to his death, but
whose excellence no one will undervalue. If an illustrated edition
were published, it would supplant all other class-books on the same
subject, and be a sure guide and basis of all future researches. And
no wonder, for no man had a clearer and more general knowledge of
everything relating to the history of art than Streber. We hope soon
to see this history grace every collection of the Catholic classics of

Another eminent member of the assembly was Dr. Zarbl, canon of the
cathedral at Munich. An eloquent speaker, a writer who recounted his
travels in an interesting manner, and a zealous pastor of souls, the
canon was a patron of Christian art, and intimately acquainted with
its literature. His residence resembled a museum of mediaeval
curiosities. He was president of the Regensburg art union, and well
was he fitted to fulfil his duties. When he walked up the aisles of
his cathedral, his appearance was majestic {230} His words were
impressive and his actions cautious and well considered. Overtopping
most men, and inspiring all with respect, strangers looked up to him
with a feeling akin to awe, whilst to those who knew him he was a kind
and esteemed friend. Canon Zarbl departed this life long ago, to
receive the reward of his virtues. A Benedictine of the abbey at
Metten, on the Danube, a man whose memory is cherished by thousands of
his pupils, F. Ildephonsus Lehner, was the soul of the Regensburg art
union in 1857. As director of the seminary he labored successfully to
imbue his students with an ardent love of Christian art, the
principles of which he had mastered at an early age. This he effected
not so much by aesthetic: theories as by practical instruction. At
Metten he founded a museum of mediaeval art, he formed a school which
was frequented by many talented young men, and assisted by several
friends he founded the Regensburg diocesan art union, and encouraged
artistic literature. Foremost among his disciples is George Dengler,
of Regensburg, who bids fair to attain considerable eminence in
architecture. At the Würzburg general convention, in 1864, F.
Ildephonsus was chosen chairman of the section of Christian art, and
in an eloquent address he urged the German clergy to study the
Catholic liturgy and the regulations of the Church regarding Christian

We must not forget to mention G. Jacob. He was associated for a long
time with Dr. Amberger, one of the first theologians of the present
age, and Grillmaier, the most pious priest that I have ever met with,
in the direction of the seminary at Regensburg, where he was professor
of the history of art. At the suggestion of the Regent Dirschedl, of
Regensburg, and of F. Ildephonsus, Jacob wrote his work on art in the
service of the Church, which was published at the time of the
Regensburg congress. It is a truly admirable work, especially as a
manual for theologians and priests.

In a few weeks it spread all over Germany, and during the last seven
years nothing has been written equal to it in its kind. The
publication of Streber's "History of Art" and a new edition of Jacob's
"Handbook" would be of great service to the German clergy, and would
greatly promote the study of Christian art.

Sighart, of Freising, who had just published his "Albertus Magnus,"
also spoke at Regensburg. He is the most distinguished of the many
writers on the history of art of whom Bavaria justly boasts; twelve
years have elapsed since he began the long series of his valuable
works by his history of the cathedral of Freising. His "History of
Plastic Art in Bavaria," published in 1863, was the crowning effort of
his genius and labors. No other German country can boast of so
complete and perfect a history. He also called into existence a museum
of mediaeval art, and brought to the notice of the learned all the
artistic treasures of the archdiocese. His example has been imitated
in several Bavarian dioceses.

Himioben, of Mayence, was the representative of the art union founded
by him in that diocese. In fact Himioben was one of the firmest stays
of the Catholic association in Mayence, and a prominent orator at all
the general conventions. His appearance was striking, and predisposed
all in his favor. His sparkling eyes, his fine flowing hair, his noble
figure, his sonorous voice, and his youthful ardor and enthusiasm,
made him the favorite of all who had the pleasure of listening to him.
"I have seen the seed germinate, and the flowers bud; you will see
them in full bloom, and reap the fruit." Such were his words to a
younger friend in the fall of 1860, and well do they express his ideas
concerning the regeneration of religious life in the nineteenth
century. Himioben used all his influence in favor of renovating the
cathedral of Mayence, though he did not live to see the repairs
completed. Would that he had witnessed {231} the twentieth of
November, 1864, when the Catholic cause acquired new strength by the
confederation of the Rhenish cities!

Stein, of Cologne, spoke on church music; Professor Reischl, of
Regensburg, on hymnology; Dr. Durch, of Rottweil, on aesthetics;
whilst Wiest urged the renovation of the cathedral at Ulm. But I
cannot mention all who addressed the assembly at Regensburg. But
though there were many and distinguished orators at Regensburg, the
palm of superior success belongs to a musician, J. Mettenleiter, who
edited the "_Musica Divina_" in connection with Canon Proske, and who
at Regensburg gave a practical proof of what true church music is. All
were transported by the magical power of harmony. Regensburg possesses
the best school of church music in Germany, and the choir of its
cathedral rivals that of the Sistine chapel. Besides Mettenleiter and
Proske, we must mention Schrems, Wesselack, and Witt.

The zeal displayed at Regensburg was short-lived; the German art union
never met again in general convention. Since 1858 it has again become
a mere section of the general conventions of the Catholic societies in
Germany. At the Munich convention, in 1861, considerable interest was
taken in Christian art; but at Aix-la-Chapelle, Frankfort, and
Würzburg it had few any friends. At Aix-la-Chapelle, Professor
Hutmacher was chairman of the section of art, at Frankfort Prof.
Steinle, whilst at Würzburg the most active members were F.
Ildephonsus and Dean Schwarz, of Böhmenkirch, in Wirtemberg.

But though much has been done for Christian art by the establishment
of art unions and their general meetings, it has likewise been
promoted in many other ways. The members of the Catholic art unions
not only devoted themselves to the study of art, but also encouraged
others to make researches on this subject, and it is but just to add
that during the past twelve years much has been accomplished that
deserves unqualified praise. To the Bozen art union we owe the
"History of the Development of Religious Architecture in the Tyrol,"
the second part of which was published a year ago by Karl Atz. The
Linz art union, after commissioning Florian Wiener to write directions
for researches on religious monuments, is now preparing a history of
art in the diocese of Linz. Many years ago Giefers rendered a similar
service to Paderborn, Schwarz and Laib to Rottenburg, and
Reichensperger to the Rhenish dioceses. Besides establishing the
Diocesan museum, the richest collection of this kind in Germany, the
Cologne art union founded the "Journal of Christian Art." The
Regensburg union published the work of Jacob mentioned above, and
distributed it among its members. Sighart made researches in the
archdiocese of Munich; whilst Adalbert Grimm, of Augsburg, wrote a
history of his native diocese. Great services were rendered to
Eichstädt by Maitzl, to Bamberg by Kotschenreuter, to Würzburg by
Wieland, to Limburg on the Lahn by Ibach, to Spires by Remling and
Molitor, and to Münster by Zeke. By the advice of Prof. Alzog, the
Freiburg union commenced in 1862 the publication of an art journal. To
the Rottenburg art union we are indebted for an important work on
altars, by Dean Schwarz and Pastor Laib. One of the most active
societies is that of Luxemburg, which has published an art journal
since 1861. These researches were based on those of the historical
associations and on some valuable essays, some of which had been
written long before. Almost every cathedral in Germany can boast of
its historian. Thus Geissel wrote the history of the Imperial
cathedral (1826-8); Wetter and Werner that of the cathedral at Mayence
(1835); Boisserée that of the Cologne cathedral (1821-3); and Giefers
that of the cathedral at Paderborn. To Perger we owe a sketch of St.
Stephen's at {232} Vienna; to Himmelstein, one of the Cathedral at
Würzburg; whilst Grimm and Allioli published an incomplete sketch of
the cathedral at Augsburg, and the histories of the Hildesheim,
Xanten, and Freising cathedrals were written by Kratz, Zehe, and
Sighart. One of the most instructive works lately published is
Schreegraf's history of the cathedral at Regensburg, in three volumes.
Every diocese in Germany has not yet done its duty, and much can and
should still be done by the German clergy. Let us not think lightly of
these laborious researches; their usefulness and importance to science
will one day be made evident to all. Catholics and Protestants must
aid alike in gathering the voluminous materials, which must be placed
at the disposition of him whom God will call to write a national
history of German art. The labors of these societies have already
enabled several prominent men to undertake more extensive works, among
which I will mention Sighart's "History of Art in Bavaria," Lübke's
"History of Art in Westphalia," Heideloff-Lorenz' "Suabian Art during
the Middle Ages," Heider-Eitelberger's "Mediaeval Monuments of the
Austrian Empire," Haas' "History of Styrian Art," Ernst aus dem
'Werth's "Monuments of the Lower Rhine," and Hassler's "Ancient
Monuments of Wirtemberg." A year ago, Lotz published an excellent
work, in two volumes, entitled, "Art-Topography of Germany," whilst
Otte's "History of German Architecture" is on the point of appearing.
Schnaase, too, in his "History of Art" has profited by the labors of
the Catholic art unions, and the same may be said of Müller-Klunzinger
and Nagler, of Munich, in their cyclopedias of art.

Let us not grow languid in our investigations concerning German art
during the middle ages, until the last monument has been discovered
and the last inscription deciphered. Many years must elapse before we
shall arrive at this point. When, in his wanderings throughout Europe,
Böhmer, the author of the great work on imperial decrees, found an
undiscovered document, his joy was indescribable. Equally great was
the delight of the editors of the "_Monumenta Germaniae_" when they
brought to light some annals that were supposed to have perished. The
same pleasure awaits any one who has the good fortune of discovering a
Roman basilica, a remarkable arch, or any other important monument;
who deciphers and explains an old inscription, and adds to the stock
of our knowledge.

As appears from what has been said above, the religions art unions
also established journals and museums. The chief of the periodicals is
the "Journal of Christian Art," edited, since 1851, by Baudri. Among
the contributors to this publication, which does not meet with the
patronage it deserves, are A. Reichensperger, Ernst Weyden, of
Cologne, the learned Dr. van Endert, Canon von Bock, of
Aix-la-Chapelle, and, occasionally, Münzenberger, of Düsseldorf.
Baudri's journal is to Germany what J.N. Alberdingk-Thijm's "_De
dietsche Warande_" is to Holland, what James Weale's "_Le Beffroi_" is
to Belgium, and what Didron's "_Annales_" are to France. The claims of
church music are put forth by the "Caecilia," published in Luxemburg
by Oberhoffer. Pastor Ortlieb, whose premature death we mourn, made a
similar attempt, but failed. In fine, the organ of the altar societies
is "Der Kirchenschmuck," a monthly publication, published in Stuttgart
by Schwarz and Laib. These altar societies may now be found in every
part of Germany, and their silent influence is great. Some societies,
those of Vienna and Pesth, for instance, number thousands of members.
The Brussels and Paris societies, beside attending to their own wants,
work for foreign missions. The most recent of these societies is the
one founded in November, 1864, at Frankfort-on-the-Main, as the
Diocesan society of Limburg. The ladies of Germany have furnished
splendid {233} pieces of embroidery in the form of sacred vestments.

I cannot speak of altar societies without mentioning Kreuser, of
Cologne. Kreuser, with his hoary hair and his mighty snuff-box--a man
full of sparkling wit and endless humor--is known to all of us, for up
to 1861 we never missed him at the general conventions. Since the
Munich convention, however, we have not seen him; he was absent at
Aix-la-Chapelle, at Frankfort, and at Würzburg, and we know not the
reason of his absence. To speak concisely is very difficult, and few
speakers from the Rhenish provinces can boast of this virtue; still,
most Germans, and especially the German ladies, listened with pleasure
to old Kreuser; and no wonder, for Kreuser never failed to do justice
to the ladies of Germany. When Kreuser spoke in a city, his speech was
followed immediately by the establishment of an altar society. He
carried everything by storm, and the impression made by his speeches
was not merely transient, but produced lasting fruits. Kreuser is a
poet, also, a happy improvisatore, able to cope with the most daring
rhymster. He is one of the best read men in Germany, and deserves our
gratitude for his exertions in the cause of Christian art. Twenty
years have rolled by since he published his "Letters on the Cologne
Cathedral," and during the last twelve years his work on architecture
has been studied again and again. That Kreuser's style is deficient in
grace and harmony we will not dispute, still much benefit may be
derived from the perusal of his works.

Francis von Bock, also, deserves our notice. He is the author of a
"History of the Liturgic Vestments," in two vols., illustrated with
two hundred colored engravings. Boldly he demands the use of
appropriate workmanship; fearlessly measures swords with every
opponent, and often his impetuosity is crowned with success. To him
Casaretto, of Crefeld, is indebted for valuable suggestions. He was
also one of the founders of the school of art under the direction of
the Sisters of the Infant Jesus, at Aix-la-Chapelle. Dr. von Bock has
visited every country in Europe, Turkey excepted, which he intends
shortly to visit for the purpose of continuing his researches. Where
can be found an ancient vestment whose texture he did not scrutinize,
and a piece of which he has not begged for still closer examination?
At Gran, at Malines, in Bohemia, in Sicily, at Rome, at Paris, at
Vienna--everywhere Dr. von Bock has left traces of his unwearying
activity. The Rhenish goldsmiths owe him a debt of gratitude. He has
written papers on the church at Kaiserswerth, on the Benedictine
church at Munchen-Gladbach, on Cologne, and on the relics at Gran and
Aix-la-Chapelle. His principal work is on the "Insignia of the Holy
Roman Empire." It is a magnificently illustrated specimen of
typography, equal in every respect to any similar work published in
England or France. At Malines every one spoke loudly in its praise,
and in 1864 the author received from the Emperor Francis Joseph the
Cross of the Iron Crown. Von Bock's style reminds me of the chimes I
have heard in Holland; it consists in a constant repetition of the
same pleasing melody.

Von Bock stands in odd contrast to Dean Schwarz, of Böhmenkirch, the
able editor of the "_Kirchenschmuck._" He is the personification of
repose and dignity, a deep thinker, and a first-class archaeologist.
For many years he has wielded great influence with the clergy.

Whilst the altar societies are displaying greater activity every day,
the Christian art unions, it is said, are daily becoming less zealous.
In some places, no doubt, this is true; but in many dioceses they have
been changing into associations for furthering the completion of the
diocesan cathedral. To mention but a few instances, this was the case
in Regensburg. Since his accession to the episcopal see {234} Bishop
Ignatius von Senestrey applied himself with energy to the completion
of his cathedral. King Louis I. having furnished the means, we have no
doubt that in a few years architect Denzinger will finish the two
towers. At Mayence, likewise, everything is being done for the
completion and decoration of the cathedral. The work has been
intrusted to the skill of Metternich, and Director Veit, assisted by
Lasinsky Settegast and Hermann, is frescoing the walls and the vaults.
Since the fall of the partition between the sanctuary and the nave in
the Cologne cathedral, and since the great festival of October 15th,
1868, the building has been steadily progressing, and the cathedral
lottery promises to furnish the means for completing the towers within
seven years. Schmidt has added a new pyramid to St. Stephen's
cathedral in Vienna, which has now the highest spire in the world.
After rivalling the English architect Welby Pugin by planning almost
two hundred churches and chapels, Statz is now building a cathedral at
Linz. Archbishop Gregory von Scheer has given a new appearance to the
metropolitan Church of Our Lady at Munich, whilst the bishop of
Passau, Henry von Hofstätter, has proved his devotion to the interests
of art by renovating many churches in his diocese. Among all the
German prelates none have built more churches than Cardinal Geissel,
of Cologne, and Bishop Müller, of Münster.

Is it not an encouraging sign that we are completing the immense
edifices of the middle ages? Is it not a proof of vital energy that
the Catholics of all countries are building the grandest churches in
the most correct style? As architectural science progresses, a like
advance must take place in mechanics, and, notwithstanding many
blunders, every branch of art is daily more and more perfected. Not
many years hence all our temples will be completed and adorned with
the splendor becoming the divine service. Let every one do his duty,
fulfilling the task allotted him by divine Providence.

Let us conclude our rapid survey by calling to mind the men who have
begun and directed this movement. Among the Germans, Joseph von
Görres, F. von Schlegel, and Sulpitius Boisserée will head our list.
France justly boasts of de Caumont, Didron, Montalembert, Viollet le
Duc, Cahier, and the Abbé Martin. Oudin must not be forgotten, nor
Bossi, the historian of the catacombs. The merits of Seroux
d'Agincourt, Waagen, Guilhabaud, Schnaase, Kugler, Passavant,
Stieglitz, Geyer, Kallenbach, Forster, Moller, Heideloff, Otte,
Springer, Hefner-Alteneck, Krieg von Hochfelden, von Quast, Jacob
Schmitt, and many others known to every votary of art. To us is
assigned the task of reaping the fruits of their labors.


From The St. James Magazine.


Properzia Rossi, a female artist, celebrated for her misfortunes,
though more for her proficiency in sculpture, painting, and music,
died of a broken heart, just as Pope Clement VII. had invited her to
Rome, to show his admiration for her masterpiece in the church of San
Petronio at Bologna.

  Too late--oh, far too late! Praise comes in vain
  To lull the fever'd agonies of pain.
  I am no more the artist idly proud,
  But the gaunt mortal waiting for a shroud.
  No more the songstress, whose impassioned lay
  O'er taste and feeling held unrivalled sway;
  But a weak woman, desolate and worn,
  Her pulses throbbing, and her heart-strings torn,
  Looking above--sad, humbled, and alone--
  Where mercy dwells with Jesus on his throne--
  Ay, fondly hoping for one smile of light
  From the meek Man of sorrows and of might,
  Who from sin's thrall is powerful to save,
  Died on the cross, and triumphed o'er the grave!

  What though the light of genius fired mine eye,
  That radiant meteor leaves us when we die,
  And conscience whispers that the gifts of heaven
  Were of misused. I thirst to be forgiven.
  Panting I turn from streams once deeply quaff'd.
  And crave the Rock's sole vivifying draught!
  Ay, as I kneel and supplicate for grace,
  I veil in lowliness my tear-bathed face;
  Implore for pardon with intense distress,
  And spurn the gauds of earthly happiness!
  Oh, what avails it that aerial forms.
  And colors vivid as the bow of storms.
  Hang o'er my fancy with bewitching spell?
  Say, have I used these varied talents well?
  Oh, what avails it that my hands would mould
  Beautiful models from the marble cold?
  Have the rich sculptures in the hallow'd fane
  Brought one soil'd spirit to her God again?--
  Recall'd a virtuous feeling to the heart,
  And by religion consecrated art?
  Have the fair features and bright hues I wove'
  In one dark breast illumed the spark of love?
  Or lured the soul from sin's deceptious toys
  To pure devotion's memorable joys?
  Oh, have the gifts of music and of song
  Soothed one sad being of the human throng?--
  Angelic thoughts--submissive, hopeful, kind--
  Breathed o'er a mournful or a shattered mind?
  And has my genius, with a potent sway,
  Gilded the road to heaven--that straight and narrow way?


