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Title: The Catholic World. Volume III; Numbers 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. - 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 III; Numbers 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. - A Monthly Eclectic Magazine" ***

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[Transcriber's notes]
  This text is derived from

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

  This text includes Volume III;
    Number 1--April 1866
    Number 2--May 1866
    Number 3--June 1866
    Number 4--July 1866
    Number 5--August 1866
    Number 6--September 1866
[End Transcriber's notes]


_Monthly Magazine_







145 Nassau Street.



All-Hallow Eve; or The Test of Futurity, 97, 241.
Abbey, Glastonbury, 150.
Animal Life, Curiosities of, 232.
Alexandria, Christian Schools of, 354, 484.
Abbeville, a Day at, 590.
Asses, Dogs, Cats, etc., 688.
A Celtic Legend, 810.

Benedictines, Rise of, 150.
Buried Alive, 805.

Curiosities of Animal Life, 232.
Catholic Publication Society, The, 278.
Christian Schools of Alexandria, The, 354, 484.
Cuckoo and Nightingale, The, 543.
Cardinal Tosti, 851.

Dr. Spring, Reminiscences of, 129.
Dreamers and Workers, 418.
De Guérin, Eugénie, Letters from Paris, 474.

Eirenicon, Reply to, by Very Rev. Dr. Newman, 46.
Eirenicon, Pamphlets on the, 217.
Eve de la Tour d'Adam, 366.
Ecce Homo, 618.
Episcopal Church, Doctrine on Ordination, 721.

France, Two Pictures of Life in, 411.
Franciscan Missions on the Nile, 768.

Glastonbury Abbey, 150.
Gerbet, l'Abbe, 308.
God Bless You, 593.
Gipsies, The, 702.

Haven't Time, 92.
Hürter, Frederick, 115.
Heaven, Nearest Place to, 433.

Ireland and the Informers of 1798, 122.
Irish Folk Books of the Last Century, 679.

Jenifer's Prayer, 17, 183, 318.

Kilkenny, a Month in, 301.

Legend, a Celtic, 810.

Miscellany, 137, 421, 570, 853.
Madeira, Tinted Sketches in, 265.

Newman, Very Rev. Dr., Saints of the Desert, 16, 170, 334.
Newman, Very Rev. Dr., Reply to Dr. Pusey's Eirenicon, 46.
New York; Religion in, 381.
Necklace, the Pearl, 693.
Nile, Franciscan Missions on the, 768.
Nile, Solution of the Problem of the, 828.

Old Thorneley's Heirs, 404, 443, 599, 738.
Our Ancestors, Industrial Arts of, 549, 780.

Patriarchate of Constantinople, Present State of, 1.
Prayer, Jenifer's, 17, 183, 318.
Problems of the Age, 145, 289, 518, 577, 758.
Perico the Sad, 497, 660, 787.
Perreyve, Henri, 845.

Reminiscences of Dr. Spring, 129.
Religion In New York, 381.
Reading, Use and Abuse of, 463.
Rome the Civilizer of Nations, 638.

Saints of the Desert, The, 16, 170, 334
Steam-Engine, Proposed Substitutes for, 29.
St. Paul, Youth of, 531.
Sealskins and Copperskins, 557.

The Age, Problems of, 145, 289, 518, 577, 758.
Turkestan, A Pretended Dervish in, 198, 370.
Two Pictures of Life In France before 1848, 411.
Three Women of our Time, 834.
Tosti, Cardinal, 851.

Unconvicted, 404, 443, 599, 738.
Use and Abuse of Reading, 463.

Virtue, Statistics of, 731.

Weddings, East Indian, 635.



Bury the Dead, 379.
Banned and Blessed, 306.

Christine, 32, 171, 335.
Claims, 556.
Carols from Cancionero, 692.
Christian Crown, The, 736.

D«y-Dreams, 483.

Hymn, 548.
Holy Saturday, 634.

Lockharts, Legend of the, 127.
Lost for Gold, 826.

Mater Divinae Gratiae, 216
May Breeze, 442.

Our Neighbor, 317.
Our Mother's Call, 462.

Poor and Rich, 240.
Peace, 410.

Requiem AEternam, 263.

Shell, Song of the, 96.
Sapphics, 517.
Sacrilege, the Curse of, 656.
Sonnet, 850.

The King and the Bishop, 528.
Therein, 597.
The Martyr, 617.
Thy Will be Done, 778.

Words of Wisdom, 121




Archbishop Hughes, Life of, 140.
Apostleship of Prayer, 428.
Agnes, 431.
Appleton's Annual Cyclopaedia, 719.
Army of the Potomac, Medical Recollections of, 854.

Biology, Spencer's Principles of, 425.
Blessed Virgin, Devotion to in North America, 574.
Biographical Dictionary, 574
Books for Young People, 720.
Criterion, Tuckerman's, 143.
Christ the Light of the World, 144.
Christus Judex, 288.
Christian Examiner, 427.
Cosas de Espana, 858.

Dictionary, Webster's, 143.
Draper's Text Books of Chemistry, etc, 576.
Darras' Church History, 719.

Eirenicon, Dr. Pusey's, 283.
Eugénie de Guérin, Letters of, 859.
English Language, Practical Grammar of, 860.

Faber's New Book, 287.
Froude's History of England, 718.

Grahams, The, 288.
Grant, Headley's Life of, 575.

Hughes, Archbishop, Life of, 140.
Holy Childhood, Report of, 573.
Headley's Life of Grant, 575.
Homes without Hands, 860.

Kennett, Story of, 431.
Keating's Ireland, 432.

Mount Hope Trial, 430.
Marshall's Missions, 430.
May Carols, De Vere's, 432.
Marcy's Army Life, 716.

New-Englander, The, 855.

Prayer, Apostleship of, 428.
Priest and People, Good Thoughts for, 431.
Poetry of the Civil War, 576.

Queen's English, A Plea for the, 857.
Spencer's Principles of Biology, 425.
Spalding's Miscellanea, 571.
Shakespeare on Insanity, 860.

Wyoming, Valley of, 859.




VOL. III., NO. 1.--APRIL, 1866.



  [Footnote 1: "L'Eglise Orientale, par Jaques G. Pitzipios, Fondateur
  de la Société Chrétienne Orientale." Rome: Imprimerie de la
  Propagande, 1855.]

In the year 1841, the bishops of the Protestant Episcopal dioceses of
Massachusetts, New York, New Jersey, Connecticut, Missouri, Maryland,
and Pennsylvania, professing to speak in the name of their church in
the United States, addressed the following language to the
schismatical Patriarch of Constantinople, whom they style "the
venerable and right reverend father in God the _Patriarch of the Greek
Church,_resident at Constantinople:"

"The church in the United States of America, therefore, looking to the
triune God for his blessings upon its efforts for unity in the body of
Christ, turn with hope to the Patriarch of Constantinople, _the
spiritual head of the ancient and venerable Oriental Church._"
[Footnote 2]

  [Footnote 2: Quoted in the "Memoir of Rev. F.A. Baker," p. 47.]

This is by no means the only instance of overtures of this kind,
looking toward a union between Protestant Episcopalians and Eastern
schismatics, with the view of concentrating the opposition to the
Roman See under a rival Oriental primacy. The Non-jurors, who were
ejected from their sees at the overthrow of the Stuarts, proposed to
the Synod of Bethlehem to establish the primacy in the patriarchate of
Jerusalem; but their proposal was met by a decidedly freezing refusal.
The American bishops who signed the letter from which the foregoing
extract is taken show a remarkable desire to bow down before some
ecclesiastical power more ancient and venerable than themselves; and
in their extreme eagerness to propitiate the Eastern prelates, they
acknowledge without scruple the most arrogant titles usurped by the
Patriarch of Constantinople, although from their want of familiarity
with the ecclesiastical language, they do it in a very unusual and
peculiar style. Whatever may be at present the particular views of
those who are seeking to bring about a union between the Protestant
Episcopal churches and the Easterns, in regard to the order of
hierarchical organization, they are evidently disposed to pay court to
the successor of Photius and Michael Cerularius, and to espouse {2}
warmly his quarrel against Rome. His figure is the foremost one in the
dispute, and there is every disposition to take advantage as far as
possible of the rank which the See of Constantinople has held since
the fifth century, first by usurpation and afterward by the concession
of Rome, as second to the Apostolic See of St. Peter. We do not accuse
all those who are concerned in the union movement of being animated by
a spirit of enmity against Rome. Some of them, we believe, are seeking
for the healing of the schisms of Christendom in a truly Catholic
spirit, although not fully enlightened concerning the necessary means
for doing so. We may cherish the same hope concerning some of the
Oriental prelates and clergy also, especially those who have
manifested a determination not to compromise a single point of
Catholic dogma for the sake of union with Protestants. We are quite
sure, however, that the loudest advocates of union in the Protestant
ranks, and their most earnest and hearty sympathizers in the East, are
thoroughly heretical and schismatical in their spirit and intentions,
and are aiming at the overthrow of the Roman Church, and a revolution
in the orthodox Eastern communion, as their dearest object. While,
therefore, we disclaim any hostile attitude toward men like Dr. Pusey
and other unionists of his spirit, and would never use any language
toward them which is not kind and respectful, we are compelled to
brand the use which other ecclesiastics in high position have sought
to make of this Greek question as entirely unprincipled. Their
cringing and bowing before the miserable, effete form of Christianity
at Constantinople, dictated as it is chiefly by hatred against Rome,
is something unworthy of honest Christians and intelligent Englishmen
and Americans. Many very sincere and well-disposed persons are no
doubt misled by their artful misrepresentations. On that account it is
very necessary to bring out as clearly as possible the true state of
the case, as regards Oriental Christendom, that it may be seen how
little support Anglicanism or any kind of Protestantism can draw from
that quarter; and how strongly the entire system of Catholic dogma is
sustained by the history and traditions of the Eastern Church.

We may possibly hereafter discuss more at large some of these
important subjects relating to the Eastern Church and the schism which
has desolated its fairest portions for so many centuries. On this
occasion we intend merely to throw a little light on the present
actual condition of the patriarchate of Constantinople, in order to
dissipate any illusion that may have been created by high-sounding
words, and to show how little reason there is to "turn with hope to
the spiritual head of the Oriental Church" for any enlightening or
sanctifying influences upon the souls which are astray from the fold
of St. Peter. We waive, for the time, all consideration of past
events, anterior to the period of Turkish domination, and all
discussion of the remote circumstances which have brought the See of
Constantinople into its present state of degradation, and of obstinate
secession from the unity of the Church.

We take it as we find it, under the Mohammedan dominion, and will
endeavor to show how it stands in relation to other churches of the
East, and what are its claims on the respect and honor of Western

The Patriarch of Constantinople is not the Patriarch of the "Greek
Church." There is no designation of this kind known in the East. The
style there used is, the "Holy Eastern Church." The Greek rite, or
form of celebrating mass and administering the sacraments in the Greek
language, is only one of the rites sanctioned by the Catholic Church
which are in use among those Christians who are not under the Latin
rite. What is usually called in the West the Greek Church has several
independent organizations. {3} The Patriarch of Constantinople, who
very early subjugated the patriarchs of Alexandria, Antioch, and
Jerusalem to his dominion, now rules over the same patriarchates,
which have dwindled to very insignificant dimensions, and over all the
separated orthodox Christians of the Turkish empire. The Russian
Church, which was erected into a distinct patriarchate by Ivan III.,
is under the supreme jurisdiction of the imperial governing synod. The
Patriarch of Constantinople is treated with respect and honor, and
referred to for advice and counsel, by the Russian authorities; but he
has no more jurisdiction in Russia than the Archbishop of Baltimore
has in the province of New York. The Church of Greece not only threw
off all dependence on the See of Constantinople after the revolution,
but renounced all communication with it, for reasons to be mentioned
hereafter. The separated Greek Christians of the Austrian empire are
governed by the Patriarch of Carlovitz, and there is at least one
other separate jurisdiction in the Montenegrine provinces. The
Patriarch of Constantinople possesses, therefore, an actual
jurisdiction over a fraction only of the Eastern Church. Within the
proper limits of his own patriarchate this jurisdiction is absolute,
both in ecclesiastical and civil matters, subject only to the supreme
authority of the sultan. Immediately after the capture of
Constantinople by the Turks, the Sultan Mahomet II. conferred upon the
Patriarch Grennadius the character of _Milet-bachi_, or chief of a
nationality, giving him investiture by the pastoral staff and mantle
with his own hands. The reason of his doing so was, that the
Mohammedan law recognizes only Mohammedans as members of a Mohammedan
nationality. In more recent times, the sultans, disgusted by the venal
and tyrannical conduct of the patriarchs, have refused to confer this
investiture in person, and it is now done by the grand vizier. Eight
metropolitans, namely, those of Chalcèdon, Ephesus, Derendah,
Heraclèa, Cyzicus, Nicomedia, Caesarèa, and Adrianople, form the
supreme council of the patriarchate, and, with the patriarch,
administer the ecclesiastical and civil government of the Christians
of their communion throughout the Ottoman empire. They have the
control of the common chest or treasury of the Oriental rite in
Turkey, and of that of the provinces; two great funds established
originally for helping poor Christians to pay the exactions levied on
them by the Mussulmans, but at present diverted to quite other uses by
their faithless and rapacious guardians. They are also exclusively
privileged to act as ephori or financial agents and bankers for the
other one hundred and thirty-four bishops of the Turkish provinces,
each one of them having as many of these episcopal clients as he can

Possessed of such an amount of ecclesiastical and civil power as the
patriarchate of Constantinople has been within the Ottoman empire for
several centuries, it is plain that it might have become the centre of
an incalculable influence for the spiritual, moral, and social good of
its subjects. Everything would seem to have combined to throw into the
hands of the patriarch and his subordinate bishops the power of being
truly the protectors and fathers of their people, and to furnish them
with the most powerful motives for being faithful to their trust. The
oppressed, despised, and impoverished condition of their poor,
miserable people, slaves of a fanatical, barbarous, anti-Christian
despotism, was enough to have awakened every noble and disinterested
emotion in their bosoms, had they been men; and to have aroused the
most devoted, self-sacrificing charity and zeal in their hearts, had
they been Christians worthy of the name or true Christian pastors.
Moreover, if they had been true patriots, and really devoted to the
interests of Christianity and the church, there was every inducement
to avail themselves of their position {4} and to watch the opportunity
of cultivating unity and harmony with the Catholic Church and the
powerful Christian nations of the West, in order to secure their
eventual deliverance from the detestable Moslem usurpation, and the
restoration of religion among them to its ancient glory. All causes of
misunderstanding and dissension had been done away at the Council of
Florence. The perfect dogmatic agreement between the East and the West
had been fully established. The Greek and other Oriental rites, and
the local laws and customs, had been sanctioned. The patriarchs and
hierarchy had been confirmed in their privileges. The Patriarch of
Constantinople was even tacitly permitted to retain his high-sounding
but unmeaning title of ecumenical patriarch without rebuke, and
allowed to exercise all the jurisdiction which other patriarchs or
metropolitans were willing to concede to him, subject to the universal
supremacy of Rome. The remembrance of the gallant warfare of the Latin
Christians against their common Moslem enemy, and especially of the
heroic devotion of the cardinal legate and his three hundred
followers, who had buried themselves under the walls of Constantinople
at its capture, ought to have effaced the memory of former wrongs
[Footnote 3] and subdued the stupid, fanatical, unchristian sentiment
of national antipathy against Christians of another race. Everything
concurred to invite them to play a noble and glorious part toward
their own Christian countrymen and toward Christendom in general. We
are compelled, however, to say, with shame and pain, that they have
proved so recreant to every one of these trusts and opportunities,
their career has been one of such unparalleled infamy and perfidy, as
to cover the Christian name with ignominy, and to merit for themselves
the character of apostates from Christianity--seducers, corruptors,
oppressors, and robbers of their own people.

  [Footnote 3: The Crusaders undoubtedly committed some great
  outrages, in revenge far the treachery of the Byzantines, and some
  Latin missionaries imprudently attacked the Oriental rites and
  customs, but these acts were always disapproved and condemned by the

We will first give a sketch of the line of conduct they have pursued
in relation to ecclesiastical matters, and afterward of their
administration of their civil authority.

It is notorious that the schismatical bishops and clergy of Turkey
neglect almost entirely the duty of preaching the word of God and
giving good Christian instruction to their people. The sacraments are
administered in the most careless and perfunctory manner, and real
practical Christian piety and morality are in a very low state both
among clergy and laity. The clergy themselves are grossly ignorant and
unfit for the exercise of their office, taken from the lowest class of
the people, without instruction or preparation for orders, and treated
by their superiors as menial servants. The bishops and higher clergy
do not trouble themselves to remedy this gross incapacity of their
inferiors, or to supply it by their own efforts. Consequently, the
common Christian people of their charge have fallen into a state of
moral degradation below that of the Turks themselves, by whom they are
despised as the outcasts of society. The striking contrast between the
schismatical clergy, monasteries, and people, and the Catholic, is
proverbial among the Turks, and an object of remark even by Protestant
travellers. It is probable that there have been many exceptions to the
general rule of incompetence and supine neglect; but, viewing the case
as a whole, it must be said that the patriarchs of Constantinople and
their subordinate prelates have completely failed to do their duty as
pastors of their people and their instructors and guides in religion
and virtue. Their unfortunate position furnishes no adequate excuse,
as will be seen when we examine a little further into the enterprises
they have actually been engaged in, and see how well {5} they have
succeeded in accomplishing what they have really desired and
undertaken, which is nothing else than their own selfish
aggrandizement. Look at the contrast between their conduct and that of
the Catholic hierarchies of Russia, Poland, and Ireland under similar
circumstances of oppression, and every shadow of excuse will vanish.
No doubt there were many causes making it difficult to elevate the
character of the ordinary clergy and the people, and tending to keep
them down to a low level of intelligence and knowledge. This would
furnish an excuse for a great deal, if there had been an evident
struggle of the hierarchy to do their best in remedying the evil.
Instead of doing this, they are the principal causes of the
perpetuation and aggravation of this degraded state. Since the decay
of the Ottoman power commenced, the clergy have had it in their power
to bid defiance in great measure to the Turkish government. They have
been able to control immense sums of money and to wield a great
commercial and financial influence. They might have employed the
intervention of Christian powers, and especially of Russia, if they
had been governed by enlightened and Christian motives, in order to
gain just rights and the means of improvement for their people. The
Ottoman government, itself, has come to a more just and liberal
policy, in which it would have welcomed the aid of the Christian
hierarchy, had there been one worthy of the name. Their complete
apathy at all times to everything which concerns the spiritual and
moral welfare of their subjects will warrant no other conclusion than
that they have practically apostatized from the faith and church of
Christ, and are mere intruders into the fold which they lay waste and

In their attitude toward the Catholic Church and the Holy See, the
hierarchy of the patriaichate are ignorantly, violently, and
obstinately schismatical, and even heretical. The public and official
teaching of the Eastern Church is orthodox, and therefore no one is
adjudged to be a heretic simply because he adheres to that communion.
One who intelligently and obstinately adheres to a schism as a state
of permanent separation from the See of St. Peter, is, however, at
least a constructive heretic, and is very likely to be a formal
heretic, on several doctrines which have been defined by the Catholic
Church. The nature of the opposition of the clergy of Constantinople
to the Roman Church, the grounds on which they defend their
contumacious rebellion, and the dogmatic arguments which they employ
in the controversy, are such as to place them in the position of the
most unreasonable and contumacious schismatics, and as it appears to
our judgment, in submission to that of more learned theologians, of
heretics also. So far as their influence extends, and it is very
great, they are chiefly accountable for the isolated condition of the
entire non-united Eastern Church. As the ambition of the Patriarch of
Constantinople was the original cause of the schism, so now the
ignorant and violent obstinacy of the clergy of the patriarchate, and
their supreme devotion to their own selfish and narrow personal and
party interests, is, in connection with a similar though less odious
spirit in the chief Muscovite clergy, and the worldly policy of the
Russian czar, the chief cause of its perpetuation.

The clergy of Constantinople have not hesitated to resort to forgery
in order to do away with the legal and binding force of the act of
their own predecessors in subscribing and promulgating throughout
their entire jurisdiction the act of union established at the Council
of Florence. Gennadius, the first patriarch elected after the Turkish
conquest, was one of the prelates who signed the decree of the Council
of Florence, a learned and virtuous man, and is believed to have lived
and died in the {6} communion of the Holy See. Actual communication
between Constantinople and Rome was, however, rendered absolutely
impossible by the deadly hostility of the conquerors to their
principal and most dangerous foe. The slightest attempt at any
intercourse with the Latin Christians would have caused the
extermination of all the Christian subjects of the Ottoman empire. It
is difficult to discover, therefore, when and how it was that the
supremacy of the Roman Church, whose actual exercise was thus at first
impeded by the necessity of the case, was again formally repudiated by
the patriarchs. There is a letter extant, written in the year 1584 by
the Patriarch Jeremiah to Pope Gregory XIII., in which he says that
"it belonged to him, as the head of the Catholic Church, to indicate
the measures to be employed against the Protestants," and requests him
in virtue of this office to point out what measures can be taken to
arrest the advance of Protestantism. This is the last official act of
the kind of which there is any record. The patriarchs and their
associates have relapsed into an attitude toward the Holy See which is
equally schismatical and arrogant, though through their degraded
condition far more ridiculous than that which was assumed by their
predecessors before the Council of Florence. In order to nullify, as
far as possible, the legal force of the act of union promulgated by
that council, they have resorted to a forgery, and have published the
acts of a pretended council under a patriarch who never existed and
whom they call Athanasius. There is no precise date attached to these
forged acts, but they are so arranged as to appear to have been
promulgated soon after the return of the emperor and prelates from
Italy, and before the Turkish conquest; and in them, some of the
principal prelates what signed the decrees of the Council of Florence
are represented as abjuring and begging pardon for what they had done.
They are said to have been moved to this by the indignation of their
people and a sedition in Constantinople in which the rejection of the
act of union was demanded. The forgery is too transparent to be worthy
of refutation, and could never have been executed and palmed off as
genuine in any other place than in Constantinople. They have also put
out a book called the "Pedalium," in which they revive all the
frivolous pretexts on account of which the infamous Michael Cerularius
and his ignorant ecclesiastical clique of the _Bas Empire_ pretended
to prove the apostacy of the Bishop of Rome and all Western
Christendom from the faith and communion of the Catholic Church, and
the consequent succession of the Bishop of Constantinople to the
universal primacy. The clergy of the patriarchate have taken the
position that the Catholic Church at present is confined to the limits
of what we call the Greek Church. They claim for themselves,
therefore, that place which they acknowledge formerly belonged to the
See of Rome, and thus seek to justify and carry out the usurpation of
supreme and universal authority indicated by the title of ecumenical
patriarch. The absurdity of this is evident, from the very grounds on
which the title was originally assumed, and the traditional maxims
which directed the policy of the ambitions Byzantine prelates
throughout the entire period of the Greek empire. The original and
only claim of the bishops of Constantinople, who were merely
suffragans of the Metropolitan of Heraclèa before their city was made
the capital of the empire, to the patriarchal dignity, was the
political importance of the city. Because Constantinople was new Rome,
therefore the Bishop of Constantinople ought to be second to the
Bishop of ancient Rome; and not only this, but he ought to rule over
the whole East with a supremacy like that which the Bishop of Rome had
always exercised over the whole {7} world. This false and schismatical
principle is contrary to the fundamental principle of Catholic church
organization, viz., that the subordination of episcopal sees springs
from the divine institution of the primacy in the See of St. Peter,
and is regulated by ecclesiastical canons on spiritual grounds, which
are superior to all considerations of a temporal nature. The Patriarch
of Constantinople has long ago lost all claim to precedence or
authority based on the civil dignity of the city as the seat of an
empire. According to the principles of his predecessors, the primacy
ought to have been transferred to the Patriarch of Moscow, when the
Russian patriarchate was established by Ivan III. Nevertheless, he
still continues to style himself ecumenical patriarch, and the eight
metropolitans who form his permanent synod continue to keep the
precedence over all other bishops of the patriarchate, although their
sees have dwindled into insignificance, and other episcopal towns far
exceed them in civil importance. In point of fact, the baselessness of
his claim to universal jurisdiction has been recognized by the Eastern
Church. His real authority is confined to the Turkish empire, where it
is sustained by the civil power. Russia has long been independent of
him. The Church of Greece has completely severed her connection with
him. The schismatical Greeks of the Austrian empire, and those of the
neighboring provinces, are severally independent. The false principle
that produced the Eastern schism in the first place thus continues to
work out its legitimate effect of disintegration in the Eastern
communion itself, by separating the national churches from the
principal church of Constantinople, which would itself crumble to
pieces if the support of the Ottoman power were removed. The
privileges of the See of Constantinople have now no valid claim to
respect, except that derived from ecclesiastical canons ratified by
time, general consent, and the sanction of the Roman Church. The
instinct of self-preservation ought to compel its rulers to fall back
on Catholic principles, and submit themselves to the legitimate
authority of the Roman Pontiff as the head of the Catholic Church
throughout the world. They are following, however, the contrary
impulse of self-destruction, to which they are abandoned by a just God
as a punishment for their treason to Jesus Christ and his Vicar, and
in every way seeking to strengthen and extend the barrier which
separates them from the Roman Church.

This policy has led them to do all in their power to establish a
dogmatic difference between the Oriental Church and the Church of
Rome. Not only do they represent the difference in regard to the
procession of the Holy Spirit from the Son, as expressed by the
"Filioque" of the Creed, which was fully proved at the Council of
Florence to be a mere verbal difference, as a difference in regard to
an essential dogma, but they have brought in others to swell their
list of Latin heresies. The principal dogmatic differences on which
they insist are three: the doctrine of purgatory, the quality of the
bread used in the holy eucharist, and the mode of administering
baptism. Only the most deplorable ignorance and factiousness could
base a pretence of dogmatic difference on such a foundation. In regard
to purgatory, the Roman Church has defined or required nothing beyond
that which is taught by the doctrinal standards of the Eastern Church.
The difference in regard to the use of leavened or unleavened bread,
and the mode of baptism, is a mere difference of rite. In regard to
the last-mentioned rite, however, the clergy of Constantinople have
even surpassed their usual amount of ignorance and effrontery. They
pretend that no baptism except that by trine immersion is valid, and
consequently that the vast majority of Western Christians are
unbaptized. This position of theirs, which will no doubt be {8} very
satisfactory to our Baptist brethren, makes sweeping work, not only
with the Latin Church, but with Protestant Christendom. Where there is
no baptism, there is no ordination, no sacrament whatever, no church.
What will our Anglican friends say to this? The clergy of
Constantinople rebaptize unconditionally every one who applies to be
received into their communion, whether he be Catholic or Protestant,
clergyman or layman. It would be folly to argue against this
sacrilegious absurdity on Catholic grounds. It is enough to show their
inconsistency with themselves, by mentioning the fact that the Russian
Church allows the validity of baptism by aspersion, and that even
their own book of canons permits it in case of necessity. But why look
for any manifestation of the learning, wisdom, or Christian principle
which ought to characterize prelates from men who have bought their
places for gold, and who sell every episcopal see to the highest
bidder? The simony and bribery which have been openly and unblushingly
practised by the ruling clerical faction of the Turkish empire since
the time when the monk Simeon bought the patriarchal dignity from the
sultan, make this page of ecclesiastical history one of the blackest
and most infamous in character. As we might expect under such a
system, virtuous and worthy men are put aside, and the episcopate and
priesthood filled up from the creatures and servile followers of the
ruling clique. Such men naturally disgrace their holy character by
their immoral lives, and bring opprobrium on the Christian name. The
history of the patriarchate of Constantinople, therefore, since the
period of Gennadius and the first few successors who followed his
worthy example, has been stained with blood and crime, and darkened by
scenes of tragic infamy and horror. We will relate one of the most
recent of these, as a sufficient proof and illustration of the heavy
indictment we have made against the patriarchal clergy.

At the time of the Greek revolution, the patriarch and principal
clergy of Constantinople received orders from the sultan to use their
power in suppressing all co-operation on the part of the Christians in
Turkey with their brethren in Greece, and to denounce to the Ottoman
government all who were suspected of conniving at the insurrection.
Their political position no doubt required of them to remain passive
in the matter, to refrain from positively aiding the revolutionists,
and also to suppress all overt acts of the Christians under their
jurisdiction against the government. Nevertheless, as a people
unjustly enslaved by a barbarous, anti-Christian despotism, they owed
nothing more to their masters than this exterior obedience to the
letter of the law. They could not be expected to enter with a hearty
and zealous sympathy into the measures of the government for
suppressing the revolution; and, indeed, every genuine and noble
sentiment of Christianity and patriotism forbade their doing so, and
exacted of them a deep, interior sympathy with their cruelly oppressed
brethren who were so nobly struggling to free their country from the
hated yoke of the Moslem conqueror. The really high-minded Greeks of
the empire did thus sympathize with their brethren. The ruling clergy,
however, manifested a zeal for the interests of the Ottoman court so
_outré_ and so scandalous that it not only outraged the feelings of
their own subjects, but, as we shall see, aroused the suspicions of
the tyrants before whom they so basely cringed, and brought
destruction on their own heads. They accused a great number of
Christians of complicity in the insurrection, seizing the opportunity
of denouncing every one who had incurred their hatred for any reason
whatever, so that the prisons were soon crowded with their unfortunate
victims, all of whom suffered the penalty of death. The patriarch
pronounced a sentence of major excommunication against Prince
Ypsilanti, and all the Greeks who {9} took part in the revolt. A few
days afterward, on the first Sunday of Lent, during the solemnities of
the pontifical mass, the patriarch, his eight chief metropolitans, and
fifteen other bishops, pronounced the same sentence of
excommunication, together with the sentence of deposition and
degradation, against seven bishops of Greece, partisans of Prince
Ypsilanti, and all their adherents, signing the decree on the altar of
the cathedral church. Such a storm of indignation was raised by this
nefarious act, that the prelates were obliged to pacify their people
by pretending that they had acted under the compulsion of the
government. A few days after, the patriarch and the majority of the
bishops who had signed the decree were condemned to death and
executed, on the charge of participating in the revolution. Even after
the great powers of Europe had acknowledged the independence of
Greece, the ruling clergy of Constantinople endeavored to curry favor
at court by sending a commission, under the presidency of the
metropolitan of Chalcèdon, to recommend to the Greeks a return to the
Turkish dominion! It is needless to say that this invitation was
declined, although we cannot but admire the self-control of the Greek
princes and prelates when we are told that it was declined, and the
ambassadors dismissed, _in the most polite manner_.