  God has been very bounteous; he has given
  Much to enhance the blessedness of heaven.
  The _threefold cords_  [Footnote 37] of talismanic power
  Were meant to yield employment for the hour--
  Life's potent hour of labor, want, and pain--
  Brief as the April drops of sunny rain;
  And yet by mercy recompensed above,
  If well improved in hope, and faith, and love.
  But conscience whispers, and in these dark days
  That voice grows louder as my strength decays,--
  Of wasted talents, of forgotten crime,
  And of a judgment awfully sublime!
  Of duties unfulfill'd, of gifts misspent.
  Of future pangs, of fitting punishment!

  [Footnote 37: Music, painting, and  sculpture.]

  I muse no longer on the _present_--no--
    My life is with the _future_ or the _past_,
  And both are mingling in a magic flow,
    Like turbid waters in a fountain cast.
  The _past_---oh, whether fair, or dark, or both,
    Is but a picture mirror'd on the wave.
  The moral sicknesses--guile, anger, sloth--
    Arise as spectres from a yawning grave;
  What boots it that misfortune paled my cheek.
    That penury and pain obscured my way?
  _Sorrow is voiceless_; 'tis remorse that speaks
    In awful tones of merited decay,
  And of the worm that dieth not--the vale
    Of never-ending, still-beginning death.
  Methinks I hear the harsh, continuous wail,
    The sobs and catchings of convulsive breath.
  Guilt unatoned for--thoughts and words of sin--
    How do they rise up, burning as on glass!
  The evil pent the wishful heart within
    Asking for vengeance! O the hideous mass
  Of wickedness heap'd up, long, long conceal'd!
  But now as by a lightning flash reveal'd.

  Woe! woe! the Eternal Judge's fiery dart
    Hath pierced the labyrinthine cells within,
  Where underneath the pulses of my heart
    Dwells the mysterious form of crouching sin.
  Thoughts, baneful wishes,--ay, as well as deeds,
    Against me in strong phalanx are array'd.
  In vain these tears--in vain this bosom bleeds:
    I look upon myself, and am dismay'd,
  Powerless, and weak, and agonized I cry,--
  And hear the words, "Lost sinner, thou must die!"

  Clouds roll around me, and from an abyss,
    Drear, dark, profound, behold a hideous form!
  Closer and closer serpents coiling hiss,
    And thunders boom along a sky of storm.


  There is no deed to offer thee of good,
    Thou mocking fiend! laugh on without restraint!
  I seem as borne along a sulphurous flood,
    Too meteorically wild to paint.
  The couch heaves under me, my sight is gone,--
    I am with the accuser, and alone!

  Alone! alone! O tell me not 'tis so.
  That I must grapple powerless with the foe.
  Jesus, thou Lamb of God, arise! arise!
  Arrest these doubts, these daring blasphemies.
  It was for sinners thou didst shed thy blood,
  For guilty mortals, not for angels' good.
  Listen! attend! a sinner asks for aid,--
  For _me_ that blood was spilt, for _me_ thou wast betrayed.

  As when a night of storms has sped away.
  And robed in florid hues appears the day,
  Stealingly, gently lighting up the skies
  With gleams, as from a seraph's smiling eyes,
  Thus o'er my spirit breeds a gracious calm,
  O'er my deep wounds is poured a healing balm.
  Methinks the mild Redeemer stands above,
  And pleads _his_ righteousness, _his_ cross, _his_ love;
  While angels' voices wafted straight from heaven
  Proclaim, "Thy Savior calls! thou art forgiven!"


From The Hibernian Magazine.


  "Three monks sat by a bogwood fire--
    Bare were their crowns, and their garments grey,
  Close sat they by that bogwood fire.
    Watching the wicket till break of day."
                                            Ballad Poetry.

Saving the color of their garments, which, instead of grey, were of a
dark brown, and the omission of any allusion to their long flowing
beards, the above lines convey as accurate an idea as any words could
of the parties that occupied the spacious guest-chamber of the
Capuchin convent of Bruges on the last night of October, 1708.

Seated round the capacious hearth, on which, without aid of grate,
cheerfully blazed a pile of dark gnarled logs dug up from the fens,
which, in the days of Caesar, were shaded by the dense forests of
Flanders, three lay-brothers of the order kept watch for any wayfarer
that might require hospitality or information on the evening in
question. Their convent stood--and a portion of it still stands--at
the southern extremity of the town, close beside the present railway
station. But Bruges was not, a century and a half ago, what it is
today. War, and the recent decline of its ancient commerce, rendered
it, at {238} the period of which we write, anything but a safe or
attractive locality for either tourist or commercial traveller to
visit. There was no "Hotel de Flandre," or "Fleur de Blé," or even
"Singe d'Or,'" for the weary itinerant to seek refreshment or lodging.
Neither were there gens-d'armes in the streets, nor affable
shopkeepers in their gas-lit _magasins_, as at present, to whom the
benighted stranger might apply for information regarding the locality
in which his friends resided. The convents and monasteries, however,
with which Belgium was then, as now, studded, were ever open to the
traveller, be his rank or condition what it might, and pre-eminent for
their hospitality were the Capuchin fathers.

The night was a wild one; and the dying blasts of October seemed bent
on a vigorous struggle ere they expired.

"What an awful storm!" exclaimed Brother Anselm, rising to secure the
huge oak window shutters that seemed, as if in terror, every moment
ready to start from their strong iron fastenings.

"God preserve us I but 'tis fearful," replied one of his companions.
Brother Bonaventure, "and what dreadful lightning!"

Peal after peal of thunder resounded through the spacious hall and
adjoining corridors; and then, again, came the wind beating the rain,
in torrents, against door and casement, and completely drowning the
chimes of the Carillon, though the market-place, where the belfry
stood, was close beside them. Still not a word escaped their third
companion, Brother Francis, a venerable old man who sat nearer than
his younger brethren to the ample fireplace. He continued silently
reciting "Ave" after "Ave" on the beads of the large rosary attached
to his girdle, and seemed, in the excess of his devotion, utterly
unconscious of the storm that howled without.

A loud knocking at the outer gate followed quickly by the ringing of
the stranger's bell, at length announced the arrival of some guest. In
an instant, the old man let his beads fall to their accustomed place
by his side--for the rule of St. Francis gave charity toward the
neighbor a first place among its spiritual observances--and hastened,
as eagerly as his younger brothers, to admit the poor traveller, who
must be sore distrait, on such an awful night.

Lighting a lantern, they proceeded through the court to the outer
porch, and drawing back the slide that covered a small grated aperture
in the wicket, demanded who the wayfarer might be. The gleam of the
lamp fell upon the uniforms of two military men, who seemed engaged in
supporting a third between them, while their horses stood neighing in
terror, and pawing the ground beside them. In a second the gate was
unbarred, and three of Vendôme's troopers entered the court-yard; two
of them still supporting their comrade, who had been badly wounded in
a skirmish with Marlborough's troops, near Audenarde, that morning.
Leaving Anselm with the two other soldiers to look after the horses,
brothers Francis and Bonaventure led the wounded man into the convent.
He seemed weak and faint; but the cheerful blase of the fire, and the
refreshment speedily administered by the good brothers, soon restored
him somewhat, though he still suffered acutely from his wound, and was
utterly unable to stand without the aid of support.

For the first time Brother Francis broke silence. From the moment he
caught a distinct view of the stranger's face, as he sat in the light
of the fire, his gaze seemed riveted upon him; and an observer might
have noticed the old man's lip quiver and his face grow paler, might
have even observed a tear steal down his cheek, as he continued for a
while to gaze in silence on the pallid features of the young soldier.
At length he addressed him, not in French or {239} Flemish, but in a
language which to Brother Bonaventure was foreign.

The stranger's face brightened at the sound of his own tongue, and he
readily made answer to the few hurried questions put him by the old
monk. Their conversation was of very brief duration; but its result
seemed astounding. For when Anselm returned with the soldiers, he
found Bonaventure and the stranger chafing the old man's temples as he
lay in a swoon on the bench before them.

To their inquiries as to the cause of this strange occurrence, Anselm
could give no definite answer. All he knew was, that although he could
not understand what passed between Brother Francis and their comrade,
the conversation seemed to produce a wonderful effect on the former.
He trembled from head to foot, and then smiled, and seemed about to
grasp the stranger in his arms, when he suddenly fell back on the
bench as they now saw him. The young soldier--he was almost a boy,
and strikingly handsome--was equally puzzled. Brother Francis had
merely asked him if he were Irish; and when he answered "Yes;"--if his
name was Herbert, and if it was Gerald Herbert, and if his father and
grandfather were Irish;--and when he replied that his name was Gerald
Walter Herbert, and that his grandfather was not Irish, but English,
the old man muttered something which he could not catch, and fainted.
That was all he could tell them; but what that had to do with Brother
Francis's fit still remained a mystery.

For a considerable time the aged monk lay senseless and almost
motionless, the only symptoms of animation he presented being those
afforded by the convulsive throbbing of his heart, and an occasional
deep-drawn sigh. His brothers seemed deeply afflicted, and sought by
every means in their power to restore him; for Francis, though few
knew anything of his history, was, notwithstanding, the favorite of
the whole community.

Toward midnight the old man revived, and his first inquiry was for the
young soldier. He now embraced him, and, as he pressed him again and
again to his heart, with tears and blessings called him "his son,"
"his dear child." Brothers Anselm and Bonaventure looked at each other
in mute astonishment. They feared that their dear old friend, the
patriarch of the lay-brothers, was losing his reason. They knew that,
for thirty years at least, he had been an inmate of the cloister,
while the party whom he thus lovingly called his son could at furthest
number twenty birthdays, if indeed he could count so many. Still
greater, however, was their surprise, when, on a closer scrutiny, they
could not fail to observe a market family likeness between their aged
brother and the individual on whom all his affections seemed now

But this was no time for the indulgence of curiosity. The two
troopers, drenched and travel-stained, must be attended to, and the
wound of their comrade looked after. Fortunately their convent
numbered among its inmates one of the best leeches in all West
Flanders. He had been already summoned to the aid of Brother Francis,
and now that he no longer required his services, he directed his
attention to the other invalid, whose case seemed the less urgent of
the two. In a short time his skilful hand extracted a spent ball from
the sufferer's knee, and, by the application of a soothing poultice,
restored him to comparative ease. Nor were Brothers Anselm and
Bonaventure idle meanwhile. Piles of well-buttered _tartines_ made of
wholemeal bread baked in the convent, with plentiful dishes of rashers
and omelets, and a flagon or two of foaming Louvain beer, soon covered
the table. Cold meats, too, of various kinds, were served up in
abundance; and the two dragoons were soon busily engaged in satisfying
appetites good at all times, but now considerably sharpened by a hard
ride and a long fast. {240} It was the first peaceful meal they
enjoyed since the Duke of Burgundy got command; and they blessed their
stars for having been selected to escort young Herbert to the rear.
Having completed the bandaging of his wound, and administered such
medicine as he deemed best calculated to make up for his patient's
loss of blood, the infirmarian led him to the chamber prepared for his
reception; and Brother Francis begged to be allowed to take charge of
him. His request was granted, but on the sole condition that no
conversation of an exciting nature should take place between him and
the invalid till such time as all feverish and inflammatory symptoms
had subsided. Day after day, and night after night, the old man
watched, in strict silence, beside the stranger's couch; and all were
in amazement at such assiduity and attention on the part of one who,
as long as any remembered him, seemed utterly detached from all
earthly affections. They even saw him mingle tears with his prayers,
as he knelt beside the pillow of the sleeper. It was whispered that
the guardian knew something about the matter; for he, too, now came
frequently, and looked with evident interest on the invalid. No one
else ventured to speak to Brother Francis on the subject, for though
generally kind and gentle, and communicative as a child, there were
times when he became sad and reserved--and this seemed one of them.

Ten days passed on, and the invalid made such rapid progress that the
infirmarian and his staff pronounced him quite out of danger, in no
further need of medical treatment, and only requiring the aid of the
cook to recover completely his wonted vigor. The interdict was now
removed, and Brother Francis seemed happy. He could, henceforth, speak
as he pleased to his young protégé. The latter felt equally delighted;
for he felt, he knew not why, a sort of unaccountable attachment--it
was certainly more than mere gratitude--toward the old man growing
daily stronger and stronger within him. And then Brother Francis
called him "my son"--but perhaps, as an old man, that was the name by
which he addressed all youngsters. At all events, he loved the old
monk as a child loves a father, and always felt sad when the duties of
his rule obliged his venerable friend to leave him for a time.

"And so you tell me you have no recollection of your father?" said
Brother Francis, with a sigh, as they sat together one evening--it was
the eve of St. Martin--in the same apartment where we first introduced
them to our readers.

"None whatever," replied his companion; "he left France as a volunteer
with d'Usson's division, and was killed at Limerick when I was but
three years old. So I often heard my mother say."

The speaker did not remark the shudder that ran through the old man's
frame at mention of Limerick; but only paid attention to his next
question, which rapidly followed.

"And your father's father?"

"Was, as I have already said, an Englishman--but he, too, died in the
wars long ago. They say he fell in Spain."

The old man could no longer restrain his feelings. Bursting into
tears, and clasping his young companion to his bosom, as he had done
on the night of their first meeting, he said:

"No, my child--your grandfather, Walter Herbert, is not dead, but yet
survives to give you that blessing which your own poor father could
not bestow on you with his parting breath--he stands before you."

It was a touching scene to witness--that old Capuchin monk, with his
long white beard, and coarse dark gown, and leathern cincture, and
bare sandalled feet, locked in the fond embrace of the young soldier
of "the Brigade," on that eve of St. Martin, in the old convent of
Bruges! We do not mean to intrude on the sacred {241} privacy of
domestic feeling, but leaving parent and child to commune with each
other in the fulness of their hearts, will, with our readers' kind
permission, assume, for the nonce, the province of the Senachie, and
briefly relate as much of their history as we have ourselves learned,
Outre Mer--and is still oftentimes related on long winter evenings by
the brothers who have succeeded--literally stepped into the sandals
of--Brother Francis and his comrades.


Walter Herbert, or, as he was called in religion, Brother Francis, was
the only child of an ancient family in Nottinghamshire. Entering the
army at an early age, he found himself stationed with his regiment in
Limerick, when the army of the "Confederates" sat down before that
city in the summer of sixteen hundred and forty-two. He was then in
his twentieth year. Forming part of Courtenay's company, when the city
opened its gates to Garret Barry and Lord Muskerry, he retired with
his commander to King John's castle, where, though closely besieged,
they resolutely held out till St. John's eve, when Conrtenay was
obliged to capitulate. In the course of the attack on the castle, a
mine was sprung by the besieging party, and a turret, in which Herbert
was stationed, fell to the ground with a terrific crash. For weeks he
lay delirious; and when at length he awoke to consciousness, he found
himself the occupant of a handsomely-fitted chamber looking out on the
church of St. Nicholas. His host was a middle-aged,
gentlemanly-looking person, of grave yet affable manners. He was a
widower, and his household consisted of himself, an aged housekeeper,
two sons, and an only daughter. The latter--Eily O'Brien--was the sick
man's principal nurse, and no Sister of Mercy could have bestowed more
care on a suffering invalid than she did on Walter Herbert--stranger
though he was to her creed and her country. From lengthened and almost
continual intercourse, a feeling of mutual affection sprang up between
the young people. Gratitude on the one hand, and sympathy for the
sufferings of the handsome young officer on the other, heightened this
feelings till it grew into deep and lasting love. Like Desdemona, she
loved him "for the dangers he had passed;" and he loved her "that she
did pity them." But an insurmountable obstacle to their union lay in
their difference of religion. Herbert was a Protestant; and old Connor
O'Brien would never hear of any child of his being united to one of
that creed which, in its struggle for ascendency, he believed to be
the cause of so much suffering to his country, even though no other
impediment whatever existed. A private marriage was thus their only
alternative, and to this, in an evil hour, poor Eily consented.

Months rolled on--months of bliss to Walter and Eily--but their
separation was at hand. Important letters called Herbert away, almost
at a moment's notice. He hoped, however, that his absence would be of
no lengthened duration, and that he would soon return to publicly
claim his own Eily as his wife. But alas! his hopes were doomed to sad
and bitter disappointment. On his arrival in England, he found the
entire country in arms; and as it became impossible to remain neutral,
or return to Ireland, he was forced to join the newly-formed corps
just raised in his native county by Henry Ireton, his father's
landlord. Once under military discipline there was no retreating; and
though all his thoughts were turned to Ireland, he was doomed to
maddening suspense regarding her who alone made Ireland dear to him.
All communication between the two countries was now suspended. At
Edgehill and Newbury he retreated before the king's troops--and at
Marston Moor and Naseby had a share in defeating them. But victory or
defeat was alike void of {242} interest to him. It was even with
indifference he heard of his promotion for having saved his general's
life at Naseby. The sole engrossing thought of his existence was how
to get back to Limerick. That long-sought for opportunity at last
arrived; but when it did, it scarcely brought joy to Herbert. He was
ordered to join in the invading Parliamentary force; and, when he
called to mind the fierce fanatics who were to be his fellow-soldiers,
love made him tremble for the Irishry.

The fourteenth of June saw him on the battle-field of Naseby--the
following autumn found him sailing up the Shannon--and, ere the close
of the year, he was gazing on the steeple of St. Mary's and the towers
of Limerick from the battlements of Bunratty, which had fallen into
the hands of the Parliamentarians. He fancied he could even see the
very house in which he had spent so many happy days. But beyond fancy
he could not go. To reach the city was utterly impossible. All he
could learn, from an Abbey fisherman whom they had taken prisoner, was
that Connor O'Brien was still alive, and that his daughter was married
and had a beautiful little boy. Who her husband was his informant
could not say; but he thought he was an officer in Earl Glamorgan's
army. Herbert, however, well knew who he was, and he would have risked
worlds to have sent back his prisoner in safety, with even one line to
Limerick. But Lord Inchiquin's troops were too vigilant to allow of
any communication with the city. Even this intelligence, scanty though
it was, afforded him some consolation. He knew his wife was safe, and
unable any longer to endure the Tantalus-like position in which he was
placed, he found means of returning again to England.

His next and last visit to Ireland was in the summer of sixteen
hundred and fifty. He was then pretty high in command, and had hopes,
as he sat down with Waller's army of investment before Limerick, in
the July of that year, that should he be only able to effect an
entrance into the town, his authority would be sufficient to protect
whomsoever he pleased. But the year passed away, and still the city
held out. And, had he but his wife and child without its walls, he
would have counselled its burghers to hold out even still more
manfully, for he well knew the iron heart and bloody hand of the
execrable Hardress Waller.