One more intrigue, the last one they have been left the opportunity of
trying, closes the history of their relations with the Church of
Greece. The clergy and people of the new kingdom were equally
determined to throw off completely and for ever the ecclesiastical
tyranny of Constantinople. At the same time they were disposed to act
with diplomatic formality and ecclesiastical courtesy, as well as in
conformity with the laws and principle of the orthodox church of the
East. The second article of the constitutional chart of the kingdom
defines in a precise and dignified manner the position of the national
church. "The orthodox Church of Greece, acknowledging our Lord Jesus
Christ as its head, is perpetually united in dogma with the great
Church of Constantinople and every other church holding the same
dogmas, preserving, as they do, immutably the holy canons of the
apostles and councils, and the sacred traditions. Nevertheless, it is
autocephalous, exercising independently of every other church its
rights of jurisdiction, and is administered by a sacred college of
bishops." This article was established in 1844. In 1850, the clergy
obtained from the government the appointment of a commission, composed
of one clergyman, the archimandrite Michael Apostolides, professor of
theology in the University of Athens, and one layman, Peter
Deligianni, _chargé d'affaires_ at Constantinople, to establish
concordats with the patriarchate and the governing synod of Russia, on
the basis of the above cited article of the Greek constitution. In
lieu of this proposed concordat, the Greek commissioners were duped by
the patriarchal synod into signing a synodal act, in which the
Patriarch of Constantinople, qualifying his see as the vine of which
other churches are the branches, and styling himself and his
associates [Greek text]--"Watchful shepherds and scrupulous guardians
of the canons of the church"--pretends by his own authority to grant
independent jurisdiction to the Church of Greece as a privilege. At
the same time he designates the Archbishop of Athens as the perpetual
president of the synod, ordains that the holy chrism shall always be
brought from Constantinople, and imposes other obligations intended to
serve as signs of dependence on the Patriarchal Church. The Greek
parliament, however, annulled this concordat, and the synod of Greek
bishops at Athens determined that henceforth there should be no
relation between the Church of Greece and that of Constantinople,
subsequently even forbidding priests ordained out of {10} the kingdom
to officiate in the priesthood. Although the Greek clergy had shown
themselves so forbearing and patient, it seems that the arrogance and
perfidy of the clergy of Constantinople had at last roused their just
indignation. The learned archimandrite Pharmacides published a book
against the synodal act and the policy of the Constantinopolitan
clergy, entitled "Antitomos; or, Concerning the Truth," in which he
ridicules the pompous pretensions which they make to pastoral
vigilance and fidelity in these words:

"Since you obtained the sacerdotal dignity by purchase, if you had
really the intention in becoming bishops to watch and to fatigue
yourselves by guarding the Church, no one of you would be a bishop;
for you would not have spent your money in buying vigils and labors."

Such being the nature of the solicitude of these watchful pastors and
scrupulous guardians of the canons for the welfare of those over whom
they claim a patriarchal authority, we need not be surprised at any
amount of reckless contempt which they may show for the general
interests of Christendom, and the admonitions they from time to time
receive from the veritable pastor of the flock of Christ.
Nevertheless, we cannot but wonder that the respectable portion of the
Oriental episcopate should permit themselves to be compromised by an
act which seems to cap the climax of even Byzantine stupidity and
effrontery. We refer to the reply to the noble and paternal encyclical
of Pius IX. to the Oriental bishops, put forth by Anthimus, the late
patriarch. Anthimus himself was notorious throughout the city for his
habits of drunkenness, which were so gross as to incapacitate him from
all business and expose him to the most ignominious insults even from
his own subordinates. The letter which he and several of his bishops
subscribed and sent to the Holy Father was written by the monk
Constantine OEconomus, and, in answer to the earnest and affectionate
appeals of the Holy Father to return to the unity of the Catholic
Church, makes the following astounding statement:

"The three other patriarchs, in difficult questions, demand the
fraternal counsels of the one of Constantinople, _because that city is
the imperial residence_, and this patriarch has the synodal primacy.
If the question can be settled by his fraternal co-operation, very
well. But if not, the matter is _referred to the government_ (_i.e._,
Ottoman), _according to the established laws_."

We think that the reason of the grave charge of schism, heresy, and
apostacy from the fundamental, constitutive principles of the Catholic
Church, which we have made against the higher clergy of
Constantinople, will now be apparent to every candid reader. The
history of their action in relation to the Church of Greece proves
that their principles and policy tend to disintegrate within itself
still more that portion of Christendom which they have alienated from
the communion of Rome and the West, and thus to increase the force of
the movement of decentralization, and to augment the number of
separate, local, mutually independent, and hostile communions. That
the natural tendency of this principle is to produce dogmatic
dissensions, and to efface the idea of Catholic unity, is too evident
from past history to need proof. It is only neutralized in the East by
the stagnation of thought, and the consequent immobility of the
Oriental mind from its old, long established traditions. The
essentially schismatical _virus_ of the principle is in the
subordination of organic, hierarchical unity to the temporal power and
the civil constitution of states, or the church-and-state principle in
its most odious form, which was never more grossly expressed than in
the letter above cited of Anthimus. This principle not only tends to
increase disintegration in the church, but to bar the way to a
reintegration in unity, and to destroy all desire of a return to
unity, as is also amply proved by the acts of the clergy of
Constantinople. A schismatical principle held {11} and acted on in
such a way as to make schism a perpetual condition, and thus not
merely to interrupt communion for a time but to destroy the idea of
Catholic unity, becomes heretical. Moreover, when doctrinal forms of
expressing dogmas of faith, or particular forms of administering the
rites of religion, are without authority set forth as essential
conditions of orthodoxy, and made the basis of a judgment of heresy
against other churches, those who make this false dogmatic standard
are guilty of heresy. This is the case with the clergy of
Constantinople, who make the difference respecting the use of
"Filioque" in the Creed the pretext for accusing the Latin Church of
heresy, and who deal similarly with the doctrine of purgatory, and the
questions respecting unleavened bread in the eucharist and immersion
in baptism. They have constantly persisted in their effort to
establish an essential dogmatic difference between the Latin and Greek
Churches and to make the peculiarities of the Greek rite essential
terms of Catholic communion, in order to widen and perpetuate the
breach between the East and West, and to maintain their own usurped
principality. They have been the authors of the schism, its obstinate
promoters, the principal cause of thrusting it upon the other parts of
the Eastern Church, and the chief instrument of thwarting the
charitable efforts of the Holy See for the spiritual good of the
Oriental Christians. They have done it in spite of the best and most
ample opportunities of knowing the utter falsehood of all the grounds
on which their schism is based, in the face of the example and the
writings of the best and most learned of their own predecessors, and
with a recklessness of consequences, and a disregard of the interests
of their own people and of religion itself, which merits for them the
name not only of heretics, but of apostates from all but the name and
outward profession of Christianity.

This last portion of the case against them we must now prosecute a
little further, by showing what has been their conduct in the exercise
of their temporal power over their fellow-Christians in Turkey.

The reasons and extent of the civil authority conferred upon the
Patriarch Gennadius by Mahomet II. have already been exposed. It is
obvious that although this authority would have enabled the governing
clergy to succor and console their unhappy people in their condition
of miserable slavery, if they had been possessed of truly apostolic
virtue, it opened the way to the most frightful tyranny and
oppression, by presenting to the worst and most ambitious men a strong
motive to aspire to the highest offices in the church. No form of
government can be worse than that of privileged slaves of a despot
over their fellow-slaves. Accordingly, but a short time elapsed before
the unhappy Christians of Turkey began to suffer from the effects of
this terrible system. Simoniacal bishops who bought their own dignity
by bribing the sultans and their favorites, and sold all the inferior
offices in their gift to the highest bidder; who were careless and
faithless in the discharge of their spiritual duties; and who had
apostatized from the communion of the Catholic Church, would, of
course, exercise their civil functions in the same spirit and
according to the same policy. They associated themselves intimately
with the Janissaries, on whom they relied for the maintenance of their
power; gave their system of policy the name of the "System of
_Cara-Casan_," that is, "Ecclesiastical Janissary System;" enrolled
themselves as members of the _Ortas_ or Janissary companies, and bore
their distinguishing marks tattooed on their arms. This redoubtable
body found its most powerful ally in the clergy up to the time of its
destruction by Mahmoud II. The author of the work whose title is
placed at the head of this article, James G. Pitzipios, is a native
Christian subject of the Sultan of Turkey, and was the secretary of an
imperial commission appointed to examine into the {12} civil and
financial administration of the Christian communities, as well as to
hear their complaints against their rulers. His position and
circumstances, therefore, have enabled him to investigate the matter
thoroughly. His estimate of the civil administration of the clergy of
the patriarchate from the time of Mahomet II. to that of Mahmoud II.--
that is, from the Turkish conquest to the projected reformation in the
Ottoman government--is expressed in these words:

  "We have seen why it was that the Sultan Mahomet II. delegated the
  entire temporal power over his Christian subjects to the Patriarch
  Gennadius and his successors; gave to the religious head of the
  Christians of his empire the title of _Milet-bachi_, and rendered
  him the absolute master of the lot of all his co-religionists, as
  well as responsible for their conduct and for their fulfilment of
  all duties and obligations toward the government. Such an
  arrangement was calculated to produce in its commencement some
  alleviations and even some advantages to these unfortunate
  Christians, as in point of fact it actually happened. But it was
  sure to degenerate sooner or later into a frightful tyranny, such as
  is naturally that of privileged slaves placed over those of their
  own race. Accordingly, as we have stated in several places already,
  the clergy of Constantinople made use of all the means of
  oppression, of vexation, and of pillage of which the cunning, the
  depraved conscience, and the rapacity of slaves in authority are
  capable. The clergy of Constantinople having become in this way the
  absolute arbiters of the goods, the conscience, the social rights,
  and indirectly even of the lives of all their Eastern
  co-religionists, continued to abuse this temporal power not only
  during the period of the old regime, but even after the destruction
  of the Janissaries, and, again, after the reform in Turkey, and up
  to the present moment"   [Footnote 4] (1855).

  [Footnote 4: "L'Eglise Orientale," p. iv., pp. 17, 18.]

The allusion to the reform in the lost clause of this extract requires
a fuller explanation, and this explanation will furnish the most
conclusive evidence of the degradation of the patriarchate, by showing
that not only have its clergy submitted to be the tools of the Ottoman
government when it was disposed to oppress the Christians in the worst
manner, but that they have even resisted and thwarted the efforts of
that government itself, when it was disposed to emancipate the
Christians from a part of their bondage.

The Sultan Mahmoud I I., a man of superior genius and enlightened
views, devoted all the energies of his great mind to the effort of
restoring his empire, rapidly verging toward dissolution, to
prosperity and splendor. He devised for this end a gigantic scheme of
political reformation, one part of which was the abolition of all
civil distinction between his subjects of different religions. He was
unable to do more, during his lifetime, than barely to commence the
execution of his grand project. His son and successor, Abdul-Medjid,
continued to prosecute the same work, and, at the beginning of his
reign, published a decree called the _Tinzimat_, enjoining certain
reformations in the manner of administering law and justice in the
provinces. The Christian inhabitants of Turkey were the ones who ought
to have profited most by this decree. On the contrary, the very
privileges which it accorded them, by withdrawing them in great
measure from the authority of the local Mussulman tribunals, deprived
them of their only resource against the oppressions and exactions of
their own clergy, and rendered their condition worse. The bishops
succeeded in getting a more exclusive control than ever over all cases
of jurisdiction relating to Christians, and made use of their power to
fleece their people more unmercifully than they had ever done before.
Encouraged by the publication of die Tinzimat, these unhappy Christian
communities ventured to send remonstrances to the Ottoman {13}
government against their cruel and mercenary pastors. In consequence
of these remonstrances, the Porte addressed the following official
note, dated Feb. 4, 1850, to the Patriarch of Constantinople:

  "Since, according to the Christian religion, the bishops are the
  pastors of the people, they ought to guide them in the right way,
  protect them, and console them, but never oppress them. As, however,
  many metropolitans and bishops commit actions in the provinces
  _which even the most despicable of men would not dare to
  perpetrate_, the Christian populations, crushed under this
  oppression, address themselves continually to the government,
  supplicating it to grant them its assistance and protection.
  Consequently, as the government cannot refuse to take into
  consideration these just complaints of its own subjects, it wills
  absolutely that these disorders cease. It invites, therefore, the
  patriarch to convoke an assembly of bishops and of the principal
  laymen of his religion, and, in concert with them, to consider
  fraternally of the means of doing away with these oppressions and
  the just complaints in regard to them, by regulating their
  ecclesiastical and communal administration in conformity with the
  precepts of their own religion and with the instructions the
  Tinzimat."   [Footnote 5]

  [Footnote 5: Ibid., p. iii., p. 144.]

A very edifying sermon this, from a Mohammedan minister of state to
the "spiritual head of the ancient and venerable Oriental Church!"
Like many other sermons, however, it did not produce a result
corresponding to its excellence. The good advice it contained was
followed up by levying a new tax. The patriarch sent immediately to
all the bishops a circular in which he prescribed to them "to admonish
the people, that since the government had imposed upon the church the
obligation of conforming to the demands of certain dioceses, and
applying everywhere the system of giving fixed salaries to the
bishops, the most holy patriarch is obliged to conform himself to the
orders of the government and to put them in execution as soon as
possible. But since both the general commune of Constantinople and the
particular ones of the several dioceses are burdened with debts which
amount to about 7,000,000 of piastres, it is just that the people
should previously pay off these debts; the bishops are, therefore,
ordered to proceed immediately to an exact enumeration of all the
Christian inhabitants of the cities, towns, and villages, without
excepting either widows or unmarried persons. In this way the
patriarchate, taking the census as its guide, can assign to each
Christian the sum which he is bound to pay for the pre-extinction of
the communal debts, and afterward apply the system of fixed episcopal
revenues."   [Footnote 6]

  [Footnote 6: Ibid., p. 144., p. 145.]

The poor people, terrified by this enormous tax, and by the
persecution which overtook the prime movers in the remonstrance, as
the secretary of the commission on the Tinzimat informs us, "swallowed
painfully their grievances and no longer dared to continue their just
reclamations to the government." The Ottoman government, intimidated
by the threats of the ecclesiastical Janissaries of the Cara-Casan,
"was obliged to yield to the force of circumstances, as they were used
to do in the time of their terrible _confrères_, and abandoned the
question completely."

The Greek revolution has also in one way aggravated the lot of the
Christians of Turkey, by causing the compulsory or voluntary removal
from the capital of the principal merchants and other Christians of
superior station and influence, who formed the greatest check upon the
unworthy clerical rulers. Under the name of "primates of the nation,"
they had a share in the management of ecclesiastical finances and
other temporal affairs, and as their compatriot, Mr. Pitzipios,
affirms, "these good citizens, inspired by their charitable {14}
sentiments, and encouraged by the influence which they had with the
Ottoman government, repressed greatly the abuses of the clergy, and
moderated, as far as they were able, the vexations of the people."
[Footnote 7] The men of this class who remained in Constantinople were
removed by the government, as foreigners, from all share in the
administration of Christian' affairs, and their places filled with the
creatures of the patriarchal clique, men of the lowest rank and
character, who were ready tools for every nefarious work.

  [Footnote 7: Ibid., p. 147.]

As a natural consequence of the faithless abuse of the sacred
religious and civil trust committed to the higher clergy, they and
their inferior clergy are detested and despised by their people, who
are held in subjection to them only by physical coercion. Mr.
Pitzipios assures us that there is among them a very strong
predisposition to Protestantism. A form of deism, introduced by
Theophilus Cairy, a Greek priest, who died in prison in the year 1851,
made great progress before it was suppressed by the civil power, and
is now secretly working with great activity in Greece and Turkey.