The spring of the next year found him still before Limerick; and could
he but communicate with any of its gallant defenders, his hatred of
treachery would have urged him to expose to them the perfidy of one of
their own whom they had raised to the rank of colonel. This wretch was
named Fennell; and, for his treason in selling the passes of the
Shannon at Killaloe, their commander-in-chief Cromwell had promised
him and his descendants many a fair acre in Tipperary. By this pass
Ireton and his myrmidons crossed the river into Clare; and with them
passed Walter Herbert. Still his heart was full of hope of saving all
he held dear in the leaguered city. Spring passed away, and summer
again came; and still the assailing host made no progress toward the
capture of the town which Ireton and his father-in-law regarded as the
key of all the Munster territories. In the burning heat of July, while
pestilence daily thinned the ranks of the besieged, an assault was
ordered on the almost defenceless keep that guarded the northern
extremity of the salmon weir, and Herbert was reluctantly obliged to
form one of the storming party. His immediate senior in command was a
person named Tuthill--one of those heartless hypocrites who could
preach and pray while his brutal soldiery were massacring the wives
and children of the brave men whom the chances of war made his
victims. The fort was carried by overwhelming numbers; and Herbert was
doomed to witness, with horror, the butchery of the surviving
defenders, mercilessly {243} ordered by Tuthill--an order which he
unhappily had no power of countermanding, but in the execution of
which he took no part. Still the city held out, though the "leaguer
sickness" was rapidly decimating its brave garrison. The north
fortress of Thomond bridge was next carried by assault--but to no
purpose. The townsmen succeeded in breaking down two of its arches,
and thus cutting off all approach to the city in that quarter, and in
resisting the sortie three hundred of their assailants perished.
Winter was now fast approaching, and the plague extending from the
city, in which fifty of its victims were now daily interred, commenced
to thin the ranks of the besiegers themselves. Ireton had serious
thoughts of raising the siege, and he would, beyond all question, have
done so, were it not for treachery. Fennell, the traitor of Killaloe,
was again at work--this time, unfortunately, within the very walls of
the city itself.

A truce of some days was agreed on; and Herbert was one of those
appointed to treat with the townsmen. The deputies met on neutral
ground, midway between the city and camp, and within range of the
rival batteries. His heart was now full of greater hopes than ever.
Could he but meet with any member of Eily's family, he hoped that his
love for her would induce them to listen to his counsels. But fate, it
would seem, had leagued all chances against him. Had he met them, he
meant to put them on their guard against Fennell's treachery, and,
without absolutely breaking trust, give them such a key to Ireton's
fears and readiness to make concessions as would, he hoped, lead to an
honorable capitulation, and prevent the bloodshed which, from the
shattered state of the town walls, and the additional element of
treachery within those walls, he now judged to be inevitable, unless
they came to terms with Ireton. But not one of them appeared; for the
traitor had laid his plans deeply, and succeeded in diverting them and
the clerical party, to which they faithfully adhered, from anything
like a compromise. He wished that the sole merit and reward of
surrendering the city should be his own. And he succeeded. The
conference ended fruitlessly; and Herbert returned to the camp
well-nigh broken-hearted.

The plague continued its ravages meanwhile; and, day after day, within
the city, the dying were brought by their relatives to the tomb of
Cornelius O'Dea, where many, it was believed, were restored to health
through the intercession of that saintly prelate, who lay buried in
the cathedral. Its effects were visibly traced in the ranks of the
besieging Army. Still Ireton, relying on treason within, pressed on
the siege. By a bridge of pontoons he succeeded in connecting the
Thomond side of the river with the King's Island, where he now planted
a formidable battery, to play on the eastern side of the city.
Herbert had fortunately escaped witnessing the horrors of Drogheda and
Wexford; but a sight almost as appalling now met his eyes. In the
smoke of the cannonade crowds of plague-stricken victims--principally
women and children--ventured outside the city walls to catch one pure
breath of air from the Shannon, on "the Island" bank,--and there lie
down and die. But when this was discovered, the heartless Waller
forbade even this short respite from suffering. By his orders, those
unhappy beings, who could have no share in protracting the siege, were
mercilessly dogged back by the soldiery into the plague-reeking city--
and such as refused to return were, by the same pitiless mandate,
_hanged_   [Footnote 38] within sight of their fellow-townsmen!

  [Footnote 38: Historical]

The daily sight of this revolting butchery was sickening to the noble
heart and refined feelings of Herbert. But suffering for him had not
yet reached its climax. As he was seated in his tent, one evening
toward the {244} close of October, fatigued after a long foraging
excursion to the Meelick mountains, and musing sadly on the fate of
her who was almost within sight of him, and yet whom, by what seemed
to him an almost supernatural combination of adverse circumstances, he
had not seen for years, his attention was arrested by the cries of a
female who seemed struggling with her captors. His manhood was aroused
by such an outrage--committed almost in his very presence--and he rose
at once to rescue the victim from her assailants. But, horror of
horrors! at the very door of his tent, and in the grasp of an armed
ruffian, lay the fainting and all but inanimate form of his wife! To
fell the wretch, and clasp the beloved object to his bosom, was but
the work of a second. But, oh! how sorrow and sickness had changed
that once beautiful face, and wasted that once symmetrical form. Death
had already clutched her in his bony gripe, and selected her for his
own. His kiss was upon her lips, for they were livid and
plague-stained. And her beautiful blue eyes! how they now wandered
with the wild look of a maniac. All that remained of the beautiful
Eily he once knew were the long fair ringlets that now fell down in
dishevelled masses on her heaving bosom. The sight almost drove him
mad. In vain he clasped her to his heart, and called her by the dear
fond name of wife. She knew him not, yet, when she spoke, her ravings
were all about him; and he often wondered afterward how his brain
stood the shock, when, without knowing him, she still called on him,
"her own dear, dear Walter, to save her, to take her away from those
terrible men--at least to come to her--for, to come to him, she had
left her poor old father and little Gerald behind."

Wholly occupied with his wife, Herbert paid no attention to the
sergeant's guard that stood at the tent door under arms. When at
length he perceived them, he flew into a phrenzy of passion, asking
them how they dared stand thus in his presence?--and ended by
ordering "the catiffs who could thus treat a woman to get out of his
sight presently."

But the orderly remained unmoved. Were his hands free at the moment,
Herbert would have unquestionably run him through for presuming to
disobey his orders, such was the irritated state of his feelings. But
he could not leave the shrinking, still unconscious being that clung
to him for support. Stamping his foot in a rage, he demanded what he
wanted, or why he regained there?

"Pris'ner, sir," was the sergeant's laconic reply, as he mechanically
touched his hat.

"What prisoner?"

"The woman, sir."

"Heavens and earth! do you mean to drive me mad, man?" and the soldier
recoiled for an instant at the voice and look of his officer.

"Can't help it, sir--gen'ral's orders. Woman came to the camp three
times, sir--supposed to be a spy, and ordered to be hanged."

"Hanged!" In a second his burthen was laid on the camp-bed, and the
sergeant laid prostrate by a blow that would have almost felled an ox.

The guard now interposed; and from them he learned that the party in
question had been several times seen to leave the city, in defiance of
Sir Hardress Waller's orders. Twice already she had been flogged back,
but she came out again, that day, at noon, and was by the general's
orders sentenced to execution. The soldier added that an old rebel
[Footnote 39] calling himself her father, when he heard of the
sentence, offered himself in her stead; but Sir Hardress ordered him
to be instantly flogged back. "She was to have been hanged," he
continued, "at sunset, but she broke loose from them and ran toward
his tent as he had seen."

  [Footnote 39: A Fact. _Vide_ "Ferrar's History of Limerick," page 64. ]

"Touch not a hair of her head, on your peril," exclaimed Herbert as
the {245} corporal concluded, and kissing the pallid lips of his wife,
he rushed out of the tent to seek the general, just as returning
consciousness revealed to Eily the name of her deliverer.

"Walter, my own dear husband. Oh! come back, don't leave me," were the
last words he heard as he flew toward the tent of the
commander-in-chief, more like a maniac than anything else.

"By the bones of St. Pancras, he's either mad, or she is," said a tall
weaver from Lambeth, who wore the badge of a lance-corporal.

"Ay is he, and sore wrathful to boot," replied his rear-rank man, with
a grin--he was a butcher from Newgate. "But we are the sufferers, and
shall, I fear, be late for supper. The gallows, however, is ready to
hand, thank God, and we shall make short work of it when the captain

The name of God on the lips of such a miscreant, and on such an
occasion, makes us almost shudder. But, reader, these were Cromwellian
times, and such were Cromwellian customs.

Herbert found Ireton and his second in command seated at the supper
table--and hell could not have unchained two such incarnate demons on
that same evening. The object of his visit was soon explained. But it
seemed only to supply subject of mirth to his superior officers.

"Pooh, pooh! man," said the commander-in-chief, "you are, I fear,
grown quite a papist, too soft-hearted entirely. I wonder how you
would act had you been at the _battue_ in Drogheda or Wexford?" and
Ireton sipped his hock with a devilish leer.

"But, general, she is my wife," gasped Herbert.

"Folly, man!" rejoined Waller; "no faith to be kept with heretics, you
know, and all these Irish are such. You will easily find another, I
trow you, when we sack the city one of these fine days."

Herbert heeded not the coarse jest of the speaker, but, turning to the
general, implored him to torn a serious ear to a matter on which the
happiness of his life depended. But Ireton seemed inclined to laugh it
off as an excellent joke.

Driven to desperation, the brave soldier, who never before feared or
supplicated any man, sank on his knees, and with tears of agony
besought him to cancel Waller's iniquitous sentence. He even asked him
to do so in memory of the act by which, at the risk of his own life,
he saved his at Naseby. And Ireton seemed almost inclined to relent,
and hope began to brighten in the heart of the suppliant, when a
whisper from Waller to the general blasted them for ever. He had
himself in person given the order for execution, and his callous heart
was too obdurate to feel compunction even for a bad act. Summoning an
orderly, he gave him some instructions in an undertone; and Herbert
was directed by his commander-in-chief to make his report of the
progress of the trenches under his command in the King's Island. This
was but a feint to turn his attention from the main object of his
visit. His report was, however, quickly made, and as there was no
other pretext for detaining him he arose to depart. There was
something more then fiendish in the laugh of Hardress Waller as he
wished him safe home, and a good night's rest.

That night, a heart-broken man knelt beneath the gibbet erected on the
green sward in front of King John's castle. For him all earthly
happiness was now over; and there, in the presence of the pale moon
that looked silently on his sorrow, that cold October night, he vowed
eternal fealty to his wife in heaven, eternal hatred to her murderers.
There was a strange admixture of reverence and irreligion, of love and
hatred, in his feelings and sentiments, no doubt; but the camp of
Cromwell was but an indifferent school for the culture of Christian
ethics. Beside, his brain was, for the time, astray from sorrow and
outraged feeling; he followed but {246} the dictates of human passion
unrestrained by either reason or religion. His heart and his hopes
were already buried in the grade that was soon to close over the
remains of his first and only love; and, from that night out, though
his life was a long and a chequered one, he was never known to smile,
till he became an inmate of the monastery where we found him at the
commencement of our narrative.

The remainder of the siege was a blank chapter in his life. By nature
a soldier, he got through his duties fearlessly but mechanically,
without the slightest feeling of interest in any enterprise in which
he had a share. To him defeat or victory was a matter of utter
indifference; and it was in this mood he entered the fallen city, as
the sun was sinking, on the 27th of October, 1651, and took up his
quarters with Ireton, in the old Dutch-gabled house which is still
standing, and adjoins the Tholsel in Mary street. It is more than
probable that his reason would have altogether succumbed beneath the
terrible shock it had sustained, were it not for some new incidents
that now occurred to awaken it for a time to activity.

By sunrise on the 29th, the Cromwellian garrison beat to arms. It was
the signal for the assemblage of the Irish troops in the old cathedral
of St. Mary's, where, in accordance with the third article of
capitulation, they were to lay down their arms. It was not Fennell's
fault that they escaped the fate of the soldiers and women of Drogheda
and Wexford. He had done his work of treachery well; and we cannot
venture to say what his feelings were when he beheld his brave but
ill-fated countrymen assembled round the altar to deposit at its rails
the weapons they had so long and so gallantly wielded in the cause of
one who was afterward to despoil their children of their lawful
heritage, and sanction its appropriation by the murderers of his
father. Ah! no Irishman can ever forget the ingratitude of the second
Charles. But Walter Herbert thought little of the ceremony gone
through that morning in the old church of the O'Briens till all was
over. As the disarmed garrison marched down the long aisle of the
cathedral many of them dropped dead--it might have been of the
plague, or it might have been of a broken heart. Among the dead were
two whose faces he had not looked on for years--Terence and Donat
O'Brien, his wife's brothers. The sight awakened a new thought within
him--that of his child whom he had not yet seen--and but few moments
elapsed ere he was standing in front of the old corner house opposite
the church of St. Nicholas. But its appearance was sadly changed since
last he saw it. Gable and chimney bore evident marks of the enemy's
cannon, while all around wore an air of desolation and sorrow. He
looked up into one well-remembered window, but no fragrant geraniums
were now there, as of old; no lark carolled the cheering song he so
often listened to, with pleasure, some nine years before; balcony, and
shutter, and curtain had disappeared. The whole house seemed in
mourning. Even his knock rang through the house as through a
sepulchre--so he thought. Twice he repeated it; and, at length, an
aged head peered cautiously through a dormer window, and asked who was
there. His answer quickly brought down the old domestic; but a flood
of tears was her only welcome, as she opened the door and admitted him
She had been the nurse of Eily and her brothers in childhood, and
partly his own in sickness; and was now the survivor of all her old
heart loved; of all, save one, a blue-eyed, curly-headed boy, who now
hid behind her, evidently scared at the presence of a visitor in that
desolate dwelling. A few words of greeting on the part of old Winny or
Winifred assured him that he was known and welcome; and a few words of
fondness addressed to the child soon restored his confidence. He was
even, ere long, seated {247} contentedly on his father's knee, playing
with sword-buckle--for that fair-headed, blue-eyed boy was the only
child of Eily O'Brien and Walter Herbert. And as he gazed with pride
on his beautiful boy, new hope and a new sense of duty sprang up
within him. He felt that there was even yet something to live for. To
protect that half-orphan child and his sorrowing grandsire would from
that moment be the sole duty of his life, the sole solace of
existence; and to this he pledged himself in Eily's little room, to
which he ascended with his youthful companion, who, at his nurse's
bidding, now called him father, and twined his little hands round his
neck as he kissed him. The sudden roll of drums at length announced to
him that it was time to depart, and fondly embracing his child once
more, he hurried out of the house. He would never have left it did he
then but know that in so doing he was bidding his boy farewell for

The beating to arms announced the commencement of the mock trial of
two dozen individuals, whom Ireton had already virtually sentenced to
death, by excluding them from the protection guaranteed to the
remaining citizens in the terms of capitulation. How readily would
Herbert have saved every one of them, but his vote was only effective
in one case, that of the gallant Hugh O'Neil, the city governor. The
rest were condemned, by a majority, to die; and it was not without a
tear he beheld that long file of brave and resolute men led forth to
the scaffold. Priest and layman, soldier and citizen, were alike
sacrificed, and for no crime save that of loving and defending their
native land. And what Englishman, thought he, would not readily be
guilty of the same offence? All passed silently from the
death-chamber; all, save one, a venerable man, who, with Father
Woulfe, was arrested in the lazar-house while administering the last
sacraments of the Church to its plague-stricken inmates, soon to be
deprived of all spiritual ministry. Herbert thought he recognized him,
as he stood erect and fearless in the council-hall, and with hand
pointed toward heaven, summoning Ireton to meet him, ere a month, at
its judgment bar. He had certainly seen him before, but dressed in
white serge, and not, as now, in purple. Nay, if he remembered
rightly, he had been Eily's confessor, and, with the parish
clergyman's permission, had married them privately in the church of
St. Saviour, having first obtained a promise, freely granted by
Herbert, that the children of that union, if such there were, should
be brought up in the religion of the mother. What would he not have
done to preserve the live [life?] of that venerable, heavenly-looking man! The
last of Ireton's victims was one whose presence among the condemned he
witnessed with astonishment. He had seen him closeted for hours with
that same Ireton; and knew him to have been promised lands and money
for certain services to be rendered to the general. But treachery was
met with treachery; and Fennell, the traitor, ended his days on the
same scaffold with Terence O'Brien, the bishop and martyr.

* * * * * *

The last guard was relieved on the day of execution--it was the eve of
All-Hallows--and the clock of the town-hall was just chiming midnight
as Herbert, who was the officer of the night, commenced his rounds. As
he passed along, in silence and alone, by the Dean's Close, on his way
to the castle barracks, he was suddenly stopped, at the head of an
arched passage, over which an oil lamp feebly flickered, by an
individual closely wrapped up in a large, dark frieze over-coat. To
draw his sword was his first impulse; but a single glance at that wan
face, whose gaze was sadly fixed upon him, changed his purpose in an
instant. And, though armed to the teeth, he trembled in presence of
that defenceless old man, and stood in silence before him.


"Don't you know me, Walter?" said the stranger.

"Alas! too well," was his reply. "But can I hope that you will ever
forgive me?"

"My creed tells tells me to forgive even my--but I believe you never
meant to be such"--and the old man extended his hand to Herbert.

They stood alone--with no eye upon them save that of the all-seeing
One, and, in his presence, Walter fell on his knees, protesting his
purity of intention, and asking the old man's blessing. And Conner
O'Brien, for it was he, with head uncovered, blessed the stranger for
the first time, and, raising him up, clasped him to his bosom as his
son--the husband of his darling Eily, now sleeping with her mother in

Herbert was about to respond, with a fervent assurance of his undying
love and devotion to her, when the old man stopped him short, and,
drawing him into the recess of the bow way, asked him if he might now
rely on his friendship and protection.

"Henceforth, as God is my witness," earnestly replied Herbert, "your
interest and mine are but one."

"Good!" returned his companion. "Then, when occasion presents itself,
you will procure a pass for myself and a friend in whose safety I feel
the deepest interest. For my own life I care not, as I have no one
save you and my grandson now remaining to care for." Then the old man,
despite his resolution, sobbed aloud. "But my friend," he continued,
after a few moments, "cannot yet be spared. We cannot afford to lose
him, and it is solely on his account--though he knows nothing of my
project--that I have waited here to meet you."

After some further brief conversation, they parted with a fond embrace
--the old man to his friend, and Walter to the barracks. When his
watch was ended, he lay down to enjoy, for the first time during many
months, a peaceful slumber of several hours.

The 1st of November, 1651, dawned brightly on the old city of
Luimneach, and its now shattered fortifications--brightly on the
brown heath of the Meelick mountains--brightly on the waving woods of
Cratloe--brightly on the rapids at the salmon weir, and on the snowy
sails of the English transports at anchor in "the pool"--brightly on
the gory head of Terence O'Brien, Bishop of Emly, impaled on the
center tower of the city--brightly, too, on his murderer, Henry
Ireton, as he reviewed the body of troops destined for the siege of
Carrigaholt Castle; for God "maketh his sun to rise upon the good and
bad." Ere the sun set the vanguard of that body had left the Cratloe
hills far behind them, on their march westward; and Herbert was second
in command of the first division. He was well mounted, and with him
rode two peasants thoroughly acquainted with the country, and destined
to serve him as guides. Of late his soldiers remarked that he had
grown unusually silent and morose, and few of them cared to intrude on
him uninvited. Thus it happened that, during the march, he rode
considerably in advance, though always within sight of his detachment,
with no other companions than the two guides.

With one of them he seemed well acquainted, and the soldiers remarked
that he conversed freely with him on the road. The other seemed to
speak but seldom, and then only to his brother guide. This, however,
was no matter of surprise, as it was supposed he spoke in Irish, a
language almost utterly unknown to the English commander. And such, in
reality, was the fact. Whether he understood English or not, he spoke
in his native tongue to O'Brien, who, as the reader may have guessed,
was Herbert's other guide on the evening in question. As they
approached Ennis the old man seemed much excited, alleging, as his
reason, that he feared being recognized; but it was not difficult to
perceive that his {249} anxiety was more for his companion than
himself. They succeeded, however, in reaching their destination, and
encamped near Kilfiehera to await the arrival of the main body from
Kilrush. Under pretext of exploring the wild coast of Kilkee and
Farahee, Herbert left the camp at sunrise, attended solely by the two
individuals who had been his companions on the march from Limerick. He
returned alone, however, in the evening, and rumor went abroad that he
had been deserted by his guides amid the wild recesses of the coast.
This new piece of treachery on the part of the Irishry, after being
warmly denounced round the Cromwellian camp-fires that night, was
forwarded next morning to Limerick, to be faithfully chronicled, with
many other facts of like authenticity, in "Ludlow's Memoirs." Herbert
was too much overjoyed at the escape of his father-in-law and the
friend in whom he seemed so deeply interested, to give himself any
concern about the camp-fire gossip, or Ludlow's version of the matter.

The next week found him again in Limerick. Sudden news of the alarming
illness of the general had reached the camp, and the expedition to the
west was, for the time, abandoned. Herbert found his new post a trying
one--to keep watch and ward with Hardress Waller, one of his wife's
murderers, beside the dying bed of another. Waller was Ireton's
confidant, the ready instrument of all his infamy; and Herbert was
selected by the general to attend him as the only surviving officer
attached to his own regiment since it was first raised in Nottingham,
the native county of both. To escape from his post was impossible.
Nothing short of suicide could free him from it; and the thought of
his little son, if no higher motive, prevented him from putting an end
to his existence. Night after night was he doomed to sit by the
bed-side of the dying man and listen to the wild ravings of remorse
and blasphemy that, almost every moment escaped his plague-stained
lips. He would start up betimes, and, with the frantic look of a
maniac, call for his sword to ward off the fiends that seemed to mock
his tortures; and then he would sink back exhausted, still wildly
raving of Charles Stuart, and Terence O'Brien, the "Lord's anointed,"
as he now called them, whom he had murdered. Nay, he would clutch
Herbert's hand, and, with tears, implore his forgiveness. But Hardress
Waller stood there too, and a look from him would again rouse the
murder-fiend within him. All feeling of compunction would then pass
away; and grim despair again lay hold of him. Oh! it was a fearful
sight--that death-bed of despairing remorse. It never left Herbert's
memory, and was the commencement of that change that ultimately
converted the Puritan soldier into a Christian monk.

Ireton died in his house in Mary street on the 26th of November, 1651,
still "raging and raving," says the chronicler,  [Footnote 40] of the
unfortunate prelate, whose unjust condemnation he imagined hurried on
his death. Herbert was of the party appointed to guard the remains to
England, and, before setting out, hastened to his father-in-law's
house to bring his child with him. But, alas! he found it empty, and
not the slightest trace of Winny or the boy. Nor could any one tell
him what had become of either. With a bursting heart, he set out with
the funeral cortege to Cork, and thence to Bristol, resolved never
more to draw sword in Cromwell's cause. Arrived in London, he
delivered up his charge, and at once quitted the kingdom, without
waiting for the lying in state at Somerset House, or final interment
in Westminster Abbey, of Ireton's plague-stricken corpse. Though
pledged never again to serve in the ranks of the monsters whose
atrocities in Ireland made him so often blush for his native country,
he could not yet entirely wean {250} himself away from his old
profession. After a few months passed in idleness and _ennui_ on the
continent, during which he vainly tried to forget the loss of his wife
and child, he entered the Earl of Bristol's regiment as a volunteer,
and faithfully maintained the cause of King Charles till his
restoration. It was when forming part of his body-guard at Lord Tara's
residence in Bruges, where the exiled monarch occasionally resided,
that he first met with the Capuchin fathers, and was by them received
into the Catholic Church. With the king he returned to England, but
only to have all his sad recollections awakened by meeting once more
with his old enemies, Waller and Ireton.

  [Footnote 40: Burke, "_Hibernia Dominicana_."]

Ireton! some astonished reader will exclaim. Why, surely, we buried
him years ago, and are not expected, we presume, to believe in ghosts
in this enlightened nineteenth century of ours.

And yet we must repeat what we have written. On his return to London,
Walter Herbert again stood face to  with Waller and Ireton--the
former, with a smile of hypocritical adulation, welcoming the return
of him whose father he had aided in murdering--the latter, a hideous
spectacle, first dangling on a gallows at Tyburn, and then grimly
staring at the by-passers--if those sightless sockets could be said to
stare--from the highest spike on Westminster Hall. It was a shocking
sight to Herbert--that ghastly skeleton and that ghastly head--and
recalled to his memory, with sadness and horror, another but far
different head which, ten years before, he saw set up, pallid and
blood-stained, on the castled tower of Limerick. God is very just,
thought he, as he passed on, with a shudder.

On his return to England Herbert found himself friendless. All his
relatives had died, or perished on the battle-field, during the civil
wars, and of his child there was still no trace. All he could learn
was that he had been sent to his grandfather, then resident on the
continent; but where the grandfather resided, there was no means of
ascertaining. Tired of England, and the cruelties and perfidies he
daily saw endorsed by the sign-manual of one who, he imagined, should
have learned toleration and honor in the school of affliction--in
hopes also of meeting with his child--he quitted his native land for
ever, and joined the ranks of the Duke of Lorraine, the old ally and
friend of his former commander, the Earl of Bristol. With him and Sir
George Hamilton he fought the battles of Spain for nigh fifteen years;
and his last achievement in her service was one of the brightest on
record. With a few resolute companions he held his ground for two
entire days in the shattered citadel of Cambrai, though the battery to
which they returned shot for shot was under the personal inspection of
Louis XIV. and the renowned hunchback Luxemburg. The bursting of a
shell laid him senseless, and when, after a long and painful illness,
he was again restored to health, he resolved, in thanksgiving, to
devote the remainder of his days to the exclusive service of God, in
the convent where he first learned to know him.

During the recital of the foregoing narrative, which, for brevity's
sake, we have given consecutively, and in our own words, Brother
Francis was frequently interrupted by his youthful auditor, as new
light was thrown by him on events in his family history which, till
then, he had never heard satisfactorily cleared up. He had already
learned from his mother that his grandfather had been an English
officer, supposed to have fallen in Cromwell's wars, though a vague
report reached the family that he was seen in Spain after Cromwell's
death. Of his grandmother, he only heard that she died young, and that
her father resided for a considerable time in Brussels, with his
grandson, whom, at his death, he confided to the care of none guardian
of St. Antoine's at Louvain, who was his brother-in-law, and who had
brought the boy, when a mere child, from Ireland. {251} He further
learned that, after the completion of his studies, and contrary to the
wish of his uncle, who intended him for the ecclesiastical state, his
father embraced the profession of arms, and, shortly after his
marriage, embarked with the French troops sent by King Louis to
Ireland. He fell at the siege of Limerick, and his widow died of a
broken heart soon after the intelligence of her husband's death
reached her. He was himself then but a boy, and was placed by his
mother's relatives at the Benedictine college of Douai, whence he
passed, in due time, like his father, to the ranks, and was then
serving, as we have already seen, in the Duke of Vendôme's anny.

"But you did not say who the other person was that accompanied you on
the march from Limerick to Carrigaholt, or what became of him or his
companion," resumed the young soldier, when he had concluded.

"That remains to this day a mystery to me," replied his grandfather,
"for I never saw either after we parted that evening. I left them on a
lofty isolated rock off the coast of Clare, to which they were
conveyed, as the surest place of safety, by a few poor fishermen, then
dwelling in a ruined keep on the verge of the cliff's, which, if I
remember rightly, they called Dunlicky. Had I much curiosity I might
have possibly learned the stranger's name, but I never inquired, and
probably, as I did not, my father-in-law never told me. Certain it is
that he must have been a person of high distinction, as all addressed
him with marked respect, I might almost say reverence, and seemed most
devoted to him, though, as far as I could see, he possessed no earthly
means of remunerating them--nothing, in fact, save the half-military,
half-rustic garments in which he was clad. And as they left him and
his companion in one of the two small huts that served as a shelter in
stormy weather for the few wild-looking sheep that browsed on the
island, they promised soon to return with such necessaries as he might
require during his stay among them. On returning to the canoe that
brought us from the mainland, I remembered that I heard something fall
from the stranger as he stepped ashore on a ledge of the island. In my
hurry at the moment I paid no attention to the circumstance; and it
was only on our arrival at the foot of the cliff on which the old
castle stood, that I found the object which he had dropped lying in
the bottom of the boat. Hoping soon to be able to restore it to its
owner, I took it with me, and ever since it has remained in my
possession; for I need scarcely say, after all you have heard, that an
opportunity of restoring it never since presented itself. I still
retain it, with the father guardian's permission, in hopes of one day
discovering its lawful claimant."

Here Brother Francis drew from the folds of his garment a small ebony
crucifix, inlaid with pearl, and richly set in gold, and, reverently
kissing it, handed it to his companion. The latter, after carefully
examining it, read the following inscription, beautifully engraved in
text characters round the rim--

  "J. B. RINUC. LEG. AP. R.R.D.D.

Still the history and after fate of the owner of the crucifix remained
a mystery to them. Perhaps some reader of the foregoing pages may be
able to throw some light on the subject, if not for their benefit, at
least for ours.

Little more remains to be told of Brother Francis. In his ninetieth
year he died peacefully in the midst of the brotherhood with whom so
many years of his life had been happily spent--and his eyes were
closed in death by the hands of Eily O'Brien's grandchild, young
Gerald Herbert, who had likewise joined the order, and given up the
camp and its turmoil, and the world and its deceit, to don the cowl of
St. Francis, and spend the rest of his days with the humble,
hospitable Capuchins of Bruges.



From The Month.


The stirring events, political and military, which followed on the
outbreak of the great French revolution, giving a shock to every
institution, secular and religious, and leaving their mark on the
history of every civilized country, affected also, to an unexampled
degree, the fortunes of families and individuals throughout Europe.
The troubles that overwhelmed the thrones of kings, and seemed to
threaten the Church herself with destruction, penetrated even to the
very lowest classes of society. The great were ruined as well as their
princes; the wealthy and noble were proscribed and exiled; new
families arose as well as new dynasties; and if the cottage was spared
persecution, it did not escape the conscription, while in many cases
its inmates died on the guillotine by the side of the tenants of the
neighboring palace. By this great and universal convulsion hearts and
characters were tried to the utmost; and if many in every class sank
under the ordeal which called for courage, patience, and prudence, and
other virtues in the heroic degree, it is no less true that many
others, who seemed to have been born for a life of quiet and ordinary
duty, for unbroken and uneventful happiness, displayed unexpected
strength of character, great qualities of heart and mind, and revealed
graces of the highest order under the blows of affliction. We are in
some respects fortunate in living just at the distance we do from a
period like this; for it has not yet passed into the region of pure
history, in which we can feel no practical concern; and yet time
enough has elapsed since its close for us to reap a part at least of
the rich inheritance that it has left behind it of memoirs and
correspondence relating to those who played an actual part in its
scenes. It was crowded with lives that deserve to be written, full of
interest and instruction.

Let us confine ourselves to France alone. That country produced a
number of most remarkable men, brought to the surface, as it were, by
the breaking up of the great fountains of her national life, who, for
bad or for good, played the chief part in the political changes which
so powerfully affect Europe to the present day, or, as the soldiers of
a new era of military glory, bore her flag in triumph into every
capital on the continent. These men figured in events which write
themselves sooner than any other on the pages of history; and every
one, therefore, has heard of the names and exploits of the emperor and
his marshal. More noble and heroic, more beneficial, and more truly
glorious to their country, were the lives of hundreds--men and women--
who took a part in the great outburst of fresh religious activity
which followed upon the restoration of freedom to Catholicism, of
whose piety, charity, and devotion the present Church of France is the
fruit and the monument. A great deal remains to be done as to the
biography and history of this great religious restoration, in many
respects already equalling, in others even outshining, the earlier
glories of the French Church, for a moment submerged by the
revolution. Lastly, there is another department also in which literary
labor will be well repaid--the history of the sufferers in the
revolution, whether ecclesiastics or secular, whether they perished on
the guillotine, were transported to Cayenne, or claimed as emigrants
the hospitality of England and other European countries.


Many of these emigrants were persons who had never known what it was
to have a whim ungratified; who had lived all their lives amidst the
frivolous dissipation of the highest society in Paris, infected as it
was with the withering influences of Voltairianism; and who had shared
in the illusive enthusiasm with which the earlier steps of the
revolution had been welcomed. Exile, poverty, forced inaction,
obscurity, and the utter want of all that had before been the
occupation of their lives, came upon them as a far more severe,
because more wearing and protracted, trial than if they had had to
bear the short agony of the massacres or the revolutionary tribunal.
Yet, under an ordeal such as this, great and wonderful virtues often
unfolded themselves, which bore witness to the sound religious
training that so many of them had received, of which their patience
and courage were the natural fruits. In this way their history
furnishes us with many characters of wonderful interest; and the
effect of it is not only to enlist our sympathies for individuals, but
to give us also a higher idea of the upper classes in France than is
generally derived from the annals of that dreadful period.

I have been led to these remarks by reading a little volume lately
published in Paris, under the title "_Anne Paule Dominique de
Noailles, Marquise de Montagu_," There may, perhaps, be many more such
memoirs: this, at all events, though written without pretension or
ambition, certainly gives the history of a very beautiful character,
drawn out by continual misfortune, and it contains incident enough to
furnish the plots of three or four romances. Although it deals chiefly
with the history of Madame de Montagu, it gives us incidentally the
outline both of the lives and characters of her sisters. There are
also, of course, other subordinate figures in the picture; and the
author has shown great skill in giving us a very graphic account of
each in a few words or lines. I shall proceed, without further
prologue or apology, to use the materials furnished by this volume for
a short sketch of Madame de Montagu and her sisters.

These ladles were the daughters of the Duc and Duchesse d'Ayen. The
duke was the eldest son of the last Maréchal de Noailles; his wife was
the daughter of M. d'Aguesseau, son of the chancellor of that name.
They had five daughters, called, as the custom was, Mdlle. de
Noailles, Mdlle. d'Ayen, Mdlle. d'Epernon, Mdlle. de Maintenon, and
Mdlle. de Monclar. The eldest married her cousin, the Viscount de
Noailles; the second became Madame de la Fayette, wife of the
celebrated marquis; Mdlle. d'Epernon was twice married, but died
young, and we shall have no occasion to mention her name again; Mdlle.
de Maintenon is the principal subject of the volume we have before us,
having married the Marquis de Montagu; Mdlle. de Monclar became Madame
de Grammont. The sisters probably owed more to their mother than to
any one else in the world, and were formed by her; a short notice of
her is, therefore, the natural introduction to their history.

Many who have been acquainted with the effects of the influence of the
French emigrants who came to England at the time of the revolution
have remarked that some of the most devout and religious among them
must have had a certain tinge of strictness and rigor about them which
betrayed the distant influence of Jansenism, even over those who were
in no sort of way its disciples. This may be seen even in some of
their ascetical works. The Duchesse d'Ayen seems either to have been
brought up in this school, or to have taken up its teaching from
something in her own character congenial to it. As was natural in a
granddaughter of d'Aguesseau, she loved order and prudence with
hereditary instinct, and was, moreover, acquainted with suffering; her
piety was most genuine, and as wife and mother none could surpass her.
The {254} due was a man of the world, a thorough gentleman, with all
the dilettante learning that befitted his high station. He had passed
through several brilliant campaigns, was a member of the Academy of
Sciences, and shone even in Paris in the art of conversation. His time
was mostly spent at court, or in gay circles away from home; but when
he did return the most delicate attentions were lavished on his wife;
and she, on her side, had taught their five children to greet his
visits with love equal to their respect. And in truth, though their
father's quick temper inspired the girls with some natural fear, his
many amiable qualities could not fail to call forth their deepest

Madame d'Ayen they dearly loved. The free unbroken intercourse which
is natural to English homes was not in accordance with the rules of
those stately Parisian families, but the first act of the day was to
go and salute their mother; next, they were sure to meet her going to
or returning from mass, when they were taking their morning walk;
afterward, they all dined together at three, and then came the
pleasant hours spent in her bedroom, while she instructed and amused
them by turns in gentle maternal converse. They had other instructors
I but she really formed their minds.

A bright worldly future opened before these young girls, with their
good birth, high connections, and splendid fortune. Who would have
dreamed of coming storms? But the pious mother did not wait for
misfortune to teach them companionship with sorrow; they began when
children to visit the suffering, and two poor people of the parish
stood sponsors for Mdlle. de Maintenon at the baptismal font. She was
born in 1766, and the parish church was St. Roch; opposite stood the
family hotel, with its spacious gardens reaching up to the Tuileries.

After their marriages the sisters became brilliant stars in Parisian
society, and the tenderest union ever reigned between them. The
eldest, Madame de Noailles, was admired by every one for her sweetness
and grace, being commonly called either "that angel," or the "heavenly
viscountess." Even the family confessor, the saintly Abbé Edgworth,
writing of her after her death to Madame de Montagu, says, "The fate
of that angelic soul, which I knew so intimately on earth, can inspire
no uneasiness. For my part, I acknowledge in all simplicity that she
seems now to return me ten-fold all the good I formerly wished her.
The mere remembrance of her strengthens me, and would keep me from
loving earth, could it still offer any enjoyment."