We cannot but think that the last and most degraded phase of the
Byzantine _Bas Empire_, impersonated in the schismatical patriarchate
of Constantinople, is destined soon to pass away. We hope and expect
soon to see the end of the Ottoman power, which alone sustains this
odious ecclesiastico-political tyranny. The signs of the political
horizon appear to indicate that Russia is destined to gain possession
of the ancient seat of the Greek empire. However this may be, if the
Church of Constantinople, and the other far more ancient churches
within her sphere of jurisdiction, are ever to be restored to a
healthy Christian vitality, and made to reflourish as of old, it must
be by a thorough ecclesiastical reformation, which shall sweep away
the present dominant clique in the clergy and the whole policy which
they have established.

The beginning of this reformation has already been inaugurated in the
kingdom of Greece. The bishops of that kingdom, in recovering freedom
from the odious yoke of Constantinople, have recovered the character
of Christian prelates and pastors. The severe remarks which we have
made respecting the Oriental hierarchy must be understood as
applicable only to that particular clique who have heretofore made
themselves dominant through intrigue and violence. There no doubt have
been, and are, among the higher clergy of the Turkish empire, some
exceptions to the general rule of incompetence and moral unworthiness.
The Greek bishops themselves who were established in their sees under
the old regime, manifested by their open or tacit concurrence in the
revolution that virtue had not completely died out under the pressure
of a long slavery. Since the establishment of Grecian independence,
the measures they have taken, in concert with the other members of the
higher secular and monastic clergy and the government, for the
amelioration of religion, are such as to reflect honor on themselves,
and to give great promise for the future. They live in a simple and
frugal manner, and some of them, instead of leaving millions of
piastres to their relatives, like their Turkish brethren, have not
left behind them enough money to defray their own funeral expenses.
They endeavor to select the best subjects for ordination to the
priesthood and to give them a good theological and religious training.
Professorships of theological science are established in the
University of Athens. The catechism is carefully taught to the young
people and children, and every year ten of the most competent among
the clergy are sent at the public expense to preach throughout all the
towns and villages of the kingdom. Such is the happy result of the
successful effort of these noble Greeks, so endeared to every lover of
learning, valor, and {15} religion for the memories of their glorious
antiquity, to shake off the yoke of the sultans and the patriarchs of
Constantinople. It is this miserable amalgam of Moslem despotism, and
usurped or abused spiritual power in the hands of a degenerate clergy
at Constantinople, which is the great obstacle in the way of the
regeneration of the East. We have already seen that the ecclesiastical
tyranny of the patriarchate is now confined to the one hundred and
forty-two small bishoprics, and the few millions of people included in
them, which are situated in Turkey. Nevertheless, the political views
of the Russian emperors, and the traditional reverence of the Russian
clergy, still maintain the patriarch and his synod in a modified
spiritual supremacy over the Russian Church, to which two-thirds of
the Oriental rite belong. If Constantinople should fall into the hands
of any of the great powers of Western Christendom, of course the
Cara-Casan, or system of mixed ecclesiastical and civil despotism,
will be overturned, the patriarch will become a mere primate among the
other metropolitans of the nation, and the patriarchate be reduced to
a simply honorary dignity like that of the Western patriarchs of
Venice and Lisbon. If the Czar becomes the master of European Turkey,
the same result will take place, with this only exception, that the
See of Constantinople will become the primatial see of the Russian
empire, and the Russian hierarchy will take the place of the effete
Byzantine clergy, which they are far more worthy, from their learning
and strict morality, to occupy.

What is to be the political and ecclesiastical destiny of the East,
and Russia, its gigantic infant, who can foretell, without prophetic
gifts? If the Russian emperors prove that they are destined and are
worthy to begin anew and to fulfil the grand design of Constantine,
Theodosius, Justinian, Pulcheria, and Irene, by creating a thoroughly
Christian empire of the East, we shall rejoice to see them enthroned
in Constantinople. If they are destined to restore the cross to the
dome of St. Sophia, and to renovate the ancient glory of that temple,
desecrated by Christian infamy more than by the Moslem crescent, we
shall exult in their achievement. If new Chrysostoms and Gregories
shall rise up to efface the dishonor of their predecessors, we will
forget the past, and give them the homage due to true and worthy
successors of the saints. We have no desire to see the Church of
Constantinople degraded, or the Eastern Church humiliated. The
Oriental Church is orthodox and catholic in its faith, and its several
great rites are fully sanctioned and protected by the Holy See. The
heresies which are found among a portion of its clergy are personal
heresies, and have never been established by any great synod, or
incorporated into their received doctrinal standards. We do not
condemn the great body of its people of even formal schism, but rather
compassionate them as suffering from a state of schism which has been
forced on them by a designing and unworthy faction, and is perpetuated
in great part through misunderstanding, prejudice, and national
antipathies. The causes and grounds of this unnatural state must
necessarily come up among them very soon for a more thorough
investigation. Study, thought, discussion, and contact with Western
Catholicism, as well as Western Protestantism and rationalism, will
compel them to place themselves face to face with their own hereditary
and traditional dogmas; and either to be consistent with themselves,
and submit to the supremacy of the Roman See, or to give up their
orthodoxy and open the doors to a religious revolution. We cannot deny
that the latter alternative is possible, although we are sure that Dr.
Pusey, and men like-minded with him, would deplore it as a great
calamity. We trust it will be otherwise. The Easter morning of
resurrection, which {16} we are now celebrating, dawned for us in _the
East_. It is the land, of Christ and his apostles, the birth-place of
our religion. We hope the day of resurrection for its decayed and
languishing churches may not be far distant.


From The Month.



1. Abbot Antony pointed out to a brother a stone, and said to him,
"Revile that stone, and beat it soundly."

When he had done so, Antony said, "Did the stone say anything?" He
answered, "No."

Then said Antony: "Unto this perfection shalt thou one day come."

2. When Abbot Arsenius was ill, they laid him on a mat, and put a pillow
under his head, and a brother was scandalized.

Then said his attendant to the brother: "What were you before you were
a monk?" He answered, "A shepherd." Then he asked again, "And do you
live a harder or an easier life now than then?" He replied, "I have
more comforts now." Then said the other, "Seest thou this abbot? When
he was in the world he was the father of emperors. A thousand slaves
with golden girdles and tippets of velvet waited on him, and rich
carpets were spread under him. _Thou_ hast gained by the change which
has made thee a monk; it is thou who art now encompassed with
comforts, but he is afflicted."

3. When Abbot Agatho was near his end, he remained for three days with
his eyes open and steadily fixed.

His brethren shook him, sayings "Abbot, where are you?"

He replied, "I stand before the judgment seat."

They said, "What, father! do you you too fear? think of your works."

He made answer: "I have no confidence till I shall have met my God."

4. Abbot Pastor was asked, "Is it good to cloak a brother's fault?"

He answered: "As often as we hide a brother's sin, God hides one of
ours, but he tells ours in that hour in which we tell our brother's."

5. The Abbot Alonius said: "Unless a man says in his heart, I and my
God are the only two in the world, he will not have rest."

6. Abbot Pambo, being summoned by St. Athanasius to Alexandria, met an
actress, and forthwith began to weep. "I weep," he said, "because I do
not strive to please my God as she strives to please the impure."

7. An old monk fell sick and for many days could not eat, and his
novice made him some pudding. There was a vessel of honey, and there
was another vessel of linseed oil for the lamp, good for nothing else,
for it was rancid. The novice mistook, and mixed up the oil in the
pudding. The old man said not a word, but ate it.

The novice pressed him, and helped him a second time, and the old man
ate again.

When he offered it the third time, the old man said, "I have had
enough;" but the novice cried, "Indeed, it is very good. I will eat
some with you."

When he had tasted it, he fell on his face and said: "Father, I shall
be the death of you! Why didn't you speak?"

The old man answered: "Had it been God's will that I should eat honey,
honey thou wouldst have given me."


From The Literary Workman.





He and she stood in a room in an inn in the town of Hull--and how she
wept! Crying as a child cries, with a woman's feelings joining
exquisite pain to those tears; which tears, in a way wonderful and
peculiar to beautiful women, scarcely disordered her face, or gave
anything worse to her countenance than an indescribably pathetic

He was older than she was by full ten years. He only watched her. And
if the most acute of my readers had watched _him_, they would have
been no wiser for their scrutiny.

At last she left the room; he had opened the door and offered his hand
to her. It was night; and she changed her chamber-candle from her
right hand to her left, and gave that right hand to him. He held it,
while he said: "I spoke because I dread the influence of the house we
are going to, and of those whom you will meet there."

"Thank you. Good night" And so she got to a great dark bed-room, and
knelt down, like a good girl as she was, and cried no more, but was in
bed and asleep before he had left the place he had taken by the side
of the sitting-room fire, leaning thoughtfully against the
mantel-shelf, when her absence had made the room lonely.

Then he ran down stairs and rushed out into the streets of the kingly
Hull--Kingston of the day of Edward I. The man we speak of was no
antiquary, and he troubled himself neither with the Kingston of the
royal Edward nor the _Vaccaria_ of the abbot from whom the place was
bought; he walked at a quick pace through streets dim and streets
lighted, toward the ships, or among the houses; to where he could see
the great headland of Holderness, or behold nothing at all but the
brick wall that prevented his going further, and told him by strong
facts that he had lost his way. So he wandered, walking fast
often--again, walking slowly; his head bowed down, his features
working, and his eyes flashing--clenched hands, or hands clasped on
his breast, as if to keep down the surging waves of memory, which
carried on their crests many things which now he could only gnash his
teeth at in withering vexation.

He and she had come from Scotland. I have said that she was
beautiful--she was English, too; but he was Scotch born and bred, and
not dark and stem, or really wild or poetic, as a Scotchman in a story
ought to be. He was simply a strong, well-formed man, of dark, ruddy
complexion, and fine, thick, waving brown hair. He might have been a
nobleman, or a royal descendant of Hull's own king. He looked it all,
without being downright handsome. But he was, in fact, only one of the
many men who have come into a thousand a year too soon for the
preservation of prudence. Between sixteen, when he succeeded to it,
and twenty-one, when he could spend it, he had committed many follies,
and found friends who turned out worse than declared enemies--since
twenty-one he had fallen {18} in love more than once. He had been
praised, blamed, accused, acquitted. But whether or not this man was
good or bad, no living soul could tell. He was well off, well looking,
well read, and in good company. He re-entered the inn at Hull that
April night, stood by the fire smoking, asked for a cup of strong
coffee, went to bed.

The next morning the two met at breakfast They were going south. No
matter where. Whether to the dreamy vales of Devonshire, to verdant
Somersetshire, or the gardens of Hampshire--no matter. They were going
to what the north Britons call the south. And it did not mean Algeria.
Railways were not everywhere then as railways are now. They had to
travel nearly all day, then to "coach it" to a great town, in whose
history coaches have now long been of the past. Then to get on a
second day by the old "fast four-horse," and to arrive about five
o'clock at a little quiet country town, where a carriage would take
them to the friends and the house whose influence he dreaded.

In fact, that night, in the inn sitting-room, he had offered marriage
to the girl whom he had in charge for safe guardianship on so long a
journey to her far-off home where he was to be a guest. She had felt
that he had abused his trust and taken an unfair advantage of her;
also, she was in that peculiarly feminine state of mind which is
neither expressed by _no_ nor by _yes_. She had upbraided him. He,
pleading guilty in his soul, was in a horror at the thought of losing
her; losing her in that way too, because he had done wrong. Being
miserable, he had shown his misery as a strong man may. He spoke, and
self-reproachfully; but, as he pleaded, he betrayed all he felt. The
girl saw his clasped hands, his bent form, as he leaned down from the
chair on which he sat in the straggling attitude which expressed a
disordered mind. He spoke, looking at the carpet, not loud nor long,
but with a terrible earnestness that frightened the girl, and then she
cried all the more, and seemed to shrink away as if in alarm, and yet
almost angrily. Why would he speak so fiercely--why had he taken this
advantage of her?

Then he had risen up quickly, and said, "Well, you know all now. We
will talk of something else." But she only shook her head and moved
away, and, as we have seen, went to bed.

The next morning they met calmly enough. On his side it was done with
an effort; on hers without effort, yet with a little trembling fear,
which went when she saw his calm, and she poured out tea, and he drank
it, and only a rather extraordinary silence told of too much having
being said the night before.

Now, why was all this? Why were this man and this young English girl
travelling thus to the sweet south coast, and to expecting friends?

While they are travelling on their way, we, you and I, dear reader,
will not only get on before them, but also turn back the pages of
life's story, and read its secrets.

They were going to a great house in a fine park, where fern waved its
tall, mounted feathers of green, and hid the dappled deer from sight--
where great ancestral oaks spread protecting branches; where hawthorn
trees, that it had taken three generations of men to make, stood,
large, thick, knotted, twisted--strange, dark, stunted looking trees
they looked, till spring came, and no green was like their green, and
the glory of their flower-wreaths people made pilgrimages to see. The
place was called Beremouth.

A mile and a half off was a town; one of those odd little old places
which tell of days and fashions past away. A very respectable place.
There had lived in Marston the dowager ladies of old country families,
in houses which had no pretensions to grandeur as you passed them in
the extremely quiet street, but which on the other side broke out into
bay windows, garden fronts, charming conservatories, and a {19} good
many other things which help to make life pleasant. So the inhabitants
of Marston were not all mere country-town's people. They knew
themselves to be _somebodies_ and they never forgot it.

Now, in this town dwelt a certain widow lady; poor she was, but she
had a pedigree and two beautiful daughters. Mary and Lucia Morier were
not two commonly, or even uncommonly, pretty girls; they were
wonderfully beautiful, people said, and nothing less. So lovers came a
courting. One married a Scotchman, a Mr. Erskine. They liked each
other quite well enough, Lucia thought, when she made her promises,
and received his; and so they did. They lived happily; did good;
wished for children but never had any, and so adopted Mr. Erskine's
orphan nephew--namely, the very man who behaved with such strange
imprudence in the inn at Hull. Mr. Erskine the uncle was twenty years
older than Mrs. Erskine the aunt. Mr. Erskine the younger was but a
child when they adopted him. But he was their heir, as well as the
inheritor of his father's' fortune, and they loved and cared for him.

Mary Morier did differently. She married at twenty, her younger sister
having married the month before at eighteen. Mary did differently, for
she did imprudently. They had had a brother who was an agent for
certain mines thirty miles off; and there he lived; but he came home
often enough, and made the house in the old town gay. A year before
the sister married, in fact while that sister was away on a visit to
friends in Scotland, the brother came home ill. He was ill for six
months. It is wonderful how much expense is incurred by a mother in
six months for a son who is sick. It made life very difficult. The
money to pay for Lucia's journey home had to be thought of. To be
sure, she was not there to eat and drink, but then her extra finery
had cost something. George had only earned one hundred a year. It had
not been more than enough to keep him. He came home ill with ten
pounds in his pocket, beside his half-year's rent, which would be due
the next month--certainly money at this time was wanted, for our
friends were sadly pinched. But the one most exemplary friend and
servant Jenifer was paid her wages, and tea and sugar money to the
day; and the doctor got so many guineas that he grew desperate and
suddenly refused to come--then repented, and made a Christian-like
bargain, that he would go on coming on condition that he never saw
another piece of any kind of money.

Mary and her mother looked each other in the face one day, and that
look told all. There was some plate, and they had watches, and a
little fine old-fashioned jewelry--yes, they must go. They were
reduced to poverty at last--this was more than "limited means"--hard
penury had them with a desperate grasp.