The sisters vied with each other in love and veneration for their
mother and Madame de Noailles especially had the happiness of being
scarcely ever separated from her. The young wife, however, espoused
with ardor her husband's political opinions; and he was much more
liberal in his views than the Duchesse d'Ayen. Like many other nobles
of the time, both about court and in the provinces, M. de Noailles
hailed with enthusiasm the first dawn of the revolution, believing it
would bring about a new era for France, a grand national reform.
Madame d'Ayen, on the contrary, looked on events with some mistrust;
her experience, her natural prudence and cautious character, made her
more anxious, more inclined to circumspection.

Even after the Bastille had been taken, and when so many families
began to emigrate, M. de Noailles, like his brother-in-law M. de la
Fayette, continued to hope. The events of 1792, however, induced him
to seek refuge in England. The Duc d'Ayen had taken refuge in
Switzerland; but when he heard of the attack on the Tuileries in June,
1792, he flew to the aid of the king and the royal family, considering
that though his post of captain of the royal guard had been abolished,
the danger of Louis had created it anew. He was with that {255} small
band of devoted adherents who would have defended the king on the
fatal 10th of August--the last day of the real monarchy--when Louis'
heart failed him, and he took refuge in the assembly. The Duc d'Ayen
managed again to get away into Switzerland; the other members of his
family, quitting their splendid hotel, hid themselves in a wretched
dwelling of the nearest feubourg. Madame de Noailles was to have
joined her husband in London, where they intended shortly to embark
for America; but she lingered with her mother, first to assist her
grandfather, the Marshal de Noailles, in his dying moments, and next
to console his aged widow, now well-nigh reduced to second childhood.
The result was captivity and death for all time. Madame de Noailles'
virtue shone forth with lustre throughout these trying hours, and it
is as a meek victim of the revolution that she especially deserves

At first the three ladies were simply detained as "suspected" in their
own hotel, during the winter of '93; but in April following they were
transferred as prisoners to the Luxembourg. There they found in a room
below them their relatives, the Maréchal de Mouchy and his wife, who
had already suffered a detention of five months. Not far off was a
cousin, the Duchesse d'Orléans, widow of Philippe Egalité, lately
executed. These were sad recognitions, few or no prisoners being ever
set at liberty, though many went through the mockery of a trial. Soon
after Madame d'Ayen's arrival, M. and Madame de Mouchy were
guillotined. From the first she and her daughter prepared for death.
Both did all they could to alleviate the suffering around them. Madame
d'Ayen gave up her bed to the Duchesse d'Orléans, who was very ill,
and treated with even exceptional cruelty. Madame de Noailles shared
her mother's attendance on this lady, and on several others. She made
the beds for all their relatives, helped them to dress, and washed up
the dishes; in short, waited upon the whole party as if she had been
accustomed all her life to servile occupations. With true virtue, she
even showed no repugnance at anything, but preserved throughout her
usual sweet serenity of temper. Her consolation was to mount up twice
a week to an upper story, under pretence of breathing the fresh air,
but in reality to obtain a view from the window of her children in the
garden beneath. She had contrived to keep up some correspondence
outside, and they came at the stated hour, under the care of their
tutor. Occasionally she managed to receive notes from him, or to send
him one. An extract from the last she wrote, and when she _felt_ an
eternal separation impending, shows the strength of her piety:

  "God sustains me, and will, I am convinced, to the end. Farewell! Be
  assured that my gratitude toward you will accompany me above. But
  for you, what would have been my children's fate? Farewell, Alexis,
  Alfred, Euphemia! Bear God in your hearts every day of your lives;
  attach yourselves steadfastly to him; pray for your father, and for
  his true happiness; remember your mother also, and that her sole
  desire has been for your eternal welfare. I hope to be re-united
  with you in the bosom of God, and in that hope give my last blessing
  to you all."

These words show a soul which could not be ill prepared for death.
When hastily summoned one day to leave the Luxembourg for the
Conciergerie, a certain road to execution, both Madame de Noailles and
her mother were quite ready. Madame d'Ayen had the "Imitation" open at
that beautiful chapter on the cross. Hastily writing on a scrap of
paper--"Courage, my children, and pray"--she put it in as a mark,
and begged the Duchesse d'Orléans, if her life were spared, to give it
to them. This commission was faithfully executed, and the little book
still exists, showing {256} traces of Madame d'Ayen's last tears as
she named her daughters.

The poor old maréchale scarcely knew what was going on, but followed
mechanically. The Conciergerie was crowded, and afforded small
accommodation for new-comers. Madame de Noailles thought it useless to
sleep that night. When her mother pressed her to lie down a little,
she said, "Why seek repose on the brink of eternity?" Early next
morning all three were astir, and persuaded each other to break their
fast, for no dinner had been provided on the previous evening. Madame
de Noailles insisted on dressing both her mother and grandmother,
whispering, "Have good courage, mamma; there is only one hour more!"

But nearly the whole day passed in terrible expectation. Not till five
in the afternoon came the open carts that were to carry forty
condemned prisoners to the Barrière du Trône for execution. Long
previous to detention, Madame de Noailles had secured, in case of
danger, the services of a good priest--Père Carrichon, of the Oratory.
News of their coming fate reached him, and, faithful to his promise,
despite the personal risk, he arrived at the prison door in time. The
first cart filled and passed out. It contained eight ladies, of whom
the last was the old maréchale. In the second were Madame d'Ayen and
her daughter; after whom six men took their places.

The account given by Père Carrichon of this closing scene is our last
view of Madame de Noailles, and tallies with what has gone before.
Serene and gentle, her thoughts appeared wrapt in God. Père Carrichon
tried to make himself seen as the cart came out. Evidently Madame de
Noailles was looking for some one; but her glance did not rest on him.
Having made a great circuit, he posted himself in a conspicuous place
at the opening of a bridge. Again Madame de Noailles anxiously scanned
the crowd around, and again without discerning the face she sought.
Père Carrichon was tempted to give up the effort in despair. Priestly
charity prevailed, however, and he hastened forward to the Rue St.
Antoine. A violent storm had come on; thunder and lightning raged, the
wind blew furiously. The poor victims were drenched; the ladies' hair
streamed about their faces, and their hands, closely tied behind each,
could give no relief. What with the jolting and wind, they could
hardly keep their seats on those narrow planks. The savage curiosity
of the populace yielded to the violence of the storm; the crowd
dispersed; windows and doors closed. Père Carrichon ventured nearer
the cart, amid the very escort of soldiers intent on guarding
themselves from the storm. Suddenly Madame de Noailles' countenance
lighted up with her own sweet smile; her eyes were thankfully raised
to heaven, and then she leaned forward, whispering to her mother. She
had seen him, Père Carrichon felt sure of it. A grateful smile stole
over the duchess's face also.

Père Carrichon continued walking beside the cart; his heart raised in
prayer; the mute confession was made, the silent absolution given.
Solemn, touching scene!--those two heads, one so fair, reverentially
bent down with looks of mingled contrition and hope; the priest
fulfilling his errand of mercy; and the storm raging on.

At length the carts stopped. The executioner and his assistants came
forward, one carelessly twirling a rose between his lips. The
guillotine fell on the maréchale; afterward on Madame d'Ayen; and
Madame de Noailles suffered next. Up to the last moment both mother
and daughter employed themselves in exhorting their companions to
Christian repentance. The vicomtesse devoted herself especially to a
young man whom she had overheard blaspheming. One foot was already on
the bloody ladder, when, turning round a last time, she {257}
murmured, with imploring accents, "I conjure you, say--Forgive me!"
Their own sweet countenances spoke only of heaven. So beautiful were
these deaths, that, despite the horrors of the scene, Père Carrichon
could but raise his full heart in praise and thanksgiving to God. Thus
lived and died the eldest of these five sisters.

The second, Madame de la Fayette, is a beautiful character; so
enthusiastic in spirit, so warm and generous in heart. Endowed with
good natural powers, her mind had been highly cultivated, she could
reason well, and possessed a ripe judgment. Prompt and decided on
great occasions, she was then energetic enough in carrying out her
resolutions; but by a strange contradiction of nature, doubts often
assailed her in little matters, and she would hang back, uncertain
what course to pursue. Ardent in her piety, she was yet tormented with
scruples; and unfortunately Madame d'Ayen had so far condescended to
these as to allow her daughter not to make her first communion till
after marriage. Naturally enough, at that late period the great act
was accomplished with much mental suffering. Madame de Montagu said
with truth that this beloved sister was not sufficiently interior, and
thirsted too eagerly after the consolations of human affections; but
for sincerity, faith, zeal, and submission to the divine will Madame
de la Fayette was most admirable. Her greatest quality was
self-sacrifice, unshrinking devotion to those she loved--the virtue of
a wife and a mother. M. de la Fayette attests that he owed to her
unalloyed happiness during a wedded union of thirty-four years.
"Gentle, tender, virtuous, and high-souled, this incomparable woman
has been the charm and pride of my existence."

She too was imprisoned, but was afterward released. Her first thought
was to join her husband, a captive at Olmutz. Other duties detained
her for a while; but the ultimate object was kept steadily, though
silently, in view. Madame de la Fayette sent her young son out of
France across the Atlantic, confiding him to Washington's protection;
then she hastened to look after her daughters in Auvergne, and settle
money accounts there. Happily, she was able to buy back Chavaniac, the
property of an old aunt who had brought up her husband. Business
concluded, she sought for Madame de Grammont; the two sisters had not
met since the tragic death of their relatives. Madame de Noailles'
orphan children were living with their aunt. Tearing herself from
them, Madame de la Fayette--who could only obtain a passport for
America--then went round by sea to Altona, in Denmark, where her other
sister, Madame de Montagu, and many French exiles, had fixed their
residence for a while. This also was a meeting in which bitter pain
was mingled with joy. "Did you see them?" were the only words Madame
de Montagu could sob forth, after a long, mute caress. "Alas! I had
not that happiness," replied Madame de la Fayette, whose filial heart
was choking with the same remembrances.

Proper measures having been taken for obtaining an audience of the
emperor, Madame de la Fayette announced her intention of proceeding to
Vienna forthwith, that she might solicit permission to share her
husband's captivity. The simple words in which she mentioned her
generous purpose thrilled through the little circle; vain attempts
were made to dissuade her from it; she gently, but firmly, persisted.
Her sister could best understand the feelings that guided her, and
that she did so was expressed by silent repeated pressures of her

Madame de la Fayette--accompanied by her two girls, aged thirteen and
fifteen--reached Vienna under an assumed name. The emperor granted her
request, and she hastened joyfully to Olmutz. Such was her enthusiasm
at sight of the gloomy fortress in which her husband was confined,
that she began repeating Tobias' beautiful canticle (c. xiii.), and
entered with it on her lips.


It was the 15th of October, 1795. M. de la Fayette had already been a
close prisoner for three years; during the last eighteen months
especially he had received no tidings of what was going on in the
world without. A vague rumor of excesses committed in France had
indeed reached his unbroken solitude, but not the name of one victim;
he knew nothing of the fate of his wife and children. Now, without one
word of preparation, the door of his cell was unlocked; figures
darkened the threshold. Could it be? His heroic wife and their two
children! Yes; they had come to share the hardships of his prison

The emperor of Austria had spoken to Madame de la Fayette of her
husband's place of confinement in a manner which showed her afterward
that he was quite ignorant of the rigorous treatment to which the
prisoner was subjected. Two little cells, with a wretched bed and a
table and chair in each, formed the sole accommodation. As for eating,
there was one pewter spoon, no such luxury as knife or fork being
allowed. Pens, paper, and ink were only forthcoming on rare occasions,
and then the open letter had to be written under the eye of an
official. Madame de la Fayette endured all these annoyances for two
years; and truly the abnegation of her young daughters during this
long period is nearly as admirable as her own. The girls employed
themselves very usefully in concocting new articles of clothing out of
old materials. Madame de la Fayette, like her husband, soon began to
suffer from such close confinement; but when, after eleven months'
illness, she applied for leave to go and consult a physician at Vienna
for a few days only, the answer was that, once outside the fortress,
she would never be re-admitted. The prison doctor could only exchange
conversation in Latin with her husband, and neither of them appear to
have been adepts in that language; moreover, his hurried visit was
obliged to take place in the presence of an officer.

Friends wearied both France and foreign powers with solicitations for
the release of General de la Fayette. Fox painted the miseries endured
at Olmutz in eloquent terms before a British House of Commons; but it
was not until October, 1797, that the prison gates opened at length,
through Bonaparte's intervention.

The name she bore often proved detrimental to her, but Madame de la
Fayette gloried in it. With Robespierre's fall all prisoners in France
were set at liberty. General de la Fayette, however, was accused of
having betrayed the revolution because he had refused to become privy
to its crimes, and his wife was therefore detained. Interrogated by
Legendre, who told her how much he detested the very name of la
Fayette, she boldly expressed her readiness to defend him and it
against whatsoever accuser. Legendre remanded her to prison "for

This devoted love for husband and children did not suffice to fill her
heart. It was burning also with other affections. To Madame de la
Fayette we owe a touching life of the Duchesse d'Ayen, written while
at Olmutz, on the margin of a stray volume of Buffon, with a broken
toothpick for her pen and a piece of Chinese ink. When told of the
tragic fate that had overtaken her relatives, she could not believe it
at first; especially it seemed impossible that men could have been so
barbarous to her "angelic sister." On recovering a little from this
overwhelming sorrow, she wrote to her children:

  "I thank God for having preserved to me life and reason, and do not
  regret your absence at such a moment. He kept me from revolt against
  him; but I could not long have borne the semblance of any human
  consolation. To follow in the track of such dear footsteps would
  have sweetened the last pangs for me."


In the prisons of the revolution her sole thought was how to relieve
the wants and sufferings of those around. With her cousin, the
Duchesse de Duras, at Plessis, she was constantly interceding for the
sick and poor among their fellow captives, and this at a time when a
chance word sufficed for death, as sixty victims chosen by caprice or
at hazard were regularly dragged forth each day for execution. Her
spirit never forsook her under trying circumstances, and she often
showed wonderful presence of mind. Once she pleaded her own cause
before the tribunal of Puy, and on several occasions harangued the
people. Her language at these times was always nobly firm, and
sometimes proud even to haughtiness. In a letter addressed to Brissot,
after asking for liberty, or at least the favor of remaining a
prisoner on parole, which the whole village of Chavaniac volunteered
to guarantee, she concludes by saying, "I consent to owe you this
service." Her letters to the two ministers, Roland and Servan, or to
foreign princes on behalf of her husband, are no less elevated in
tone. She never stoops to flatter. No wonder that she exercised a
species of fascination over all those who approached her; with
whatever feelings the acquaintance began, it was impossible to know
and not to love her.

In all her sorrows, ardent faith sustained her. When danger again
threatened at Paris, she writes to Madame de Montagu: "We mast abandon
ourselves wholly to God in this critical hour. Let us live like
Abraham, ready to start whenever God calls, and to go wheresoever he
appoints." When she felt her end approaching, once more she repeated
aloud that canticle of Tobias, singing which she had, years before,
entered the fortress of Olmutz. True in death to her character through
life, her heart was inflamed with celestial desires, and still
overflowing with human affection. Drawing all her loved ones round
her, she gave them a last blessing, and gently expired, holding her
husband's hands within her own.

Of four daughters of the Duc d'Ayen, Madame de Grammont was the least
attractive. Her person was small, her appearance stiff, her features
marked; there was nothing soft about her look or manner. Her virtue
was of a stern kind; she had schooled herself into a certain absence
of feeling, neither right nor lovable; but fortunately her actions
often contradicted her professions. Thus her kindness never failed,
and her charity to the poor was boundless. There was a contradiction
too between what she said and what she wrote--her speeches are always
more or less stern, while her letters frequently betray deep
affection; like a person who speaks from principle, but dares to let
herself out on paper, sure of restraining emotion when necessary.
Sacrifice was the prominent feature of her piety; duty dictated her
every sentiment.

Eight out of her nine children she saw carried to their graves in
youth, and each time she could say with composure, "The Lord hath
given and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord."
Writing to Madame de Montagu about a daughter whose end was
approaching, she uses these words: "As life ebbs away, her peace and
self-possession are perfect. . . . . . I do not despair of helping her
passage into the bosom of God after having erst borne her in my own;
and it is sweet to make her repeat, 'I was cast into thy arms, O Lord,
from the beginning: thou art my God, even from my mother's womb.'" It
was not in her character to disclose the struggle of natural feeling
that was going on in her heart at the time that she was writing words
like these.

Once Madame de Grammont writes to her sister: "The expectation,
experience, and long continuance of misfortune have at length made me
_impassible_." "And I," adds Madame de Montagu, commenting on the word
in {260} her journal, "am still a reed shaken by every breath." The
two phrases aptly characterize each sister.

In 1848, Madame de Grammont, who had been an eye-witness of the two
preceding revolutions, was quite surprised at the fears entertained by
those around her. "But, grandmamma," said a member of her family, "if
the guillotine were set up again as in the reign of terror, surely you
would feel some uneasiness?" "Poor child!" replied the old lady, "that
has nothing to do with the question. Must we not all die? The
important thing is to be well prepared; the mode of death is a mere
detail." And thus unmoved she lived on to the age of eighty-five--that
is, till the year 1853--having survived all her sisters. Though her
husband had been banished for some time, she never emigrated; and
sixty-seven years of her life were passed in retirement at their
château of Villersexel. There she was much beloved, being a true
mother to all the poor.

Her sisters also were warmly attached to her. Madame de Montagu held
her in such veneration, that though a little the older of the two, she
always kept a journal for Madame de Grammont to read, that she might
point out her faults and help her to amend. She called Madame de
Grammont her _second conscience_ and the province in which she resided
the kingdom of Virtue, with Peace (Villersexel) for its capital.

Madame de Grammont felt their mother's loss, in her way, as deeply as
the rest. Perhaps, too, this heavy trial laid the foundation of her
remarkable firmness; for there are some strong natures that cannot
bend through fear of breaking. When able afterward to communicate with
Madame de Montagu, she writes:

"Since the immolation of those dear victims, the cross is my sole
place of refuge. With you, and all those we love in this world and the
other, I cast myself into Gods's arms. There let all disquietude
cease; there let our minds and hearts rest for ever; thence let us
derive strength to perform our allotted task here below."

Her father had entreated Madame de Grammont to consult her personal
safety in those perilous times by joining himself and Madame de
Montagu in Switzerland. She declined, because her husband was only
just recovering from a dangerous illness, and also through fear of
compromising his family. Indeed, so much was circumspection necessary,
that her letters were written on cambric handkerchiefs, which Madame
de Grammont took the further precaution of sewing inside her
messenger's waistcoat lining.