Fortune comes in many shapes, and not often openly, and with a
flourish of trumpets--neither did she come in that way now; but
shamefacedly, sneakingly, and ringing the door-bell with a meek, not
to say tremulous pull; and her shape was that of a broad-built, short,
wide-jawed, lanky-haired, pig-eyed, elderly man, with a curious
quantity of waistcoat showing, yet, generally, well dressed. "Your
mistress at home?" "Yes, Mr. Brewer." "Mr. George better?" "No. Never
will be, sir." "Bless me! I beg your pardon!" "Granted before 'tis
asked, sir." "Ah! yes; I have a little business to transact with your
mistress. Can I see her alone?" Mr. Brewer was shown by Jenifer into
the little right-hand parlor. He gravely took out a huge pocket-book,
and then a small parchment-covered account-book appeared. I believe he
had persuaded himself that he was really going to transact business,
and not to perform the neatest piece of deception that a {20}
respectable gentleman ever attempted. A lady entered the room. "Madam,
jour son has been my agent for mines three years--my mine _and land_
agent since Christmas. He takes the additional work at seventy-five
pounds a year extra. The half of that is now due to him. I pay _that_
myself. I have brought it" And thirty-seven pounds ten shillings Mr.
Brewer put on the table, saying, "I will take your receipt, madam.
Don't trouble Georges's head about business; for when you _do_ speak
of that you will have, I am sorry to say, to inform him that in _both_
his places I have had to put another man. I have to give George three
months' payment at the rate of one hundred and seventy pounds a year,
as I gave him no quarter's warning. That is business, do you
understand?" asked Mr. Brewer. "It is for my son to discharge himself,
sir--since he cannot"--the mother's voice faltered. "Ah--only he
didn't, and I did," said Mr. Brewer. "Your receipt? When your son
recovers, let him apply to me. I am sorry to end our connexion so
abruptly. But it is business. Business, you know"--and there Mr.
Brewer stopped, for Mary Morier was in the room, and her beauty filled
it, or seemed to do so. And Mr. Brewer departed muttering, as he had
muttered before often, "the most beautiful girl in the world." Still,
he had an uncomfortable sensation, for he felt he was an underhand
sneak, and that Mary had found him out; and so she had. She knew that
her brother had been "discharged" only to afford a pretext for giving
the quarter's money; and she was sure that his being land agent, at an
additional seventy-five pounds a year, was a pure unadulterated

Mr. Brewer was an extraordinary man. He had a turn for the
supernatural. He would have liked above all things to have worked
miracles. He did do odd things, such as we have seen, which he made,
by means of the poetic quality that characterized him, a purely
natural act. He was praising George for a saving, prudent, industrious
young man, who had never drawn the whole of his last year's salary,
before an hour was over. And his story looked so like truth that he
believed it himself.

Mr. Brewer was what people call "a risen man." But then his father had
been rising--and, for the matter of that, his grandfather too. All
their fortunes had flowed into the life of the man who has got into
this story; and he, having had a tide of prosperity exceeding all
others, in height, and strength, and riches, had found himself
stranded on the great shore of society, at forty years of age, with
more thousands a year than he liked to be generally known. Could he
have transformed himself into a benignant fairy he would have been
very happy, and acts of mercy would have abounded on the earth. But
no--Mr. Brewer was Mr. Brewer, and anything less poetic to look
at--more impossible as to wands, and wings, and good fairy appendages,
it is difficult to imagine. Mr. Brewer was a middle-aged man, with
hands in his pockets; plain truth is always respectable. There it is.

But there was a Mrs. Brewer. Now Mrs. Brewer was an excellent woman,
but not excellent after the manner of her husband. She was three years
older. They had not been in love. They had married at an epoch in Mr.
Brewer's life when public affairs occupied his time so entirely as to
make it desirable to have what people call a "missus;" we are afraid
that Mr. Brewer himself so called the article, a "missus, at home."
Mrs. Brewer had been "a widow lady--young--of a sociable and domestic
disposition" who "desired to be housekeeper--to be treated
confidentially, and as one of the family--to a widower--with or
without children." On inquiry, it was found that young Mrs. Smith had
not irrevocably determined that the owner of the house that she was to
keep should have been the husband of one wife, undoubtedly {21} dead;
the widower was an expression only, a sort of modest way of putting
the plain fact of a single man, or a man capable of matrimony--the
expression meant all that; and when Mrs. Smith entered on the
housekeeping, she acted up to the meaning of the advertisement, and
married Mr. Brewer. Neither had ever repented. Let that be understood.
Only, Mr. Brewer, when he knew he could live in a great house, dine
off silver, keep a four-in-hand, or a pack of hounds, or enter on any
other legitimate mode of spending money, did none of them; but eased
his mind and his pocket by such contrivances as we have seen resorted
to in the presence of the beautiful Mary Morier. He tried curious
experiments of what a man would do with ten pounds. He had dangerous
notions as to people addicted to certain villanies being cured of
their moral diseases by the administration of a hundred a year. In
some round-about ways he had put the idea to the proof, and not always
with satisfactory results. He held as an article of faith--nobody
could guess where he found it--that there were people in the world who
could go straighter in prosperity than in adversity. He never would
believe that adversity was a thing to be suffered. He had replied to a
Protestant divine on that subject, illustrated in the case of a
starving family, that that might be, only it was no concern of his,
and he would not act upon the theory. And the result was a thriving,
thankful family in Australia, to whom Mr. Brewer was always, ever
after, sending valuable commodities, and receiving flower-seeds and
skins of gaudy feathered birds in return.

Mr. Brewer had a daughter, Claudia was her name. "A Bible name," said
Mr. Brewer, and bowed his head, and felt he had done his duty by the
girl. What more could he do? She went to school, and was at school
when he was paying money in Mrs. Morier's parlor. She was then ten
years old; and being a clever child, she had, in the holidays just
over, chosen to talk French, and nothing else, to a friend whom she
had been allowed to bring with her. A thing that had caused great
perturbation in the soul of her honest father, who prayed in a
wordless, but real anxiety, that the Bible name might not be thrown
away on the glib-tongued little gipsy. It will be perceived that
Claudia was a difficulty.

Now, when Mr. Brewer was gone out of Mrs. Morier's house, the mother
took up the money, wiped her eyes, and said, "What a good boy George
was." And Mary said "_Yes;_" and knew in her heart that if there had
been any chance of George living, Mr. Brewer would never have done

George died. There was money, just enough for all wants. Lucia came
home engaged to the married to Mr. Erskine. And when she was gone
there went with her a certain seven hundred pounds, her fortune,
settled--what a silly mockery Mr. Erskine thought it--on her children.
The loss made the two who were left very poor. Lucia sent her mother
gifts, but the regular and to be reckoned on eight-and-twenty pounds a
year were gone. She who had eaten, drank, and dressed was gone
too--but still it was a loss; and Mary and her mother were poor. Also,
Mary had long been engaged to be married to the son of a younger
branch of a great county family house, Lansdowne Lorimer by name. He
was in an attorney's office in Marston. In that old-world place, the
attorney, himself of a county family, was a great man. It was hard to
see Lucia marry a man of money and land, young Lorimer thought, so he
advised Mary to assert their independence of all earthly
considerations, and marry too. And they did so.

The young man had no father or mother. He had angry uncles and
insolent aunts, and family friends, all to be respected, and prophets
of evil, every one of them. He had, also, a place in the office, a
clear head, a determined will, a handsome {22} person, a good
pedigree, and a beautiful wife. She, also, had her eight-and-twenty
pounds a year. But they gave it back regularly to Mrs. Morier; for,
you know, they, the young people, _were_ young, and they could work.
Mrs. Morier never spent this money. She and Jenifer, the prime
minister of that court of loyal love, put it by, against the evil day,
and they had just enough for themselves and the cat to live upon
without it.

The county families asked their imprudent kinsman to visit them with
his bride. How they flouted her. How they advised her. How they
congratulated her that she had always been poor. How they assured her
that she would be poor for ever. How, too, they feared that Lansdowne
would never bear hard work, nor anxiety, nor any other of those
troubles which were so very sure to happen. How surprised they were at
the three pretty silk dresses, the one plain white muslin, and the
smart best white net. How they scorned when they heard that she and
Jenifer, and her mother, and a girl at eightpence a day, had made them
all. And, then, how they sunned themselves in her wonderful beauty,
and accepted the world's praises of it, and kept the triumph
themselves, and handed over to her the gravest warnings of its being a
dangerous gift.

Dangerous, indeed! it was the pride of Lorimer's life. And Mary was
accomplished, far more really accomplished than the lazy, half-taught
creatures who had never said to themselves that they might have to
play and sing, and speak French and Italian, for their or their
children's bread. Mary had said it to herself many a time since her
heart had been given to the man who was her husband. A true, brave,
loving heart it was, and that which her common sense had whispered to
it that heart was strong to do, and would be found doing if the day of
necessity ever came. So, at that Castle Dangerous where the bride and
bridegroom were staying, Mary outshone others, and was not the
better loved for that; and one old Lady Caroline crowned the triumph
by ordering a piano-forte for the new home at Marston, with a savage
"Keep up what you know, child; you may be glad of it one day." Old
Lady Caroline was generally considered as a high-bred privileged
savage. But that was the only savage thing she ever said to Mary. She
told Lorimer that he was a selfish, unprincipled brute for marrying
anybody so perfect and so pretty. And Lorimer bore her
misrepresentations with remarkable patience, only making her a
ceremonious bow, and saying in a low voice, "You know better." "I know
you will starve," and she walked off without an answer.

They did not starve. In fact, they prospered, till one sad day when
Lorimer caught cold--and again and again caught cold--cough, pain,
symptoms of consumption--a short, sad story; and then the great end,
death. Mary was a widow three years after her wedding day, with a
child of two years of age at her side, and an income from a life
insurance made by her husband of one hundred a year. We have seen the
child--grown to a beautiful girl of seventeen--we have seen her in the
room with Mr. Erskine, at the inn at Hull.

Mrs. Lorimer went back to live with her mother, Jenifer, and the great
white cat.

The year after this great change, Mrs. Brewer died, and Claudia at
thirteen was a greater difficulty than ever. The first holidays after
the departure of the good mother, the puzzled father had written to
the two Miss Gainsboroughs to bring the child to Marston and stay at
his house during the holidays. He entertained them for a week, and
then went off on a tour through Holland. The next holidays he proposed
that they should take a house at Brighton, and that he should pay all
expenses. This, too, was done, and Mr. Brewer went to a hotel and
there made friends with his precocious daughter in a way that
surprised and pleased {23} him. He visited the young lady, and she
entertained him. He hired horses, and they rode together. He took
boxes at the theatre, and they made parties and went together. He gave
the girl jewelry and fine clothes, and they really got to know each
other, and to enjoy life together as could never have been the case
had they not been thus left to their own way. The child no longer felt
herself of a different world from that of her parents--the father had
a companion in the child who could grace his position, and keep her
own. They parted with love and anxious lookings forward to the summer
meeting. They were both in possession of a new happiness. When Mr.
Brewer got back to Marston, he led a dull, dreamy life--a year and a
half of widowhood passed--then he went to Mrs. Morier's, saw Mary, and
asked her to be his wife. It is not easy to declare why Mary Lorimer
said--after some weeks of wondering-mindedness--why she said "Yes."
She knew all Mr. Brewer's goodness. She preferred, no doubt, not to
wound a heart that had so often sympathized with the wounded. She
never, in her life, could have borne to see him vexed without great
vexation herself. She liked that he should be rewarded. She was
interested in Claudia. She liked the thought of two hundred a year
settled on her mother. She liked to feel that her own little Mary
might be brought up as grandly as any of those little saucy "county
family" damsels, her cousins, who already looked down on her, and
scorned her pink spotted calico frock.

Mary and Mr. Brewer walked quietly to church; Mrs. Morier still in
astonishment, and Jenifer "dazed;" bat all the working people loved
Mr. Brewer. And they walked back, man and wife, to her mother's house,
and had a quiet substantial breakfast before they started for London.
And when there Mr. Brewer told her that they were not to return to the
respectable stone-fronted house facing the market-place in Marston,
but that he had bought Lord Byland's property--and that Beremouth was
theirs. Beremouth, with its spreading park, and river, and lake, its
miles of old pasture-land, its waving ferns, and dappled deer;
Beremouth, with its forest and gardens, royal oaks and twisted
hawthorn trees; Beremouth, the finest place in the county. And all
that Mary felt was, that he who had kept this secret, had had a true
hero's delicacy, and had never thought to bribe her, or to get her by
purchase into his home. I think she almost loved him then.

In due time, after perhaps six months of wandering, and of
preparation, Mr. and Mrs. Brewer arrived at their new home, made
glorious by all that taste and art could do, with London energy
working with the power of gold. With them came Claudia. The child
loved her new mother with an abandonment of heart and a perfect
approval. She was still too young to argue, but she was not too young
to feel. The mother she had now got, though not much more than ten
years older than herself, was the mother to love, admire, delight
in--is the mother who could understand her.

Then Beremouth just suited this young lady's idea of what was worth
having in this world; and without any evil thought of the homely
mother who had gone, there was a thought that "Mother-Mary," as Mrs.
Brewer was called by her step-daughter, looked right at Beremouth, and
that another class of person would have looked wrong there--so wrong
that her father under such circumstances would never have put himself
in the position of trying the experiment.

Minnie Lorimer was very happy in her great play-ground; for all the
world, and all life, was play to little Minnie. She loved her new
sister; and the new sister patronized and petted her, so all seemed
right. It was, indeed, a great happiness for Claudia that her father
had chosen Mary Lorimer. Claudia was a vixenish, little handsome
gipsy; very clever, very {24} high-spirited, full of life, health, and
fun--a girl who could have yielded to very few, and who brought the
homage of heart and mind to "Mother-Mary," and rejoiced in doing it.
These two grew to be great friends, and when after three years Claudia
came home and came out, all parties were happy.

In the meantime Mr. Brewer's way in the world had been straight,
plain, and rapidly travelled. The county was at his feet. Mary was no
longer congratulated on having been brought up to poverty. Behind her
back there were plenty of people to say that Mr. Brewer was happy in
having for his wife a well connected gentlewoman. Her pedigree was
told, her poverty forgotten. Her singing and playing, dancing and
drawing, were none the worse for unknown thousands a year. And people
wondered less openly at the splendor of velvets and diamonds than they
had at the new muslin gown. To Mary herself life was very different in
every way. Daily, more and more, she admired her husband, and approved
of him. It was the awakening into life of a new set of feelings. She
knew none of the love and devotion she had felt for her first husband.
Mr. Brewer never expected any of it. But he intended that she should,
in some other indescribable manner, fall in love with him, and she was
doing it every day--which thing her husband saw, and welcomed life
with great satisfaction in consequence.

It was when Claudia came out that the man we have seen, Horace
Erskine, first came to them. He was just of age. Mary did not like
him. She could give no reason for it. Her sister had always praised
him--but Mary _could_ not like him. He came to them for a series of
gay doings, and Mr. Brewer admired him, and Claudia--poor little
Claudia! She gave him that strong heart of hers; that spirit that
could break sooner than bend was quite enslaved--she loved him, and he
had asked for her love, and vowed a hundred times that he could never
be happy without it. He asked her of her father, and Mr. Brewer
consented. It was not for Mary to say no; but her heart went cold in
its fear, and she was very sorry.