Madame de Montagu affords a strong contrast to Madame de Grammont. She
went through life thrilling at every step; full of tears that often
gushed for joy, but oftenest welled up from deep fountains of sorrow;
heroic in faith, like the others, but quivering and writhing beneath
each new load of anguish. She never grew accustomed to suffering, and
yet God tried her well; but he could not weary her love for himself.
And thus, while human affections were ever causing sharp pain, divine
love gave her strength to bear it without asking her to overcome
_them_. Such was her character, which grace supported without

Madame de Montagu was admired in the world, but never cared for
triumphs of any kind. Her sole wish was to please God and her home
circle, and do good to her fellow-creatures. We may believe that the
pauper sponsors who held her at St. Roch watched over their charge
through life. For well and zealously, though full of natural
shrinkings, did Madame de Montagu perform her part on the busy stage.
Her timidity was put to its first great trial when, at sixteen, she
had to undergo her first introduction to her intended husband, on whom
she dared not raise her eyes, to see whether her parents' choice
suited her, in appearance at least, until he fortunately turned away
to look at a picture. Next {261} came the further suffering of
receiving congratulatory visits from all Paris, during which the poor
bride elect was seated bolt upright, pale and trembling, beside her
mother, and between two goodly rows of members of either family,
ranged along both sides of the apartment. At church on the wedding-day
she regained her composure, because all else was forgotten in the
earnest prayer breathed that she might well perform her new duties.

Almost immediately the young wife had to sacrifice her greatest
pleasure, that of seeing her mother and sisters frequently. M. de
Montagu was obliged to join his regiment, and she was left under the
tutelage of her father-in-law, a kind and clever man, but eccentric
and full of vagaries. To please him she did everything not wrong,
commencing that petty series of daily yieldings, insignificant to
careless eyes, but so meritorious because so difficult. This is
woman's battlefield, obscure but high; and in this path Madame de
Montagu always walked, perfectly ignorant that her simplicity was in
any way extraordinary. The good she did by example, and without any
words, was immense; only near relatives and intimate friends could
perceive it. One of these, M. de Mun, used to say that she was the
only _dévote_ he ever knew who made him wish to be saved. So far could
she condescend even to the pleasures of others, that in exile, after
all her sorrows, she danced at a rustic ball. And to a nature like
hers, such griefs as she had known were undying even in their
keenness. One of her characteristic traits was that she never forgot
an anniversary: everything that had happened to herself and to those
dear to her was treasured up, and recalled as the days came round. If
it was an occasion of gladness, it was celebrated in public; but her
life was more crowded with the memories of sorrow, and these she kept
for the quiet of her own room.

We should occupy a larger space than that which is at our disposal
were we to try to follow Madame de Montagu through the various stages
of her exile from France. She first came to England, settling at
Richmond; then she went with her husband to Aix-la-Chapelle, whence
the success of the revolutionary armies drove them again to England.
They stayed at Margate for a while; then the declaration of war
between England and France brought out an order for the _émigrés_ not
to live on the coast, and Richmond received them once more. Economy,
however, forced them to seek a cheaper abode at Brussels. Afterward
this place of refuge became unsafe, and Madame de Montagu was forced
to separate from her husband, and accept the hospitality of an aunt,
Madame de Tessé--a _philosophe_ old lady, who had been a friend of
Voltaire's, but who, as one of her grandnieces said of her, "_tout en
se croyant incrédule, ne laissait pas de faire un grand signe de croix
derrière ses rideaux chaque fois qu'elle prenait une médecine._"
Madame de Tessé lived at Lowemberg, in Switzerland; her character is
charmingly hit off in the memoir before us; she would have delighted
Mr. Thackeray. But the presence of Madame de Montagu brought
persecution upon her kind relation, who took the characteristic
resolution of selling her property and going elsewhere. She took her
niece and family first to Erfurt, then to Altona, where many French
_émigrés_ were assembled. Her plan was to find a quiet spot beyond the
Elbe, where she could live in peace and carry on her farming
operations; for her great delight was to manage everything herself,
and to supply all the needs of her household from her own resources.
They were a long time in finding a place that would suit Madame de
Tessé. At length an estate named Wittmold was found, on the banks of
the lake of Ploen; and here the exiles found rest for some time. The
best elements of Madame de Montagu's beautiful character were
developed under the hardships and {262} sufferings of this life of
poverty and continued apprehension. She had, of course, never known
even the idea of want before she left France. When she left Paris, she
so little expected to have to manage for herself, that it was only in
consequence of Madame de Grammont's imperturbable prudence that she
made any provision for the future. They had to part in secret, as it
was dangerous to let the servants know of the intended flight of
Monsieur and Madame de Montagu. In the suppressed agitation of the
moment, Madame de Grammont was characteristically thoughtful. She
asked her sister whether she was sure she had her jewels. "Why take
them? we are not going to a fête." "_Raison de plus; c'est parceque
vous n'allez pas à une fête, qu'il faut les emporter_." The advice was
afterward found to have been indeed important; but even the sale of
her jewels only supported Madame de Montagu for a time. In the course
of her long exile, she never made herself a very perfect manager.

She tried to study domestic economy; but she proved a greater
proficient in not spending on herself than in learning how to manage
household affairs on small means. Still her superintendence of the
farm produced good results, from the zeal with which it inspired the
workpeople. However low her funds, she always visited the sick and
poor, managing to procure them some relief; she also worked
unceasingly at objects for sale. Throughout life she never knew
idleness, devoting fixed hours to prayer, reading, the instruction of
her children, and works of charity. As years went on, she more and
more begrudged the hours often forcibly given in social life to
frivolous conversation. Her pleasure was to employ each moment
usefully in some home duty; but this could not always be the case
during exile, especially when residing with her kind but worldly aunt,
Madame de Tessé.

At this period it was that she organized her _oeuvre des émigrés_; a
stupendous work, if we consider that there were 40,000 persons to
assist, and 16,000,000 francs the moderate sum estimated as requisite
for carrying it out with success. Unfortunately the details in figures
of this work have been lost; for Madame de Montagu carefully noted
down every fraction received, from what quarter it came, and how
expended. But we know that the correspondence alone cost annually
about 500 francs during the four years it existed--that is, from 1796
to 1800. She collected money in Germany, Denmark, Switzerland, France,
the Netherlands, and England; and beside distributing pecuniary
assistance, solicited employment for persons of all ages and sexes.
She had children to get into schools, young women to place as
governesses, drawings and needlework to sell, etc. All this was done
without quitting her quiet home on the borders of Lake Ploen, or
giving up one domestic occupation. When pressed for time she sat up at
night. Winter only increased her zeal. "The colder it is," said she,
"the warmer my heart grows." Indeed, she ended by selling for this
work the mourning worn for her mother and sister, which she had kept
as a relic; at another time she also sold her prayer-book for the same
object. But she never would take from this fund for members of her own
family; she preferred working for them, not from pride, but through
delicacy. For another charity she once cut off her beautiful hair and
sold it, receiving eighty francs.

It is curious to remark that this gentle woman nevertheless had her
own firm opinions, even on politics; and though never obtruding, still
constantly held them. One is surprised to find also that these
opinions were not often identical with the views held by those she
most respected and loved. In 1790, M. de Beaune, her father-in-law,
alarmed at the turn affairs were taking, wished to emigrate with all
his family. His idea was to draw Frenchmen together on neutral {263}
ground, to place their families in safety, and having gained the
support of foreign powers, to return with a good army for the
protection of the king and the party of order in the state. Madame de
Montagu fully shared these views; but her husband at this time
disapproved of emigration, considering it the greatest mistake that
could be committed by the king's friends. He hoped to arrive at an
understanding between the liberal party and the _droite_, so as to
save both the monarchy and liberty. His two elder brothers-in-law, MM.
de Noailles and la Fayette, went far beyond these views. Without
wishing to overturn royalty, their dream was to see it based on
republican principles.

So indignant did this render M. de Beaune, that he broke with them
entirely, and wished Madame de Montagu to give up seeing her two
sisters, who naturally embraced their husbands' opinions. She could by
no means understand that persons were to be proscribed because of
their political opinions; but, not to irritate M. de Beaune farther,
she would not receive Madame de la Fayette, who offered to pay her a
visit at Plauzat in Auvergne, and went instead to meet her privately
at a neighbouring inn.

Meanwhile M. de Montagu had yielded to his father's wishes, and at the
end of 1791 resolved to emigrate; his choice, however, fell on England
rather than Coblentz, where M. de Beaune then was. Madame de Montagu
was to accompany her husband. Ere leaving Plauzat she had the
happiness of seeing her mother again, but could not summon up courage
to tell her of her own approaching departure for England. Both mother
and daughter looked on public matters exactly in the same way; there
was great similarity between them as to judgment; but the duchesse was
not impulsive, like Madame de Montagu. They parted most tenderly, with
a presentiment of coming evil; but little did either dream that the
guillotine was to separate them for ever.

Then commenced for Madame de Montagu the miseries and heart-burnings
of exile. Twice she visited England, spending some time at Richmond
and Margate. Griefs began to accumulate; she lost a child for the
third time; Marat was lording it over Paris; M. de Montagu in disgust
again quitted France, and went to serve under his father's orders on
the banks of the Rhine; the massacres of September took place,
followed by the fatal battle of Jemappes. The _émigrés_ were
henceforth banished. Then the king and queen fell victims to the
revolution; Savenay destroyed the last hopes of the Vendeans. In
addition to all these public sorrows, and to the pressure of poverty,
Madame de Montagu lost another child, her fourth; it seemed as if all
her children were born but to die.

All her life she suffered from great delicacy of constitution, and
this natural tendency was further increased by her extreme
sensibility. Just after losing a child for the first time, and while
she was praying, bathed in tears, beside its dead body, a messenger
came to tell her that Madame de Grammont had just given birth to her
first infant. Madame de Montagu, drying up all traces of her own
sorrow, immediately hastened off to congratulate the young mother; but
she had scarcely left her sister's room when she fainted in the
adjoining apartment. A severe illness followed, the precursor of many
others; indeed, it may be said that her whole life was passed amid
moral and physical suffering. Death was ever busy in her family.

She lost her only son Attale, a fine young man, just when he had
attained his twenty-eighth year; and in this case sorrow was
aggravated by the circumstance of his dying through accident--a gun
went off in his hand. No fears, however, were entertained at first.
Madame de Montagu herself was only recovering by slow degrees from
{264} a dangerous malady; a sudden and fatal termination had occurred
for her son, and she knew it not. They dared not tell her. But the
next day, being Trinity Sunday, Madame de Grammont suggested that she
should receive holy communion, though still in bed: the priest, in
presenting the sacred host, invited her to meditate on the passion,
and especially on the sentiments of the Blessed Virgin at the foot of
the cross, where _her son died_.

Madame de Montagu immediately understood him. Her husband then brought
to her bedside the young widow and three orphan girls. Attale's mother
wept in silence, at length ejaculating: "Thy decree, O Lord, has thus
ordained, and I submit. But strike no more, for I am ready to faint
beneath the weight of my cross." But she reproached herself afterward
for this.

Often before had she endured the mother's agony; but this was the
hardest blow of all. And Madame de Montagu lived on to see many loved
ones go before her; father, and husband, and several other relations
preceded her to the tomb; for she lingered till 1839. Among them was
M. de la Fayette, who died in 1834, having survived his wife
twenty-seven years. Madame de Montagu and all the members of her
family requested to be buried at Picpus.

This spot was hallowed to them by sacred memories, for there reposed
above thirteen hundred victims of the revolution. Its continued
existence as a cemetery was due to the pious labors of Madame d'Ayen's
daughters. In the days of terror, a pit had been dug outside the
Barrière du Trône, and all the persons immolated in that quarter of
Paris were promiscuously thrown into it. The savage mode of proceeding
has been related. As each head fell from the guillotine, it was cast,
together with the body, still dressed, into a large barrel painted
red. Each night after the executions were over, these barrels were
taken to Picpus, and their contents indiscriminately emptied into the
pit. The ground had formerly belonged to an Augustinian convent.
There, it could not be doubted, lay the remains of Madame d'Ayen and
her daughter. Madame de Montagu and Madame de la Fayette, on their
return to France, ardently wished to raise a monument to their memory;
but on discovering the immense number of victims interred together, it
seemed more desirable that the undertaking should be of a less private
nature. By their joint efforts, many families of other victims were
attracted to the pious enterprise; souls devoted to prayer gathered
round; the old convent and church of Picpus rose from their ruins. A
cemetery was constructed round that gloomy pit, where not even a name
had been scrawled to recall the memory of those who slept below.
Madame d'Ayen's three daughters could at least enjoy the sad
consolation of praying near their mother's tomb.

All the sisters had bitterly, keenly, felt the cruel stroke that
deprived them of three such near relatives, and in such a painful
manner; but none suffered more enduringly than Madame de Montagu. She
was staying with Madame de Tessé, in Switzerland. News had reached her
of the execution of her grand-aunt and uncle, M. and Madame de Monchy;
but she was completely ignorant of what had become of her mother and
sister. Fears, however, were rife. One day she set out to meet her
father, whom she had not seen for some time; and he was so changed,
that, perceiving him on the way, she only recognized him from his
voice. Each alighted, and his first question was to ask whether she
had heard the news; but, seeing her excessive emotion, he hastened to
assure her of his own perfect ignorance. She felt a calamity
impending, but dared not press for information in the presence of a
third person. They drove to an inn; and when father and daughter were
alone together, he, after some preparation, informed her that he had
just lost his mother. {265} A deadly paleness overspread her
countenance; confused and dizzy, she exclaimed with clasped hands,
"And I--," "I am uneasy about your mother and sister," answered M.
d'Ayen, cautiously. But she was not to be deceived. His looks belied
his words. That was the hour of bitterest anguish in Madame de
Montagu's life. Cries and tears gave no relief. Again and again she
saw the scene re-enacted. Reason trembled, but still she strove to
pray and be resigned. Remembering her mother's pious practice in times
of sorrow, she also recited the magnificat; then, with beautiful
feeling, in the midst of her own anguish, she knelt down and prayed,
all shuddering, for those that made them suffer. But nature struggled
still; and days passed ere she recovered sufficient composure to be
left alone. When all the details reached her, strong religious feeling
transformed the dungeon, the cart, the scaffold into so many steps by
which the martyrs had ascended up to heaven. The love unceasingly
manifested by the three sisters for their martyred relatives is very
touching. They were first reunited at Vianen, near Utrecht, in 1799.
The ostensible object was to settle the division of property rendered
necessary by their mother's death; but in reality they were much more
occupied in calling up sweet memories of her and of their beloved
sister. Madame de la Fayette was then about forty years of age; Madame
de Montagu had reached her thirty-second year; and Madame de Grammont
was rather more than a twelvemonth younger. They remained a month
together, their husbands and families being also on the spot. Not a
little suffering was caused by cold and hunger, for their united
purses could still only produce insufficient means; fuel was wanting,
and they had scanty fare. The three, however, would sit up at night to
enjoy each other's society, wrapping their mantles round them to keep
out the cold, and sharing one wretched _chaufferette_. They spoke very
low, so as not to disturbed husbands and children sleeping in the
adjoining rooms. One great subject of conversation was to point out
their mutual defects--a Christian habit acquired under Madame d'Ayen's
training, and surprisingly brought into play again under such

Madame de Grammont remarked that events were graven in letters of fire
in Madame de Montagu's countenance, and characteristically advised her
to become more calm. She also took the opportunity of teaching her how
to meditate--a service which the elder sister gratefully acknowledges
in her diary. Madame de Montagu observed with admiration Madame de
Grammont's recollected demeanor at mass, which they attended almost
daily, saying she looked like an angel, absolutely annihilated in the
presence of God. "As for me, I feel overwhelmed at my poverty beside
her." Indeed, the two sisters vied in humility with each other. Madame
de Grammont having once said, "You excite me to virtue and attract me
to prayer," Madame de Montagu quickly replied, "Then I am like the
horses in this country; for one sees wretched-looking animals along
the canals drawing large boats after them."

But the chief theme at night was ever their mother. Madame de Montagu
was accustomed to unite herself with the dear victims in special
prayer every day at the "sorrowful hour," and the other two now
undertook the same practice. They also composed beautiful litanies in
remembrance of them during their stay at Vianen. Madame de Grammont
held the pen, writing sometimes her own inspiration, and sometimes
what her sisters dictated. They called these prayers "Litany of our

One of the most interesting episodes in the life of Madame de Montagu
was her intimacy with the celebrated Count Stolberg, whose conversion
to Catholicism seems to have been mainly attributable to the influence
of her character. She came across him during her residence at Ploen
and Wittmold. {266} He was at that time at the head of the government
of the Duke of Oldenburg; and he assisted her with all his power in
her charitable labors for the relief of the French emigrants. The
acquaintance between them sprung up in 1796. Count Stolberg, with his
wife and sister,--the only one of the three who did not afterward
become Catholic,--had already begun to see something of the
inconsistencies and deficiencies of Lutheranism. They were calm,
thoughtful, upright souls; grave, severe, and simple, after the best
type of the German character. They often conversed on and discussed
religious matters among themselves; but they were very ignorant about
the Catholic Church and its doctrines. Madame de Montagu taught them
more about Catholicism, without speaking on the subject directly, than
a whole library of controversial theology. Fragile in health,
sensitive to excess, overflowing with sympathy and tenderness, tried
by long and varied suffering, and strengthened, elevated, and
spiritualized by the cross, without having been hardened or made
impassible,--her whole character showed a force and power and
greatness that was obviously not its own. Such persons have an
irresistible attractiveness; and they speak with a strange silent
eloquence to intelligent hearts in favor of the religion which can
produce and sustain them. Madame de Montagu was not a person to
introduce controversial topics; but she won upon her new friends
gradually, and at last they could not help telling her so, after
listening to the account they had begged her to give of her own and
her sisters' sufferings. After a time their hearts strongly turned to
Catholicism; but intellectual difficulties remained on the mind of
Stolberg, which were not set at rest till 1800, after he had been
engaged in a correspondence with M. de la Luzerne and M. Asseline, to
whom Madame de Montagu and her sisters had introduced him. The French
prelates did their part; but the illustrious convert must ever be
considered as in truth the spiritual child of Madame de Montagu.


From All the Year Round


Here is a gentleman at our doors, Mr. R. A. Proctor, who has written a
book upon that planet Saturn, and he asks us to stroll out in his
company, and have a look at the old gentleman. It is a long journey to
Saturn, for his little place is nine and a half times further from the
sun than ours, and his is not a little place in comparison with our
own tenement, because Saturn House is seven hundred and thirty-five
times bigger than Earth Lodge.