The Erskines in Scotland were delighted--all deemed doing well. But
when Horace Erskine talked to Mr. Brewer about money, he was told that
Claudia would have on her marriage five thousand pounds; and ten
thousand more if she survived him would be forthcoming on his death--
that was all. "Enough for a woman," said Mr. Brewer; and Erskine was
silent. It went on for a few weeks, Horace, being flighty and odd,
Claudia, for the first time in her life, humble and endearing. Then he
told her that to him money was necessary; then he asked her to appeal
to her father for more; then she treated the request lightly, and, at
last, positively refused. If she had not enough, he could leave her.
If he left her, would she take the blame on herself? It would injure
him in his future hopes and prospects to have it supposed to be _his_
doing if they parted? Yes, she said. It was the easiest thing in the
world. Who cared?--not he of course--and, certainly, not Claudia
Brewer. It broke her heart to find him vile. But she was too
discerning not to see the truth; her great thought now was to hide it.
To hide too from every one, even from "Mother-Mary," that her heart
felt death-struck--that the whole place was poisoned to her--that life
at Beremouth was loathsome.

She took a strange way of hiding it.

A county election was going on. The man whom Mr. Brewer hoped to see
elected was a guest at Beremouth. An old, grey-haired, worldly,
statesmanlike man. A man who petted Claudia, and admired her; and who
suddenly woke up one day to a thought--a question--a species of
amusing suggestion, which grew into a {25} profound wonder, and then
even warmed into a hope--surely that pretty bright young heiress liked
him, had a fancy to be the second Lady Greystock. It was a droll
thought at first, and he played with it; a flattering fancy, and he
encouraged it. He was an honest man. He knew that he was great,
clever, learned. Was there anything so wonderful in a woman loving
him? He settled the question by asking Claudia. And she promised to be
his wife with a real and undisguised gladness. Her spirit and her
determination were treading the life out of her heart. She was sincere
in her gladness. She thought she could welcome any duties that took
her away from life at Beremouth, and gave her place and position

Mary suspected much, and feared everything. But Claudia felt and knew
too much to speak one word of the world of hope and joy and love that
had gone away from her. She declared that she liked her old love, and
gloried in his grey hairs, and in the great heart that had stooped to
ask for hers.

Now what are we to say of Horace Erskine? Was he wholly bad? First, he
had never loved Claudia with a real devotion. He had admired her; she
had loved him. He had gambled--green turf and green cloth--gambled
and recklessly indulged himself till he had got upon the way to ruin,
and had begun the downward path, and was glad to be stopped in that
slippery descent by a marriage with an heiress. There was a sparkle,
an originality, about Claudia. It was impossible not to be taken with
her. But Claudia with only _that_ fortune was of no use to him. He
knew she was brave and true-hearted; so he boldly asked her to guard
his name--in fact, to give him up, and not injure his next chance with
a better heiress by telling the truth. _He_ told _her_ the truth; that
he wanted money, and money he must have. She would not tell him that
the worst part of her trial was the loss of her idol. It was despising
him that broke her heart. But because he had been her idol she would
never injure him--never tell.

So the day came, and at Marston church she married Sir Geoffrey
Greystock, "Mother-Mary" wondering; Mr. Brewer believing, in the
innocence of his heart, that the fancy for Horace Erskine had been a
bit of the old wilfulness. "The last bit--the last," he said, as he
spoke of it to her that very day, making her chilled heart knock
against her side as he spoke, and kissed her, and sent her with
blessings from the Beremouth that she had married to get away from.

_To get away_--it had more to do with her marrying than any other
thought. To get away from the house, the spreading pastures, the
bright garden, and above all from the _old deer pond_ in the park--the
most beautiful of all the many lovely spots that nature and art, and
time and taste, had joined to create and adorn Beremouth. The old deer
pond in the park! Sheltered by ancient oak; backed by interlacing
boughs of old hawthorn trees; shadowed by tall, shining, dark dense
holly, that glowed through the winter with its red berries, and
contrasted with the long fair wreaths of hawthorn flowers in the sweet
smiling spring. There, in this now dreaded place, Horace Erskine had
first spoken of love; and there how often had he promised her the
happiness that had gone out of her life--for ever. In the terrible
nights, when her broken-hearted pains were strongest, this deer pond
in the park had been before her closed eyes like a vision. In its
waters she saw in her sleep her face and his, so happy, so loving, so
trusting, so true. Then the picture in that water changed, and she
watched it in her feverish dreams with horror, but yet was obliged to
gaze, and the truth went out of his face, and the terror came into
hers. And, worse and worse, he grew threatening--he was cold--he had
never loved--he was killing her; and she fell, fell from her height of
happiness; no protecting {26} arm stayed her, and the dark waters
opened, and she heard the rushing sound of their deadly waves closing
over her, as she sunk--sunk--again and again, night after night Oh, to
get away, to get away! And she blessed Sir Geoffrey, and when he said
he was too old to wait for a wife she was glad, for she had no wish to
wait. Change, absence, another home, another life, another
world--these things she wanted, and they had come. Is it any wonder
that she took them as the man who is dying of thirst takes the
longed-for draught, and drains the cup of mercy to the dregs?

It was a happy day to marry. Mr. Brewer had not only an excuse, but a
positively undeniable reason for being bountiful and kind. For once he
could openly, and as a matter of duty, make the sad hearts in
Marston--and elsewhere--sing for joy. His blessings flowed so
liberally that he had to apologize. It was only for once--he begged
everybody's pardon, but it could never happen again; he had but this
one child, and she was a bride, and so if they would forgive
everything this once! And many a new life of gladness was begun that
day; many a burden then lost its weight; many a record went up to the
Eternal memory to meet that man at the inevitable hour.

Little Mary was the loveliest bridesmaid the world ever saw; standing
alone like an angel by her dark sister's side. She was the only thing
that Claudia grieved to leave. She was glad to flee away from
"Mother-Mary." She dreaded lest those sweet wistful eyes should read
her heart one day; and she could not help rejoicing to get away from
that honest, open-hearted father's sight. Her poor, wrecked, shrunken
heart--her withered life, could not bear the contrast with his free,
kind, bounteous spirit that gave such measure of love, pressed down
and running over, to all who wanted it. Her old husband, Sir Geoffrey,
resembled that great good heart in whose love she had learnt to think
all men true, more than did her young lover Horace Erskine--she could
be humble and thankful to Sir Geoffrey; a well-placed approval was a
better thing than an ill-placed love. So with that little vision of
beauty, Minnie Lorimer, by her side, Claudia became Sir Geoffrey's

Four months past, the bride and bridegroom were entertaining a grand
party at their fine ancestral home, and Mr. Brewer was the father of a
son and heir. Horace Erskine read both announcements in the paper one
morning, and ground his teeth with vexation. He went to his desk and
took out three letters, a long lock of silky hair, a small
miniature--these things he had begged to keep. Laughing, he had argued
that he was almost a relation. His uncle had married "Mother-Mary's"
sister. She had had no strength to debate with him. She had chosen to
wear the mask of indifference, too, to him. He now made these things
into a parcel and sent them to Sir Geoffrey Greystock without one word
of explanation. When they were gone he wrote to his uncle, begged for
some money, got it, and started for Vienna. The money met him in
London, and he crossed to France the same day.

In the midst of great happiness the strong heart of good Sir Geoffrey
stood still. His wife sought him. She found him in his chair in a fit.
On a little table by his side was the parcel just received. Claudia
knew all. She took the parcel into the room close by, called her
dressing room, rung for help, but in an hour Sir Geoffrey was dead;
and Claudia had burnt the letters and the lock of silky hair.

The business of parliament, the excitement attendant on his marriage
with that beautiful girl, the entertainment of that great house full
of company--these reasons the world reckoned up, and found sufficient
to answer the questions and the wonderings on Sir Geoffrey's death.
But when those solemn walls no longer knew their master, Claudia, into
whose new life the new things held but an {27} unsteady place, grew
ill. First of all, sleepless nights: how could she sleep with the
sound of those waters by the deer pond in her ears? How could she help
gazing perpetually at the picture on the pond's still surface: Horace
and Sir Geoffrey, and herself not able to turn aside the death-stroke,
but standing, fettered by she knew not what, in powerless misery, only
obliged to see the changing face of her husband till the dead seemed
to be again before her, and Horace melted out of sight, and she woke,
dreading fever and praying against delirium? She was overcome at last.
Terrible hours came, and "Mother-Mary's" sweet face mingling with some
strong, subduing, life-endangering dream, was the first thing that
seemed to bring her back to better things, and to restore her to

In fact, Claudia had had brain fever, and whether or not she was ever
to know real health again was a problem to be worked out by time.
Would she come back to her father's house? No! The very name of
Beremouth was to be avoided. Would she go abroad? Oh, no; there was a
dread of separation upon her. "Somewhere where you can easily hear of
me, and I of you; where you can come and see me, for I shall never see
Beremouth again." It was her own thought, and so, about five miles
from Beremouth, in the house of a Doctor Rankin, who took ladies out
of health into his family, Claudia determined to go. It was every way
the best thing that could be done, for every day showed more strongly
than the last that Claudia would never be what is emphatically called
"herself" again. So people said.

Dr. Rankin was kind, learned, and wise; Mrs. Rankin warm-hearted and
friendly. Other patients beside Lady Greystock were there. It was not
a private asylum, and Claudia was not mad; it was really what it
called itself, a home which the sick might share, with medical
attendance, cheerful company, and out-door recreations in a well-kept
garden and extensive grounds of considerable beauty. Claudia had known
Dr. and Mrs. Rankin, and had called with her father at Blagden, where
they lived. And there her father and "Mother-Mary" took her three
months after her husband's death, looking really aged, feeble, and
strangely sad.

After a time--it was a long time--Claudia was said to be well.
"Perfectly recovered," said Dr. Rankin, "and in really satisfactory
health." So she was when Minnie Lorimer stood in the room at the inn
in Hull, talking to that very Horace Erskine, who was bringing her
home from her aunt's in Scotland to her mother at Beremouth.

"Sweet seventeen!" Very sweet and beautiful, pleasing the eye,
gratifying the mind, filling the heart with hope, and setting
imagination at play--Minnie Lorimer was beautiful, and with all that
peculiar beauty about her that belongs to "a spoilt child" who has not
been spoilt after all.

Claudia--how old she looked! Claudia, with that one only shadow on her
once bright face, was still living with Dr. and Mrs. Rankin. It was
Lady Greystock's pleasure to live with them. She said she had grown
out of the position of a patient, and into their hearts as a friend.
"Was it not so?" she asked. It was impossible to deny that which
really brought happiness to everybody. "Well, then, I shall build on a
few rooms to the house, and I shall call them mine, and I shall add to
the coach-house, and hire a cottage for my groom and his wife--I shall
live here. Why not? You will take care of me, and feed me, and scold
me, and find me a good guidable creature. You know I shall be ill if
you refuse."

It all happened as she chose. Hers was the prettiest carriage in the
county, the best horses, the most perfectly appointed little
household--for she had her own servants. Among her most devoted
friends were the good doctor and his wife. Lady Greystock was as
positive and as much given to {28} govern as the clever little Claudia
in school-girl days. But the arrangement was a success, and
"Mother-Mary," who saw her constantly, was very glad. Only one trouble
survived; Claudia would never go and stay at Beremouth. She would
drive her ponies merrily to the door, and even spend an hour or two
within the house, but never would she stay there--never! She used to
say to herself that she dared not trust herself with the things that
had witnessed her love, her sorrow, her marriage--with the things that
told her of him who had ruined everything like a murderer--as he was.

And so, to save appearances, she used to say that she never stayed
away from Blagden for a single night, and she never left off black. It
was not that she wore a widow's dress, or covered up the glories of
her beautiful hair. She was but twenty-nine at the moment recorded in
the first page of this story. She was very thin and pale, but she was
a strong woman, and one who required no more care than any other
person; but she had determined never again to see Horace Erskine. What
he had done had become known to her, as we have seen. She only
bargained with life, as it were, in this way, that _that_ man should
be out of it for ever. And for this it was that she made her
resolution and kept it.

Horace Erskine had been abroad for some years; but though she had felt
safe in that fact, she had looked into the future and kept her
resolution. And so she lived on at Blagden, doing good, blessing the
poor, comforting the afflicted, visiting the sick, and beautifying all
things, and adorning all places that came within her reach. Certain
things she was young enough to enjoy greatly; the chief of these was
the contemplation of Frederick Brewer, her half-brother, a fine boy of
nine years old, for nine years of widowhood had been passed, and
through all that time this boy, her dear father's son, had been Lady
Greystock's delight. She loved "Mother-Mary" all the better for having
given him to her father, and she felt a strong, unutterable
thanksgiving that, his birth having been expected, the test of whether
or not Horace Erskine loved her for herself had been applied before
she had become chained to so terrible a destiny as that of being wife
to a thankless, disappointed man. Terrible as her great trial had
been, she might have suffered that which, to one of her temper, would
have been far worse. So Fred Brewer would ride over to see his sister.
Day after day the boy's bright face would be laid beside her own, and
to him, and only to him, would she talk of Sir Geoffrey. Then they
would ride together down to Marston to see Mrs. Morier and Jenifer,
who was a true friend, and lived on those terms with the lady who
loved her well; then to the market-place where the old home stood, now
turned into an almshouse of an eccentric sort, with all rules included
under one head, that the dear old souls were to have just whatever
they wanted. Did Martha Gannet keep three parrots, and did they eat as
much as a young heifer? and scream, too? ah, that was their
nature--never go against a dumb creature's nature, Mr. Brewer said
there was always cruelty in that--and did they smell, and give
trouble, and would they be mischievous, and tear Mrs. Betty's cap?
Indeed. Mr. Brewer was delighted. An excellent excuse for giving new
caps to all the inmates, and to look up all troubles, and mend
everybody's griefs--such an excellent thing it was that the fact of
three parrots should lead to the discovery of so many disgraceful
neglects that Mr. Brewer begged leave to apologize very heartily and
sincerely while he diligently repaired them. It was a very odd school
to bring up young Freddy in. But we are obliged to say that he was not
at all the worse for it.

And here we must say what we have not said before. Mr. Brewer was a
Catholic. He and Jenifer were {29} Catholics; Mrs. Brewer had not been
a Catholic; and Claudia had been left to her mother's teaching. When
Freddy was born, Mr. Brewer considered his ways. And what he saw in
his life we may see shortly. He had been born of a Catholic mother who
had died, and made his Protestant father promise to send him to a
Catholic school. He had stood alone in the world, he had always stood
alone in the world. He seemed to see nothing else. Three miles from
Marston was a little dirty sea-port, also a sort of fishing place. A
place that bore a bad character in a good many ways. Some people would
have finished that character by saying that there were Papists there.
To that place every Sunday Mr. Brewer went to mass. Many and many a
lift he had given to Jenifer on those days. How much Jenifer's talk
assisted his choice of Mary for his wife, we may guess. When Freddy
was born Jenifer said her first words on the subject of religion to
Mr. Brewer: "You will have him properly baptized:" "Of course." "Order
me the pony cart, and I'll go to Father Daniels." "I must tell Mrs.
Brewer." "Leave that to me--just send for the cart." It _was_ left to
Jenifer. By night the priest had come and gone. It had not been his
first visit. He had been there many times, and had known that he was
welcome. The Clayton mission had felt the blessing of Mr. Brewer's
gold. He had seldom been at the house in the market-place in Marston,
but at Beremouth Mary had plucked her finest flowers, and sent them
back in the old gentleman's gig, and he had been always made welcome
in her husband's house with a pretty grace and many pleasant
attentions. Now, when Freddy was baptized, Mr. Brewer went to his wife
and bent over her, and said solemnly, "Mary--my dear wife; Mary--I
thank thee, darling. I thank thee, my love." And the single tear that
fell on her cheek she never forgot.