The people of Earth Lodge made Saturn's acquaintance very long ago;
nobody remembers how long. Venus and Jupiter being brilliant in
company, may have obtruded themselves first upon attention in the
evening parties of the stars, and Mars, with his red face and his
quick movement, couldn't remain long unobserved. Saturn, dull, slow,
yellow-faced, might crawl over the floor of heaven like a gouty and
bilious nabob, and be overlooked for a very little while, but somebody
would soon ask, Who is that sad-faced fellow with the leaden
complexion, who sometimes seems to be standing still or going

He was the more noticeable, because {267} those evening parties in the
sky differ from like parties on earth in one very remarkable respect
as to the behavior of the company. We hear talk of dancing stars, and
the music of the spheres, but, in fact, except a few, all keep their
places, with groups as unchanging as those of the guests in the old
fabled banquet, whom the sight of the head of Medusa turned to stone.
Only they wink, as the stone guests probably could not. In and out
among this company of fixtures move but a few privileged stars, as our
sister the moon and our neighbors the planets. These alone thread the
maze of the company of statues, dancing round their sun, who happens
to be one of the fixed company, to the old tune of Sun in the middle
and can't get out. Some of the planets run close, and some run in a
wide round, some dance round briskly, and some slip slowly along. Once
round is a year, and Saturn, dancing in a wide round outside ours, so
that in each round he has about nine times as far to go, moves at a
pace about three times slower than ours. His year, therefore, is some
twenty-seven times longer; in fact, a year in the House of Saturn is
as much as twenty-nine years five months and sixteen days in our part
of the world. What, therefore, we should consider to be an old man of
eighty-eight would pass with Saturn for a three-year-old.

A hundred and fifty years ago, Bishop Wilkins did not see why some of
his posterity should not find out a conveyance to the moon, and, if
there be inhabitants, have commerce with them. The first twenty miles,
he said, is all the difficulty; and why, he asked, writing before
balloons had been discovered, may we not get over that? No doubt there
are difficulties. The journey, if made at the rate of a thousand miles
a day, would take half a year; and there would be much trouble from
the want of inns upon the road. Nevertheless, heaviness being a
condition of closeness and gravitation to the earth, if one lose but
the first twenty miles, that difficulty of our weight would soon begin
to vanish, and a man--clear of the influence of gravitation--might
presently stand as firmly in the open air as he now does upon the
ground. If stand, why not go? With our weight gone from us, walking
will be light exercise, cause little fatigue, and need little
nourishment. As to nourishment, perhaps none may be needed, as none is
needed by those creatures who, in a long sleep, withdraw themselves
from the heavy wear and tear of life. "To this purpose," says Bishop
Wilkins, "Mendoca reckons up divers strange relations. As that of
Epimenides, who is storied to have slept seventy-five years. And
another of a rustic in Germany, who, being accidentally covered with a
hayrick, slept there for all autumn and the winter following, without
any nourishment." Though, to be sure, the condition of a man free of
all weight is imperfectly suggested by the man who had a hayrick laid
atop of him. But what then? Why may not smells nourish us as we walk
moonward upon space, after escape from all the friction and the sense
of burden gravitation brings? Plutarch and Pliny, and divers other
ancients, tell us of a nation in India that lived only upon pleasing
odors; and Democritus was able for divers days together to feed
himself with the mere smell of hot bread. Or, if our stomachs must be
filled, may there not be truth in the old Platonic principle, that
there is in some part of the world a place where men might be
plentifully nourished by the air they breathe, which cannot be so
likely to be true of any other place as of the ethereal air above
this? We have heard of some creatures, and of the serpent, that they
feed only upon one element, namely, earth. Albertus Magnus speaks of a
man who lived seven weeks together upon the mere drinking of water.
Rondoletius affirms that his wife did keep a fish in a glass of water
without any food for three years, in which space it was constantly
augmented, till at first it could {268} not come out of the place at
which it was put in, and at length was too big for the glass itself,
though that were of large capacity. So may it be with man in the
ethereal air. Onions will shoot out and grow as they hang in common
air. Birds of paradise, having no legs, live constantly in and upon
air, laying their eggs on one another's backs, and sitting on each
other while they hatch them. And, if none of these possibilities be
admitted, why, we can take our provision with us. Once up the twenty
miles, we could carry any quantity of it the rest of the way, for a
ship-load would be lighter than a feather. Sleep, probably, with
nothing to fatigue us, we should no longer require; but if we did, we
cannot desire a softer bed than the air, where we may repose ourselves
firmly and safely as in our chambers.

As for that difficulty of the first twenty miles, it is not impossible
to make a flying chariot and give it motion through the air. If
possible, it can be made large enough to carry men and stores, for
size is nothing if the motive faculty be answerable thereto--the great
ship swims as well as the small cork, and an eagle flies in the air as
well as a little gnat. Indeed, we might have regular Great Eastern
packets plying between London and No Gravitation Point, to which they
might take up houses, cattle, and all stores found necessary to the
gradual construction of a town upon the borders of the over-ether
route to any of the planets. Stations could be established, if
necessary, along the routes to the moon, Mars, Venus, Saturn, and the
rest of the new places of resort; some London society could create and
endow a new Bishop of Jupiter; and daring travellers would bring us
home their journals of a Day in Saturn, or Ten Weeks in Mars, while
sportsmen might make parties for the hippogriff shooting in Mercury,
or bag chimeras on the mountains of the moon.

Well, in whatever way we may get there, we are off now for a stroll to
Saturn, with Mr. R. A. Proctor for comrade and cicerone, but turning a
deaf ear to him whenever, as often occurs, he is too learned for us,
and asks us to "let N P' P" N' represent the northern half of Saturn's
orbit (viewed in perspective), _n_ E n' E' the earth's orbit, and N p
p' p" N' the projection of Saturn's orbit on the plane of the earth's
orbit. Let N S N' be the line of Saturn's nodes on this plane, and let
S P' be at right angles to N S, N', so that when at P' Saturn is at
his greatest distance from the ecliptic on the northern side." When of
such things we are asked to let them be, we let them be, and are, in
the denseness of our ignorance, only too glad to be allowed, not to
say asked, to do so. We attend only, like most of our neighbors, to
what is easy to us. Sun is gold, and moon is silver; Mars is iron.
Mercury quicksilver, which we, in fact, rather like still to call
Mercury, thinking nothing at all of the imprisoned god with the winged
heels when we ask how is the mercury in the thermometer. Jove is tin;
yes, by Jove, tin is the chief among the gods, says little Swizzles,
who, by a miracle, remembers one thing that he learnt at
school--Jove's chieftainship among the heathen deities. Venus is
copper, for the Cyprian is Cuprian; and as for Saturn, he is lead. A
miserable old fellow they made Saturn out in the days of the
star-decipherers. Mine, Chaucer makes Saturn say, is the drowning in
wan waters, the dark prison, the strangling and hanging, murmur of
discontent, and the rebellion of churls. I am the poisoner and the
house-breaker, I topple down the high halls, and make towers fall upon
their builders, earth upon its miners. I sent the temple roof down
upon Samson. I give you all your treasons, and your cold diseases, and
your pestilences. This is the sort of estimation in which our
forefathers held the respectable old gentleman we are now going out to


When Galileo's eyes went out toward Saturn through his largest
telescope--which, great as were the discoveries it made, was clumsier
and weaker than the sort of telescope now to be got for a few
shillings at any optician's shop--he noticed a peculiarity in the
appearance of Saturn which caused him to suppose that Saturn consisted
of three stars in contact with one another. A year and a half later he
looked again, and there was the planet round and single as the disc of
Mars or Jupiter. He cleaned his glasses, looked to his telescope, and
looked again to the perplexing planet. Triform it was not. "Is it
possible," he asked, "that some mocking demon has deluded me?"
Afterward the perplexity increased. The two lesser orbs reappeared,
and grew and varied in form strangely: finally they lost their
globular appearance altogether, and seemed each to have two mighty
arms stretched toward and encompassing the planet. A drawing in one of
his manuscripts would suggest that Galileo discovered the key to the
mystery, for it shows Saturn as a globe resting upon a ring. But this
drawing is thought to be a later addition to the manuscript. It was
only after many perplexities of others, about half a century later,
that Huygens, in the year sixteen fifty-nine, announced to his
contemporaries that Saturn is girdled about by a thin, flat ring,
inclined to the ecliptic, and not touching the body of the planet. He
showed that all variations in the appearance of the ring are due to
the varying inclinations of its plane toward us, and that, being very
thin, it becomes invisible when its edge is turned to the spectator or
the sun. He found the diameter of the ring to be as nine to four to
the diameter of Saturn's body, and its breadth about equal to the
breadth of vacant space between it and the surface of the planet.

The same observer, Huygens, four years earlier, discovered one of
Saturn's satellites. Had he looked for more, he could have found them.
But six was the number of known planets, five had been the number of
known satellites, our moon and the four moons of Jupiter, which
Galileo had discovered; one moon more made the number of the planets
and of the satellites to be alike, six, and this arrangement was
assumed to be exact and final. But in sixteen seventy-one another
satellite of Saturn was discovered by Cassini, who observed that it
disappears regularly during one-half of its seventy-nine days' journey
round its principal. Whence it is inferred that this moon has one of
its sides less capable than the other of reflecting light, and that it
turns round on its own axis once during its seventy-nine days'
journey; Saturn itself spinning once round on its axis in as short a
time as ten hours and a half. Cassini afterward discovered three more
satellites, and called his four the Sideria Lodoicea, Ludovickian
Stars, in honor of his patron, Louis the Fourteenth. Huygens had
discovered, also, belts on Saturn's disc. Various lesser observations
on rings, belts, and moons of Saturn continued to be made until the
time of the elder Herschel, who, at the close of the last century,
discovered two more satellites, established the relation of the belts
to the rotation of the planet, and developed, after ten years' careful
watching, his faith in the double character of its ring. "There is
not, perhaps," said this great and sound astronomer, "another object
in the heavens that presents us with such a variety of extraordinary
phenomena as the planet Saturn: a magnificent globe encompassed by a
stupendous double ring; attended by seven satellites; ornamented with
equatorial belts; compressed at the poles; turning on its axis;
mutually eclipsing its rings and satellites, and eclipsed by them; the
most distant of the rings also turning on its axis, and the same
taking place with the furthest of the satellites; all the parts of the
system of Saturn occasionally reflecting light to each other--the
rings and moons {270} illuminating the nights of the Saturnian, the
globe and moons enlightening the dark parts of the rings, and the
planet and rings throwing back the sun's beams upon the moons when
they are deprived of them at the time of their conjunctions." During
the present century, other observers have detected more divisions of
the ring, one separating the outer ring into two rings of equal
breadth seems to be permanent. It is to be seen only by the best
telescopes, under the most favorable conditions. Many other and lesser
indications of division have also at different times been observed.
Seventeen years ago an eighth satellite of Saturn was discovered by
Mr. Bond in America, and by Mr. Lassell in England. Two years later,
that is to say, in November, eighteen fifty, a third ring of singular
appearance was discovered inside the two others by Mr. Bond, and, a
few days later, but independently, by Mr. Dawes and by Mr. Lassell in
England. It is not bright like the others, but dusky, almost purple,
and it is transparent, not even distorting the outline of the body of
the planet seen through it. This ring was very easily seen by good
telescopes, and presently became visible through telescopes of only
four-inch aperture. In Herschel's time it was so dim that it was
figured as a belt upon the body of the planet. Now it is not only
distinct, but it has been increasing in width since the time of its

These were not all the marvels. One of the chief of the wonders since
discovered was a faint overlapping light, differing much in color from
the ordinary light of the ring, which light, a year and a half ago,
Mr. Wray saw distinctly stretched on either side from the dark shade
on the ball overlapping the fine line of light by the edge of the ring
to the extent of about one-third of its length, and so as to give the
impression that it was the dusky ring, very much thicker than the
bright rings, and, seen edgewise, projected on the sky. Well may we be
told by our guide, Mr. Proctor, that no object in the heavens presents
so beautiful an appearance as Saturn, viewed with an instrument of
adequate power. The golden disc, faintly striped with silver-tinted
belts; the circling rings, with their various shades of brilliancy and
color; and the perfect symmetry of the system as it sweeps across the
dark background of the field of view, combine to form a picture as
charming as it is sublime and impressive.

But what does it all mean? What is the use of this strange furniture
in the House of Saturn, which is like nothing else among the known
things of the universe? Maupertuis thought that Saturn's ring was a
comet's tail cut off by the attraction of the planet as it passed, and
compelled to circle round it thenceforth and for ever. Buffon thought
the ring was the equatorial region of the planet which had been thrown
off and left revolving while the globe to which it had belonged
contracted to its present size. Other theories also went upon the
assumption that the rings are solid. But if they are solid, how is it
that they exhibit traces of varying division and reunion, and what are
we to think of certain mottled or dusky stripes concentric with the
rings, which stripes, appearing, to indicate that the ring where they
occur is semi-transparent, also are not permanent? Then, again, what
are we to think of the growth within the last seventy years of the
transparent dark ring which does not, as even air would, refract the
image of that which is seen through it, and that is becoming more
opaque every year? Then, again, how is it that the immense width of
the rings has been steadily increasing by the approach of their inner
edge to the body of the planet? The bright ring, once twenty-three
thousand miles wide, was five thousand miles wider in Herschel's time,
and has now a width of twenty-eight thousand three hundred on a
surface of more than twelve thousand millions of {271} square miles,
while the thickness is only a hundred miles or less. Eight years ago,
Mr. J. Clerk Maxwell obtained the Adams prize of the University of
Cambridge for an essay upon Saturn's rings, which showed that if they
were solid there would be necessary to stability an appearance
altogether different from that of the actual system. But if not solid,
are they fluid, are they a great isolated ocean poised in the
Saturnian mid air? If there were such an ocean, it is shown that it
would be exposed to influences forming waves that would be broken up
into fluid satellites.

But possibly the rings are formed of flights of disconnected
satellites, so small and so closely packed that, at the immense
distance to which Saturn is removed, they appear to form a continuous
mass, while the dark inner mass may have been recently formed of
satellites drawn by disturbing attractions or collisions out of the
bright outer ring, and so thinly scattered that they give to us only a
sense of darkness without obscuring, and of course without refracting,
the surface before which they spin. This is, in our guide's opinion,
the true solution of the problem, and to the bulging of Saturn's
equator, which determines the line of superior attraction, he ascribes
the thinness of the system of satellites, in which each is compelled
to travel near the plane of the great planet's equator.

Whatever be the truth about these vast provisions for the wants of
Saturn, surely there must be living inhabitants there to whose needs
they are wisely adapted. Travel among the other planets would have its
inconveniences to us of the earth. Light walking as it might be across
the fields of ether, we should have half our weight given to us again
in Mars or Mercury, while in Jupiter our weight would be doubled, and
we should drag our limbs with pain. In Saturn, owing to the
compression of the vast light globe and its rapid rotation, a man who
weighs twelve stone at the equator weighs fourteen stone at the pole.
Though vast in size, the density of the planet is small, for which
reason we should not find ourselves very much heavier by change of
ground from earth to Saturn. We should be cold, for Saturn gets only a
ninetieth part of the earth's allowance of light and heat. But then
there is no lack of blanket in the House of Saturn, for there is a
thick atmosphere to keep the warmth in the old gentleman's body and to
lengthen the Saturnian twilights. As for the abatement of light, we
know how much light yet remains to us when less than a ninetieth part
of the sun escapes eclipse. We see in its brightness, as a star,
though a pale one, the reflection of the sunshine Saturn gets, which
if but a ninetieth part of our share, yet leaves the sun of Saturn
able to give five hundred and sixty times more light than our own
brightest moonshine. And then what long summers! The day in Saturn is
only ten and a half hours long, so that the nights are short, and
there are twenty-four thousand six hundred and eighteen and a half of
its own days to the Saturnian year. But the long winters! And the
Saturnian winter has its gloom increased by eclipses of the sun's
light by the rings. At Saturn's equator these eclipses occur near the
equinoxes and last but a little while, but in the regions
corresponding to our temperate zone they are of long duration. Apart
from eclipse, the rings lighten for Saturn the short summer nights,
and lie perhaps as a halo under the sun during the short winter days.



From Chamber's Journal.


When Mrs. Caxton innocently made her wiser-half the father of an
anachronism, that worthy scholar was much troubled in consequence. His
anachronism was a living one, or he might have comforted himself by
reflecting that greater authors than he had stood in the same paternal
predicament. Our old English dramatists took tremendous liberties this
way, never allowing considerations of time and place to stand in the
way of any allusion likely to tell with their audience. Shakespeare
would have been slow to appreciate a modern manager's anxiety for
archaeological fidelity. His Greeks and Romans talk about cannons and
pistols, and his Italian clowns are thorough cockneys, familiar with
every nook and corner of London. And so it is with other caterers for
the stage. Nat Lee talks about cards in his tragedy of "Hannibal;"
Otway makes Spartan notables carouse and drink deep; Mrs. Cowley's
Lacedaemonian king speaks of the _night's still Sabbath_; D'Urfey's
ancient Britons are familiar with Puritans and packet-boats; and Rymer
(though he set himself up for a critic) supplies a stage direction for
the representative of his Saxon heroine to pull off her patches, when
her lover desires her to lay aside her ornaments.

When Colman read "Inkle and Yarico" to Dr. Moseley, the latter
exclaimed: "It won't do. Stuff! Nonsense!"--"Why?" asked the alarmed
dramatist.--"Why, you say in the finale:

  'Come let us dance and sing.
  While all Barbadoes' bells shall ring!'

It won't do; there is but one bell in the island!" This mistake was
excusable enough; but when Milton described

         "A green mantling vine,
  That crawls along the side of yon small hill,"

he must certainly have forgotten he had laid the scene of "Comus" in
North Wales. Ernest Jones, describing a battle in his poem, "The Lost
Army," says:

  "Delay and doubt did more that hour
  Than bayonet-charge or carnage shower;"

and some lines further on pictures his hero

  "All worn with wounds, when day was low.
  With severed sword and shattered shield;"

thus making his battle rather a trial of the respective powers of
ancient and modern weapons than a conflict between equally-armed foes.
Mr. Thackeray perpetrates a nice little anachronism in "The Newcomes,"
when he makes Clive, in a letter dated 183-, quoting an Academy
exhibition critique, ask: "Why have we no picture of the sovereign and
her august consort from Smee's brush?"--the author, in his anxiety to
compliment the artist, forgetting that there was no consort till 1840.