Then Mr. Brewer met Jenifer at his wife's door. "It's like a new life,
Jenifer." And the steady-mannered woman looked in his bright eyes and
saw how true his words were.

"It's a steady life of doing good to everybody that you have ever led,
sir. It was a lonely life once, no doubt. I was dazed when she married
you. But, eh, master; I have _that_ to think about, and _that_ to pray
for, that a'most makes me believe in anything happening to _you_ for
good, when so much is asked for, day and night, in my own prayer."

"Put _us_ into it; let me and mine be in Jenifer's prayer," he said,
and passed on.



From The Month.


The present year has been remarkable for the large number of machines
invented for the purpose of superseding steam, in at least some of its
lighter tasks. Many of these are due to French engineers; being
further proofs, if any were required, of the great activity now
displayed in France in all matters of mechanical invention.

Two of these new engines are especially interesting as illustrating
that all-important law in modern physics, the correlation or
convertibility of forces. By this is meant that the forces of
inanimate nature, such as light, heat, electricity--nay, even the
muscular and nerve forces of living beings--have such a mutual
dependence and connection that each one is only produced or called
into action by another, and only ceases to be manifest when it has
given birth to a fresh force in its turn. Thus motion (in the {30}
shape of friction) produces heat, electricity, or light; heat produces
light or electricity; electricity, magnetism; and so on in an endless
chain, which links together all the phenomena of this visible

As a metaphysical principle, this is as old as Aristotle, and may be
found dimly foreshadowed in the forcible lines of Lucretius:

  "--Pereunt imbres, ubi eos pater aether
  In gremium matris terrai praecipitavit;
  At nitidae surgunt fruges, ramique virescunt,
  Arboribus crescunt ipsae, fetuque gravautur,
  Hinc alitar porro nostrum genus atque ferarum.

* * * * * *

  Haud igitur penitus pereunt quaecumque videntur,
  Quando aliud ex alio reflcit natura, nec ullam
  Rem gigni patitur, nisi morte adjuta aliena."   [Footnote 8]

  [Footnote 8: Lucret. lib. i. 250-65.]

But the rediscovery of this law, as a result of experiment, is due to
English physicists of our own day; and it is so invariably true, and
the produced force is always so perfectly proportioned to the force
producing it, that some   [Footnote 9] have gone so far as to revive a
very old hypothesis in philosophy, supposing that all the forces of
nature are but differently expressed forms of the Divine Will.

  [Footnote 9: Dr. Carpenter, Philos. Trans. 1840, vol. ii. ]

As a corollary to this law, it follows that many a force of nature,
hitherto neglected because of its position or intractability, may be
turned to practical account by using it to produce some new power,
which may be either stored up or transmitted to a distance, and so can
be employed wherever and whenever it is required. Thus, in the first
machine we propose to notice, a M. Cazal has just hit upon a plan by
which to use the power of falling water at a considerable distance. He
employs a water-wheel to turn a magneto-electric machine (of the kind
used for medical purposes, on a very large scale), and the electric
force so obtained may be conveyed to any distance, and employed there
as a motive power. In this way a mountain stream in the Alps or
Pyrenees may turn a lathe, or set a loom in motion, in a workshop in
Paris or Lyons; or even (as has been remarked), if a wire were laid
across the Atlantic, the whole force of Niagara would be at our

The idea is at present quite in its infancy; but we are told that the
few experiments hitherto made show that such an engine is not only
very ingenious but perfectly feasible, and (most important of all)

The second engine gave promise of considerable success when first
brought out in Paris about eight months ago. It was invented by a M.
Tellier, and proceeds on the principle of storing up force, to be used
when wanted. It has long been well known to chemists that a certain
number of gases (as chlorine, carbonic acid, ammonia, and sulphuretted
hydrogen) can be condensed into liquids by cold or pressure, or both
combined. Of all these gases, ammonia is the most easily liquefied,
requiring for this purpose, at ordinary temperatures, a pressure only
six and a half times greater than that of the atmosphere. A supply of
liquid ammonia obtained in this manner is kept by M. Tellier in a
closed vessel, and surrounded with a freezing mixture, so that it has
but little tendency to return to the gaseous state. A small quantity
is allowed to escape from this reservoir under the piston of the
engine, and, the temperature there being higher than in the reservoir,
the ammonia becomes at once converted into gas, increasing thereby to
more than twelve hundred times its previous bulk, and so driving the
piston with great force to the top of the cylinder. A little water is
now admitted, which entirely dissolves the ammonia, a vacuum being
thus created, and the piston driven down again by the pressure of the
air without. M. Tellier employs three such cylinders, which work in
succession; and the only apparent limit to the power to be obtained
from this machine is the amount of liquid ammonia which would have to
be used, about three gallons (or twenty-two pounds) being required for
each horse-power per hour. There is no waste of material; for the
water which has dissolved {31} the gas is saved, and the ammonia
recovered from it by evaporation, and afterwards condensed into a
liquid. M. Tellier proposed to use his engine for propelling omnibuses
and other vehicles; but it would appear that it is too expensive and
too cumbrous to be practically useful; there can, however, be very
little doubt that the principle will be used with success in some new
form. A patent has quite recently been taken out for such an engine in
England. It will be perceived at once how the ammonia engine
illustrates the law of storing up force. It originates no power of its
own, but simply gives out by degrees the mechanical force which had
been previously employed to change the ammonia from a gas to a liquid.

Lenoir's "gas-engine" has been more successful; for, although but a
few months old, it has been already largely adopted in Parisian
hotels, schools, and other large establishments, for raising lifts,
making ices, and even--for what is not done now-a-days by
machinery?--cleaning boots. In London, it was lately exhibited in
Cranbourne Street, and is now used for turning lathes and for other
light work.

This engine, like the ammonia-engine, is provided with an ordinary
cylinder, into which coal-gas and air are admitted, under the piston,
in the proportions of eleven parts of the latter to one of the former.
The mixture is then exploded by the electric spark, and the remaining
air, being greatly expanded, drives up the piston. When the top is
reached the gas and air are again admitted, but this time above the
piston, and the explosion is repeated, so that the piston is driven
down again. The most ingenious part of the whole thing is the
mechanism by which the electric spark is directed alternately to the
upper and lower ends of the cylinder. This cannot be satisfactorily
explained without a diagram, but is brought about (roughly speaking)
by connecting either end of the cylinder with a semicircle of brass,
which is touched by the "rotary crank" in the course of its
revolution. The crank is already charged with electricity, and so
communicates the electric spark to each of the semicircles in turn.
The cylinder is kept plunged in water, so that there is no fear of its
overheating by the constant explosions.

This engine has cheapness for its main recommendation. A
half-horsepower gas-engine (the commonest power made) costs, when
complete, £65, and consumes twopence worth of gas per hour; while the
cost of keeping the battery active is about fourpence per week.

An engineer of Lyons, M. Millon, has since proposed to use, instead of
coal-gas, the gases produced by passing steam over red-hot coke. These
gases are found to explode rather more quickly than coal-gas, when
mixed with common air, and fired by the electric spark. They will
probably be found cheaper and more efficient when they can be
obtained; but in many cases coal-gas will be the only material

A M. Jules Gros has recently invented an engine in which gun-cotton is
exploded in a strong reservoir and air compressed in another, the
compressed air being afterward employed to move the pistons of the
machine. This sounds more dangerous than it perhaps really is, since
gun-cotton is now known to be more tractable than gunpowder, when
properly used; but we very much doubt whether the machine can be
regular or economical enough to be more than a curiosity.

To close the list of French inventions of this kind, we may state that
Count de Molin has lately patented an electro-magnetic machine, which,
he states, will be more powerful than any previously made. It is too
complicated for a mere verbal description to be of any use; but is
apparently not free from the fault of all electro-magnetic engines, of
costing too much to be of practical value.






BY GEORGE H. MILES.  [Footnote 10]

  [Footnote 10: Copyright secured.]


  The Queen hath built her a fairy Bower
  In the shadow of the Accursed Tower,
  For the Moslem hath left his blood-stained lair,
  And the banner of England waveth there.
  Thither she lureth the Lion King
  To hear a wandering Trovère sing;
  For well she knew the Joyous Art
  Was surest path to Richard's heart.
  But the Monarch's glance was on the sea--
  Sooth, he was scarce in minstrel mood,
  For Philip's triremes homeward stood
  With all the Gallic chivalry.
  And as he watched the filmy sail
  Upon the furthest billow fail,
  He muttered, "Richard ill can spare
  Thee and thy Templars, false and fair;
  Yet God hath willed it--home to thee,
  Death or Jerusalem for me!"
  Then pressing with a knightly kiss
  The peerless hand that slept in his,
  "Ah, would our own Blondel were here
  To try a measure I wove last e'en.
  What songster hast thou caught, my Queen,
  Whose harp may soothe a Monarch's ear?"
  She beckoned, and the Trovère bowed
  To many a Lord and Ladye fair
  That gathered round the royal pair;
  But most his simple song was vowed
  To a sweet shape with dark brown hair,
  Half hidden in the gentle crowd;
  Pale as a spirit, sharply slender.
  In maiden beauty's crescent splendor.
  And never yet bent Minstrel knee
  To Mistress lovelier than she.




  Ye have heard of the Castle of Miolan
  And how it hath stood since time began,
  Midway to yon mountain's brow,
  Guarding the beautiful valley below:
  Its crest the clouds, its ancient feet
  Where the Arc and the Isère murmuring meet
  Earth hath few lovelier scenes to show
  Than Miolan with its hundred halls,
  Its massive towers and bannered walls,
  Looming out through the vines and walnut woods
  That gladden its stately solitudes.
  And there might ye hear but yestermorn
  The loud halloo and the hunter's horn,
  The laugh of mailèd men at play.
  The drinking bout and the roundelay.
  But now all is sternest silence there.
  Save the bell that calls to vesper prayer;
  Save the ceaseless surge of a father's wail,
  And, hark! ye may hear the Baron's Tale.


  "Come hither. Hermit!--Yestermorn
    I had an only son,
  A gallant fair as e'er was born,
    A knight whose spurs were won
  In the red tide by Godfrey's side
    At Ascalon.


  "But yestermorn he came to me
    For blessing on his lance,
  And death and danger seemed to flee
    The joyaunce of his glance,
  For he would ride to win his Bride,
    Christine of France.

  "All sparkling in the sun he stood
    In mail of Milan dressed,
  A scarf, the gift of her he wooed,
    Lay lightly o'er his breast.
  As, with a clang, to horse he sprang
    With nodding crest

  "Gaily he grasped the stirrup cup
    Afoam with spicy ale,
  But as he took the goblet up
    Methought his cheek grew pale.
  And a shudder ran through the iron man
    And through his mail.

  "Oft had I seen him breast the shock
    Of squire or crownèd king,
  His front was firm as rooted rock
    When spears were shivering:
  I knew no blow could shake him so
    From living thing.

  "'Twas something near akin to death
    That blanched and froze his cheek,
  Yet 'twas not death, for he had breath,
     And when I bade him speak,
  Unto his breast his hand he pressed
    With one wild shriek.

  "The hand thus clasped upon his heart
    So sharply curbed the rein,
  Grey Caliph, rearing with a start,
    Went bounding o'er the plain
  Away, away with echoing neigh
    And streaming mane.

  "After him sped the menial throng;
    I stirred not in my fear;
  Perchance I swooned, for it seemed not long
    Ere the race did reappear,
  And my son still led on his desert-bred.
    Grasping his spear.


  "Unchanged in look or limb, he came.
    He and his barb so fleet,
  His hand still on his heart, the same
    Stem bearing in his seat,
  And wheeling round with sudden bound
    Stopped at my feet.

  "And soon as ceased that wildering tramp
    'What ails thee, boy?' I cried--
  Taking his hand all chill and damp--
    'What means this fearful ride?
  Alight, alight, for lips so white
    Would scare a Bride!'

  "But sternly to his steed clove he,
    And answer made he none,
  I clasped him by his barbèd knee
    And there I made my moan;
  While icily he stared at me,
    At me alone.

  "A strange, unmeaning stare was that,
    And a page beside me said,
  'If ever corse in saddle sat,
    Our lord is certes sped!'
  But I smote the lad, for it drove me mad
    To think him dead.

  "What! dead so young, what! lost so soon,
    My beautiful, my brave!
  Sooner the sun should find at noon
    In central heaven a grave!
  Sweet Jesu, no, it is not so
    When Thou canst save!

  "For was he dead and was he sped,
    When he could ride so well,
  So bravely bear his plumèd head?
    Or, was't some spirit fell
  In causeless wrath had crossed his path
    With fiendish spell?

  "Oh. Hermit, 'twas a cruel sight.
    And He, who loves to bless,
  Ne'er sent on son such bitter blight.
    On sire such sore distress,
  Such piteous pass, and I, alas,
    So powerless!


  "They would have ta'en him from his horse
    The while I wept and prayed,
  They would have lain him like a corse
    Upon a litter made
  Of traversed spear and martial gear.
    But I forbade.

 "I gazed into his face again,
    I chafed his hand once more,
  I summoned him to speak, in vain--
    He sat there as before,
  While the gallant Grey in dumb dismay
    His rider bore.

  "Full well, full well Grey Caliph then
    The horror seemed to know.
  E'en deeper than my mailèd men
    Methought he felt our woe;
  For the barbed head of the desert-bred
    Was drooping low.

  "Amazed, aghast, he gazed at me,
    That mourner true and good.
  Then backward at my boy looted he.
    As if a word he sued.
  And like sculptured pile in abbey aisle
    The train there stood.

  "I took the rein: the frozen one
    Still fast in saddle sate.
  As tremblingly I led him on
    Toward the great castle gate.
  O walls mine own, why have ye grown
    So desolate?--

  "I led them to the castle gate
    And paused before the shrine
  Where throned in state from earliest date,
    Protectress of our line.
  Madonna pressed close to her breast
    The Babe Divine.

  "And kneeling lowly at her feet,
     I begged the Mother mild
  That she would sue her Jesu sweet
    To aid my stricken child;
  And the meek stone face flashed full of grace
    As if she smiled.


  "And methought the eyes of the Full of Grace
    Upon my darling shone,
  Till living seemed that marble face
    And the living man seemed stone,
  While a halo played round the Mother Maid
    And round her Son.

  "And there was radiance everywhere
    Surpassing light of day,
  On man and horse, on shield and spear
    Burned the bright, blinding ray;
  But most it shone on my only one
    And his gallant Grey.

  "A sudden clang of armor rang,
    My boy lay on the sward.
  Up high in air Grey Caliph sprang,
    An instant fiercely pawed.
  Then trembling stood aghast and viewed
    His fallen lord.

  "Then with the flash of fire away
    Like sunbeam o'er the plain,
  Away, away with echoing neigh
    And wildly waving mane.
  Away he sped, loose from his head
    The flying rein.

  "I watched the steed from pass to pass
    Unto the welkin's rim,
  I feared to turn my eyes, alas,
    To trust a look at him;
  And when I turned, my temples burned
    And all grew dim.

  "Sweet if such swoon could endless be,
    Yet speedily I woke
  And missed my boy: they showed him me
    Full length on bed of oak.
  Clad as 'twas meet in mail complete
     And sable cloak.

  "All of our race upon that bier
    Had rested one by one,
  I had seen my father lying there,
    And now there lay my son!
  Ah! my sick soul bled the while it said--
    'Thy will be done!'


  "Bright glanced the crest, bright gleamed the spur,
     That well had played their part,
  His lance still clasped, nor could they stir
    His left hand from his heart;
  There fast it clove, nor would it move
    With all their art

  "I found no voice, I shed no tear.
    They thought me well resigned.
  All else who stood around the bier
    With weeping much were blind;
  And a mourning voice went through the house
    Like a low wind.