A bull in a china-shop is scarcely more out of place than a bull in a
serious poem, but accidents will happen to the most regular of
writers. Thus Milton's pen slipped when he wrote:

             "The sea-girt isles
  That like to rich and various gems _inlay_
  The _unadorned_ bosom of the deep;"

a quotation reminding us that the favorite citation,

  "Beauty when unadorned, adorned the most,"

is but a splendid bull, beautiful for its {273} boldness. Thomson was
an adept at making pretty bulls; here is another:

   "He saw her charming, but he saw not half
   The charms her downcast modesty concealed;"

as if it were possible to see some of them, although they were
concealed. Pope, correct Pope, actually tell us:

     "Young Mars in his boundless mind.
  A work t' _outlast immortal_ Rome designed."

The author of "The Spanish Rogue" makes "a silent noise" invade the
ear of his hero. General Taylor immortalized himself by perpetrating
one of the grandest bulls on record, in which he attained what a
certain literary professor calls "a _perfection_ hardly to be
surpassed." In his presidential address he announced to the American
Congress that the United States were at peace _with all the world_,
and continued to cherish relations of amity with the _rest_ of
mankind. Much simpler was the blunder of an English officer, during
the Indian mutiny, who informed the public, through the _Times_, that,
thanks to the prompt measures of Colonel Edwardes, the Sepoys at Fort
Machison "were all unarmed and taken aback, and, being called upon,
laid down their arms." There was nothing very astonishing in an Irish
newspaper stating that Robespierre "left no children behind him,
except a brother, who was killed at the same time;" but it was
startling to have an English journal assure us that her majesty Queen
Victoria was "the last person to wear _another man's_ crown."

A single ill-chosen word often suffices, by the suggestion of
incongruous ideas, to render what should be sublime utterly
ridiculous. One can hardly believe that a poet like Dryden could

  "My soul is packing up, and just on wing,"

Such a line would have come with better grace from the author of "The
Courageous Turk," a play containing the following curious passage:

      "How now, ye heavens! grow you
  So proud, that you must needs put on curled locks,
  And clothe yourself in perwigs of fire."

Nearly equalled in absurdity by this from Nat Lee's "OEdipus:"

       "Each trembling ghost shall rise,
  And leave their grisly king without a waiter."

When the news of Captain Cook's death at Owhyhee came to England, the
poetasters, of course, hastened to improve the occasion, and one of
the results of their enthusiasm was a monody commencing:

  "Minerva in heaven disconsolate mourned
  The loss of her Cook;"

an opening sufficient to upset the gravity of the great navigator's
dearest friend.

Addison lays it down as a maxim, that when a nation abounds in
physicians it grows thin of people. Fillibuster Henninpen seems to
have agreed with the essayist, or he would hardly have informed
General Walker, in one of his dispatches, that "Doctors Rice and Wolfe
died of the cholera, and Dr. Lindley sickened, _after which the health
of the camp visibly improved._" Intentionally or not, the
stout-hearted soldier suggests that the best way of getting rid of the
cholera is to make short work of the doctors. Among the obituary
notices in a weekly paper, not many months ago, there appeared the
name of a certain publican, with the following eulogium appended to
it: "He was greatly esteemed for his strict probity and steady conduct
through life, he having been a subscriber to the 'Sunday Times' from
its first number." This is a worthy pendant to Miss Hawkins's story of
the undertaker writing to the corporation of London, "I am desired to
inform the Court of Aldermen, Mr. Alderman Gill died last night, by
order of Mrs. Gill;" and not far short, in point of absurdity, is
Madame Tussand's announcement of the exhibition of the effigy of the
notorious Palmer, "who was executed at Stafford with two hundred other
celebrities." {274} The modern fashion of naming florists' flowers
must be held responsible for the very dubious paragraph we extract
from a gardening paper: "Mrs. Legge will be looked after; she may not
be so certain as some, but she was nevertheless very fine in the early
part of the season. Lady Popham is useful, one of the old-fashioned
build, not quite round in the outline, but makes up well."

Thackeray seems to have had an intense dislike to the trouble of
revision, for his popular works, especially those published
periodically, abound in trivial mistakes, arising from haste,
forgetfulness, and want of care. The novelist mortally wounds an old
lady with a candle instead of a candlestick, and afterwards attributes
her death to a stone staircase. Newcome senior is colonel and major at
one and the same time; Jack Belsize is Jack on one page and Charles on
another; Mrs. Raymond Gray, introduced as Emily, is suddenly
rechristencd Fanny; and Philip Fermor on one occasion becomes
transformed into the author's old hero, Clive. With respect to the
last-mentioned gentleman, author and artist seem to have differed, for
while Mr. Thackeray jests about Clive's beautiful whiskers and
handsome moustaches, Mr. Doyle persists to the end in denying young
Newcome's possession of those tokens of manhood.

It is not often that an author is satirical upon his own productions;
but Charles Dickens has contrived to be so. Describing the old inns of
the Borough, in his "Pickwick Papers," he says they are queer places,
with galleries, passages, and staircases wide enough and antiquated
enough "to furnish materials for a hundred ghost-stories, _supposing
we should ever be reduced to the lamentable necessity of inventing
any_." How little could Boz have anticipated certain charming
Christmas books witching the world a few years later! So, also,
"American Notes," Mr. Jefferson Brick, and the transatlantic Eden lay
unsuspected in the future, when he made Old Wellor suggest Mr.
Pickwick's absconding to America till Dodson & Fogg were hung, and
then returning to his native land and writing "a book about the
'Merrikens as 'ill pay all his expenses and more, if he blows 'em up


From The Month.



1. Abbot Antony said: The days are coming when men will go mad; and,
when they meet a man who has kept his senses, they will rise up
against him, saying, "You are mad, because you are not like us."

2. While Arsenius was still employed in the imperial court, he asked
of God to lead him in the way by which he might be saved.

Then a voice came to him: "Arsenius, flee the company of men,
and thou art in that saving way."

3. Abbot Agatho said: Unless a man begin with the observance of the
Precepts, he will not make progress in any one virtue.


4. Abbot Ammonas said: Such be thy thought as that of malefactors in
prison. For they are ever asking, "Where is the judge? and when is he
coming?" and they bewail themselves at the prospect.

5. Holy Epiphanius said: To sinners who repent God remits even the
principal; but from the just he exacts interest.

6. Abbot Sylvanus had an ecstacy: and, coming to himself, he wept
bitterly. "What is it, my father?" said a novice to him.

He made answer: Because I was carried up to the judgment, O my son,
and I saw many of our kind going off to punishment, and many a secular
passing into the kingdom.

7. An old man said: If you see a youngster mounting up to heaven at
his own will, catch him by the foot, and fling him to the earth; for
such a flight doth not profit.

8. Abbot Antony fell on a time into weariness and gloom of spirit; and
he cried out, "Lord, I wish to be saved; but my searchings of mind
will not let me."

And, looking round, he saw some one like himself, sitting and working,
then rising and praying, then sitting and rope-making again. And he
heard the angel say: "Work and pray; pray and work; and thou shalt be

9. Arsenius, when he was now in solitude, prayed as before: "Lord,
lead me along, the way of salvation." And again he heard a voice,
which said: "Flight, silence, quiet; these are the three sources of

10. "Which of all our duties," asked the brethren, "is the greatest
labor?" Agatho answered: "Prayer; for as soon as we begin, the devils
try to stop us, since it is their great enemy. Rest comes after every
other toil, but prayer is a struggle up to the last breath."

11. Abbot Theodore said: "Other virtue there is none like this, to
make naught of no one."

12. Abbot Sylvanus said: "Woe to the man whose reputation is greater
than his work."

13. Holy Epiphanius said: "A great safeguard against sin is the
reading of the Scriptures; and it is a precipice and deep gulf to be
ignorant of the Scriptures."

14. Once a monk was told, "Thy father is dead." He answered:
"Blaspheme not; my Father is immortal."




_The Dead Sea_.--The level of the Dead Sea is at last finally settled
by the party of Royal Engineers, under Captain Wilson, who were sent
by the Ordance Survey for the purpose of surveying Jerusalem and
levelling the Dead Sea. The results of the survey are being prepared
for publication. The levelling from the Mediterranean to the Dead Sea
was performed with the greatest possible accuracy. The depression of
the surface of the Dead Sea on the 12th of March, 1865, was found to
be 1,292 feet, but from the line of drift-wood observed along the
border of the Dead Sea it was found that the level of the water at
some periods of the year stands two feet six inches higher, which
would make the least depression 1,289.5 feet. Captain Wilson also
learnt from inquiry among the Bedouins, and from European residents in
Palestine, that during the early summer the level of the Dead Sea is
lower by at least six feet; this would make the greatest depression to
be as near as possible 1,298 feet. Most of the previous observations
for determining the relative level of the two seas gave most
discordant results. The Dead Sea was found by one to be 710 feet above
the level of the Mediterranean, by another to be on the same level, by
another to be 710 feet lower, and by another to be 1,446 feet lower;
but the most recent before that now given, by the Duc de Luynes and
Lieutenant Vignes of the French navy, agrees with the present result
in a very remarkable manner.

_Eozoon in Ireland_,--The fossil Rhizopod is not confined to the
Canadian rocks. Mr. W. A. Sanford has discovered Eozoon in the green
marble rocks of Connemara in Ireland. His assertion that it is to be
found in these deposits at first excited very grave doubts as to the
accuracy of his observations. Since his first announcement of the
discovery, his specimens have been examined by the distinguished
co-editor of the "Geological Magazine" (Mr. H. Woodward), and this
gentleman fully confirms Mr. Sanford's opinion. In the specimens
prepared from Connemara marble, "the various-formed chambers--the
shell of varying thickness--either very thin, and traversed by fine
tubuli, the silicate filling which resembles white velvet-pile, or
thick, and traversed by brush-like threads, are both present. Although
the specimens were not so carefully prepared as those mounted for Dr.
Carpenter, still the structure was so plainly perceptible as to render
the diagnosis incontrovertible."

_The Mont Cenis Tunnel_.--The following particulars of the state of
the works at Mont Cenis will be read with interest. We owe them to a
recent report of M. Sommeiller, the engineer in charge. The length of
the tunnel from Bardonnêche to Modena is 12,220 metres, and, at the
end of 1804, 2,322 metres had been pierced on the Bardonnêche side,
whilst the work had advanced 1,763 metres from the Modena end, making
in all 4,085 metres--nearly a third of the whole distance. From the
1st of January to the 10th of June of the present year the progress of
the work has been considerably augmented, upwards of 654 metres having
been accomplished. The excavation is now, however, retarded by a mass
of granite, which lessens the work of the machinery by one-third. The
presence of this impediment was almost exactly predicted by MM. Elie
de Beaumont and Sismonda, who stated, as a result of their survey,
that granitic rocks would be met with at a distance of 1,500 or 2,000
metres from the mouth of the tunnel on the Italian side.

_Lightning._--M. Boudin has recently laid before the Academy of
Sciences a return of the deaths which have been caused by the action
of lightning in France during the period 1835-63. During these thirty
years 2,238 persons were struck dead. Among 880 victims during
1854-63, there were but 248 of the female sex; and in several
instances the lightning, falling among groups of persons of both
sexes, especially struck those of the male sex, and more or less
spared the females. In a great number of cases flocks of more than 100
animals, {277} cattle, hogs, or sheep, have been killed, while the
shepherds or herdsmen in their midst have remained uninjured. In 1853,
of 34 persons killed in the fields, 15, or nearly half, were struck
under trees; and of 107 killed between 1841-53, 21 had taken shelter
under trees. Reckoning, then, at only 25 per cent, the proportion
struck under trees, we find that of 6,714 struck in France nearly
1,700 might have escaped the accidents which occurred to them by
avoiding trees during storms.

_More about the Nile_--Another source of the Nile has been discovered
by the adventurous Mr. Baker, whose name has been frequently mentioned
of late among geographers. But this so-called source is a lake only,
the Luta Nzige, about two hundred and sixty miles long, and of
proportionate breadth, which lies between the lake discovered by
Captain Speke and the heretofore explored course of the Nile. The
great river flows from one to the other, forming on the way the Karuma
waterfall, one hundred and twenty feet in height, in which particular
it represents the Niagara Fall between lakes Erie and Ontario. But it
seems right to remark that the true source of the Nile has not yet
been discovered, and that it must be looked for at the head of one of
the streams which flow into the upper lake--the Victoria Nyanza of
Speke. That the two lakes are reservoirs which keep the Nile always
flowing, may be accepted as fact; but to describe them as sources is a
misuse of terms. If Dr. Livingstone, in his new exploration, should
get into the hill-country above the Victoria Nyanza, we might hope to
hear that the real source, the fountain-head, of the Nile had been
discovered. It is worthy of remark that these lakes of the Nile are
laid down and described in old books on the geography of Africa.
Ptolemy mentions them; and they are represented in some of the oldest
Arabian and Portuguese maps. It is well known to scholars that the
Emperor Nero sent two officers expressly to search for the head of the
Nile. "I myself" writes Seneca, "have heard the two centurions narrate
that after they had accomplished a long journey, being furnished with
assistance by the king of Ethiopia, and being recommended by him to
the neighboring kings, they penetrated into far distant regions, and
came to immense lakes, the termination of which neither the
inhabitants knew nor could any one hope to do so, because aquatic
plants were so densely interwoven in the waters." This description
holds good to the present day; and it is thought that certain rocks
seen by the centurions mark the site of the Karuma Falls. Mr. Baker
describes his voyage down the Luta Nzige as "extremely beautiful, the
mountains frequently rising abruptly from the water, while numerous
cataracts rush down their furrowed sides. . . . . . The water is deep,
sweet, and transparent," and, except at the outlet of the river, the
shores are free from reeds. "Mallegga, on the west coast of the lake,
is a large and powerful country, governed by a king named Kajoro, who
possesses boats sufficiently large to cross the lake." "About ten
miles from the junction," he writes, "the channel contracted to about
two hundred and fifty yards in width, with little perceptible stream,
very deep, and banked as usual with high reeds, the country on either
side undulating and wooded. At about twenty miles from Magungo, my
voyage suddenly terminated; a stupendous waterfall, of about one
hundred and twenty feet perpendicular height, stopped all further
progress. Above the great fall, the river is suddenly confined between
rocky hills, and it races through a gap, contracted from a grand
stream of perhaps two hundred yards width to a channel not exceeding
fifty yards. Through this gap it rushes with amazing rapidity, and
plunges at one leap into a deep basin below."

_The Burning Well at Broseley_.--Mr. John Randall, F.G.S., writes to
the "Geological Magazine" anent this extinct petroleum spring. The
so-called burning well has ceased to exist for nearly a century. It
was fed by a spring, and petroleum and naphtha also found their way
from rents in the rock into the water of the well. Springs of
petroleum on a much larger scale are met with in the neighborhood, and
the yield of them was formerly much greater than at present. Many
hogsheads from one of these were exported some years ago under the
name of "Betton's British Oil," The rocks were tapped by driving a
level through one of the sandstone rocks of the coal {278} measures;
but these are now drained; and very little is found to flow from them.

_The Origin of the Salt in the Dead Sea_.--One of our most
distinguished explorers of the Holy Land attributes the intensely
saline character of the Dead Sea to the hill of Jebell Usdum. This is
a huge ridge of salt, about a mile wide, and running N.E. and S.W. for
a distance of three miles and a half, then due N. and S. for four
miles further. It is situated near the southern extremity of the Dead
Sea, and renders that portion of it much more salt than the northern
portion. Further, Mr. Tristram thinks that it is the proximate cause
of the saltness of the Dead Sea, the drainage to which has been
dissolving away portions of salt, and carrying it to the Dead Sea,
ever since the elevation of the ridge of Akabah separated the latter
from the Red Sea, or since the desiccation of the ocean, which existed
to the Eocene period, presuming (which seems most probable) that the
fissures of the Ghor were of submarine origin, and that the valley
itself was during the Tertiary period the northernmost of a series of
African lakes, of which the Red Sea was the next.--Geological

_Iron Implements in Crannogues_.--In a letter addressed to the London
_Reader_, by Mr. George Henry Kinahan, some important points relative
to the antiquity of iron, and the necessity for seeking for traces of
this metal, have been dwelt upon. While investigating one of the
largest crannogues or artificial islands in Loughrea, County Galway,
Ireland, he found only stone implements, with the exception of a rude
knife, which appeared to be of some sort of bronze. But he observed
facts which would seem to indicate that iron implements had been in
use among the inhabitants of the crannogues. These facts are as
follows: 1st, All the stakes that were drawn had been pointed by a
sharp cutting instrument, as were evidenced by the clean cuts. 2d,
Pieces of deer's horn that were found had been divided by a very fine
saw, as was proved by the absence of marks of graining on the surface
of the sections. 3d, On some of the bones there were farrows,
evidently made by sharpening fish-hooks or some pointed implement on
them. 4th, In various places nests of peroxide of iron were observed,
as if an iron instrument had once been there, but had been corroded
away in course of time. Mr. Kinahan draws particular attention to the
circumstances that "few metals corrode as fast as iron, and that,
while stone and bronze would last for ages, iron would disappear,
owing to corrosion, in a comparatively short space of time."

_The Gibraltar Cave Fossils_.--Mr. Busk in his paper on this subject
says: The rock in which the caverns of Gibraltar were found is
limestone, and extends for about three miles from north to south, at
an elevation varying from 1,400 to 1,200 feet. It is geologically
divided into three nearly equal portions by cleavages which separate
the higher parts of the rock on the north and south from the central
and lower part. At the southern face of the rock there is
comparatively low ground, the Windmill Hill being about 400 feet above
the level of the sea; but the strata there are inclined in an opposite
direction to the great mass of what is termed the "Rock of Gibraltar."
In the Windmill rock the caverns have been found, and in these latter
a great quantity of bones was discovered. The bones, which were
mingled with pottery, flint implements, and charcoal, appear to have
been deposited at different periods, and were found at various depths,
the lowest being fourteen feet below the floor of the cavern. Those in
the lowest layer consisted of the bones of mammals, several of which
were of extinct species. They were imbedded in ferruginous earth
partially fossilized, and were covered with stalagmite--no human bones
were with them. Above this layer were deposited the remains of about
thirty human skeletons, with fragments of pottery, flint implements,
particles of charcoal, and a bronze fishing-hook. Some of the pottery
had been turned in a lathe, and bore evidence of classic art. In
another cavern, discovered under the foundation of the military
prison, the remains of two isolated skeletons were also found. Only
one skull had been discovered there, and that had been sent to Mr.
Busk, who remarked that the lower jaw transmitted with the cranium did
not belong to it, showing that there must have been another skull
{279} in the cavern, though no trace of it had been found. There was
nothing in the form of the skull to distinguish it from the ordinary
European type; but the bones of the leg were rem