  "And there was sob of aged man
    And woman's wailing cry,
  All cheeks were wan, all eyes o'erran,
    Yon fair-haired maidens sigh.
  And one apart with breaking heart
    Weeps bitterly.

  "But sharper than spear-thrust, I trow,
    Their wailing through me went;
  Stem silence suited best my woe,
    And, howe'er well the intent.
  Their menial din seemed half akin
    To merriment

  "For oh, such grief was mock to mine
    Whose days were all undone.
  The last of all this ancient line
    To share whose grief was none!
  Straight from the hall I barred them all
    And stood alone.

  "'Receive me now, thou bed of oak!'
     I fell upon the bier.
  And, Hermit, when this morning broke
    It found me clinging there.
  O maddening morn! That day dare dawn
    On such a pair!

  "I sent for thee, thou man of God,
    To watch with me to-night;
  My boy still liveth, by the rood,
    Nor shall be funeral rite!--
  But, Hermit, come: this is the room:
    There lies the Knight!"



      But she apart
      With breaking heart?--
  That very yestermorn she stood
  In the deepest shade of the walnut wood,
  As a Knight rode by on his raven steed,
  Crying, "Daughter mine, hast thou done the deed?
  I gave thee the venom, I gave thee the spell,
  A jealous heart might use them well."
  But she waved her white arms and only said,
  "On oaken bier is Miolan laid!"
  "Dead!" laughed the Knight. "Then round Pilate's Peak
  Let the red light burn and the eagle shriek.
  When Miolan? heir lies on the bier,
  Low is the only lance I fear:
        I ride, I ride to win my Bride,
        Ho, Eblis, to thy servant's side.
        Thou hast sworn no foe
        Shall lay me low
  Till the dead in arms against me ride!"




  They passed into an ancient hall
    With oaken arches spanned.
  Full many a shield hung on the wall,
    Full many a broken brand.
  And barbèd spear and scimetar
    From Holy Land.

  And scarfs of dames of high degree
    With gold and jewels rich,
  And many a mouldered effigy
    In many a mouldering niche,
  Like grey sea shells whose crumbling cells
    Bestrew the beach.


  The sacred dead possessed the place,
    The silent cobweb wreathed
  The tombs where slept that warrior race,
    With swords for ever sheathed:
  You seemed to share the very air
    Which they had breathed.

  Oh, darksome was that funeral room,
    Those oaken arches dim,
  The torchlight, struggling through the gloom,
    Fell faint on effige grim,
 On dragon dread and carvèd head
    Of Cherubim.

  Of Cherubim fast by a shrine
    Whereon the last sad rite
  Was wont for all that ancient line,
    For dame and belted knight--
  A shrine of Moan which death alone
    Did ever light.

  But light not now that altar stone
    While hope of life remain,
  Though darksome be that altar lone,
    Unlit that funeral fane,
  Save by the rays cast by the blaze
    Of torches twain.

  Of torches twain at head and heel
    Of him who seemeth dead,
  Who sleepeth so well in his coat of steel.
    His cloak around him spread--
  The young Knight fair, who lieth there
    On oaken bed.

  One hand still fastened to his heart.
    The other on his lance,
 While through his eyelids, half apart.
   Life seemeth half to glance.
  "Sweet youth awake, for Jesu's sake,
    From this strange trance!"

  But heed or answer there is none.
    Then knelt that Hermit old;
  To Mother Mary and her Son
    Full many a prayer he told,
  Whose wondrous words the Church records
    In lettered gold:


  And many a precious litany
    And many a pious vow,
  Then rising said, "If fiend it be,
    That fiend shall leave thee now!"
  And traced the sign of the Cross divine
    On lips and brow.

  As well expect yon cherub's wings
    To wave at matin bell!
  Not all the relics of the kings
   Could break that iron spell.
  "Pray for the dead, let mass be said,
    Toll forth the knell!"

  "Not yet!" the Baron gasped and sank
    As if beneath a blow,
  With lips all writhing as they drank
    The dregs of deepest woe;
  With eyes aglare, and scattered hair
    Tossed to and fro.

  So swings the leaf that lingers last
    When wintry tempests sweep,
  So reels when storms have stripped the mast
    The galley on the deep,
  So nods the snow on Eigher's brow
    Before the leap.

  Uncertain 'mid his tangled hair
    His palsied fingers stray,
  He smileth in his dumb despair
    Like a sick child at play.
  Though wet, I trow, with tears eno'
    That beard so grey.

  Oh, Hermit, lift him to your breast,
    There best his heart may bleed;
  Since none but heaven can give him rest,
    Heaven's priest must meet his need:
  Dry that white beard, now wet and weird
    As pale sea-weed.

  Uprising slowly from the ground,
    With short and frequent breath.
  In aimless circles, round and round,
    The Baron tottereth
  With trailing feet, a mourner meet
    For house of death.


  Till, pausing by the shrine of Moan,
    He said, the while he wept,
  "Here, Hermit, here mine only one,
    When all the castle slept,
  As maiden knight, o'er armor bright,
    His first watch kept.

  "This is the casque that first he wore,
    And this his virgin shield.
  This lance to his first tilt he bore,
    With this first took the field--
  How light, how lâche to that huge ash
    He now doth wield!

  "This blade hath levelled at a blow
    The she-wolf in her den.
  With this red falchion he laid low
    The slippery Saracen.
  God! will that hand, so near his brand,
    Ne'er strike again?

  "Frown not on him, ye men of old.
    Whose glorious race is run;
  Frown not on him, my fathers bold.
    Though many the field ye won:
  His name and los may mate with yours
    Though but begun!

  "Receive him, ye departed brave,
    Unlock the gates of light.
  And range yourselves about his grave
    To hail a brother knight.
  Who never erred in deed or word
    Against the right!

  "But is he dead and is he sped
    Withouten scathe or scar?
  Why, Hermit, he hath often bled
    From sword and scimetar--
  I've seen him ride, wounds gaping wide,
    From war to war.

  "And hath a silent, viewless thing
    Laid danger's darling low,
  When youth and hope were on the wing
    And life in morning glow?
  Not yonder worm in winter's storm
    Perisheth so!


  "Oh, Hermit, thou hast heard, I ween,
    Of trances long and deep,
  But, Hermit, hast thou ever seen
    That grim and stony sleep.
  And canst thou tell how long a spell
    Such slumbers keep?

  "Oh, be there naught to break the charm,
    To thaw this icy chain;
  Has Mother Church no word to warm
    These freezing lips again;
  Be holy prayer and balsams rare
    Alike in vain? . . . .

  "A curse on thy ill-omened head;
    Man, bid me not despair;
  Churl, say not that a Knight is dead
    When he can couch his spear;
  When he can ride--Monk, thou hast lied.
    He lives, I swear!

  "Up from that bier! Boy, to thy feet!
    Know'st not thy father's voice?
  Thou ne'er hast disobeyed . . . is't meet
    A sire should summon thrice?
  By these grey hairs, by these salt tears,
    Awake, arise!

  "Ho, lover, to thy ladye flee,
    Dig deep the crimson spur;
  Sleep not 'twixt this lean monk and me
    When thou shouldst kneel to her!
  Oh 'tis a sin, Christine to win
    And thou not stir!

  "Ho, laggard, hear yon trumpet's note
    Go sounding to the skies,
  The lists are set, the banners float.
    Yon loud-mouthed herald cries,
  'Ride, gallant knights, Christine invites.
    Herself the prize!'

  "Ho, craven, shun'st thou the melée,
    When she expects thy brand
  To prove to-day in fair tourney
    A title to her hand?
  Up, dullard base, or by the mass
    I'll make thee stand!" . . . .


  Thrice strove he then to wrench apart
    Those fingers from the spear.
  Thrice strove to sever from the heart
    The hand that rested there.
  Thrice strove in vain with frantic strain
    That shook the bier.

  Thrice with the dead the living strove,
    Their armor rang a peal,
  The sleeping knight he would not move
    Although the sire did reel:
  That stately corse defied all force,
    Stubborn as steel.

  "Ay, dead, dead, dead!" the Baron cried;
    "Dear Hermit, I did rave.
  O were we sleeping side by side! . .
    Good monk, I penance crave
  For all I said .... Ay, he is dead,
    Pray heaven to save!

  "Betake thee to thy crucifix,
    And let me while I may
  Rain kisses on these frozen cheeks
    Before they know decay.
  Leave me to weep and watch and keep
    The worm at bay.

  "Thou wilt not spare thy prayers, I trust;
    But name not now the grave--
  I'll watch him to the very dust! ....
    So, Hermit, to thy cave.
  Whilst here I cling lest creeping thing
    Insult the brave!"


  Why starts the Hermit to his feet,
    why springs he to the bier,
  Why calleth he on Jesu sweet,
    Staying the starting tear.
  What whispereth he half trustfully
    And half in fear?


  "Sir Knight, thy ring hath razed his flesh--
    'Twas in thy frenzy done;
  Lo, from his wrist how fast and fresh
    The blood-drops trickling run;
  Heaven yet may wake, for Mary's sake,
    Thy warrior son.

  "Heap ashes on thy head, Sir Knight,
    In sackcloth gird thee well,
  The shrine of Moan must blaze in light,
    The morning mass must swell;
  Arouse from sleep the castle keep,
    Sound every bell!"

  They come, pale maid and mailèd man
    They throng into the hall,
  The watcher from the barbican,
    The warder from the wall.
  And she apart, with breaking heart,
    The last of all.

          "__Introibo! _Introibo!_"
          The morning mass begins;
          "_Mea culpa! mea culpa!_"
          Forgive us all our sins;
  And the rapt Hermit chaunts with streaming eyes,
    That seem to enter Paradise,
          "_Gloria! Gloria!_"
    The shrine of Moan had never known
    That gladdest of all hymns.



  The fair-haired maiden standeth apart
  In the chapel gloom, with breaking heart.
  But a smile broke over her face as she said,
    "The draught was well measured, I ween;
  He liveth, thank Allah, but not to wed
    His beautiful Christine.
  No lance hath Miolan couched to-day:
  Let the bride for the bridegroom watch, and pray.
    Till the lists shall hear the shriek
  Of the Dauphin's daughter borne away
    By the Knight of Pilate's Peak."





Veni, Domine, et noli tardare,
relaxa facinora plebi tuae;
et rovoca dispersos in terram suam.

No one who desires the union of
Christendom, after its many and
long-standing divisions, can have any other
feeling than joy, my dear Pusey, at
finding from your recent volume that
you see your way to make definite
proposals to us for effecting that
great object, and are able to lay down
the basis and conditions on which you
could co-operate in advancing it. It
is not necessary that we should concur
in the details of your scheme, or
in the principles which it involves, in
order to welcome the important fact
that, with your personal knowledge of the Anglican body, and your
experience of its composition and tendencies, you consider the time to
be come when you and your friends may, without imprudence, turn your
minds to the contemplation of such an enterprise. Even were you an
individual member of that church, a watchman upon a high tower in a
metropolis of religious opinion, we should naturally listen with
interest to what you had to report of the state of the sky and the
progress of the night, what stars were mounting up or what clouds
gathering; what were the prospects of the three great parties which
Anglicanism contains within it, and what was just now the action upon
them respectively of the politics and science of the time. You do not
go into these matters; but the step you have taken is evidently the
measure and the issue of the view which you have formed of them all.

However, you are not a mere individual; from early youth you have
devoted yourself to the Established Church, and after between forty
and fifty years of unremitting labor in its service, your roots and
your branches stretch out through every portion of its large
territory. You, more than any one else alive, have been the present
and untiring agent by whom a great work has been effected in it; and,
far more than is usual, you have received in your lifetime, as well as
merited, the confidence of your brethren. You cannot speak merely for
yourself; your antecedents, your existing influence, are a pledge to
us that what you may determine will be the determination of a
multitude. Numbers, too, for whom you cannot properly be said to
speak, will be moved by your authority or your arguments; and numbers,
again, who are of a school more recent than your own, and who are only
not your followers because they have outstripped you in their free
speeches and demonstrative acts in our behalf, will, for the occasion,
accept you as their spokesman. There is no one anywhere--among
ourselves, in your own body, or, I suppose, in the Greek Church--who
can affect so vast a circle of men, so virtuous, so able, so learned,
so zealous, as come, more or less, under your influence; and I cannot
pay them all a greater compliment, than to tell them they ought all to
be Catholics, nor do them a more affectionate service than to pray
that they may one day become such. Nor can I address myself to an act
more pleasing, as I trust, to the Divine Lord of the church, and more
loyal and dutiful to his Vicar on earth, than to attempt, however,
feebly, to promote so great a consummation.


I know the joy it would give those conscientious men of whom I am
speaking to be one with ourselves. I know how their hearts spring up
with a spontaneous transport at the very thought of union; and what
yearning is theirs after that great privilege, which they have not,
communion with the See of Peter and its present, past, and future. I
conjecture it by what I used to feel myself, while yet in the Anglican
Church. I recollect well what an outcast I seemed to myself when I
took down from the shelves of my library the volumes of St. Athanasius
or St. Basil, and set myself to study them; and how, on the contrary,
when at length I was brought into Catholicism, I kissed them with
delight, with a feeling that in them I had more than all that I had
lost, and, as though I were directly addressing the glorious saints
who bequeathed them to the Church, I said to the inanimate pages, "You
are now mine, and I am now yours, beyond any mistake." Such, I
conceive, would be the joy of the persons I speak of, if they could
wake up one morning and find themselves possessed by right of Catholic
traditions and hopes, without violence to their own sense of duty;
and, certainly, I am the last man to say that such violence is in any
case lawful, that the claims of conscience are not paramount, or that
any one may overleap what he deliberately holds to be God's command,
in order to make his path easier for him or his heart lighter.

I am the last man to quarrel with this jealous deference to the voice
of our conscience, whatever judgment others may form of us in
consequence, for this reason--because their case, as it at present
stands, has, as you know, been my own. You recollect well what hard
things were said against us twenty-five years ago, which we knew in
our hearts we did not deserve. Hence, I am now in the position of the
fugitive queen in the well-known passage, who, "haud ignara mali"
herself, had learned to sympathize with those who were inheritors of
her past wanderings. There were priests, good men, whose zeal
outstripped their knowledge, and who in consequence spoke confidently,
when they would have been wiser had they suspended their adverse
judgment of those whom they had soon to welcome as brethren in
communion. We at that time were in worse plight than your friends are
now, for our opponents put their very hardest thoughts of us into
print. One of them wrote thus in a letter addressed to one of the
Catholic bishops:

  "That this Oxford crisis is a real progress to Catholicism, I have
  all along considered a perfect delusion. ... I look upon Mr. Newman,
  Dr. Pusey, and their associates as wily and crafty, though
  unskilful, guides. . . . The embrace of Mr. Newman is the kiss that
  would betray us. . . . But--what is the most striking feature in the
  rancorous malignity of these men--their calumnies are often lavished
  upon us, when we should be led to think that the subject-matter of
  their treatises closed every avenue against their vituperation. The
  three last volumes [of the Tracts] have opened my eyes to the
  craftiness and the cunning, as well as the malice, of the members of
  the Oxford convention. . . . If the Puseyites are to be the new
  apostles of Great Britain, my hopes for my country are lowering and
  gloomy. . . . I would never have consented to enter the lists
  against this strange confraternity ... if I did not feel that my own
  prelate was opposed to the guile and treachery of these men. . . . .
  I impeach Dr. Pusey and his friends of a deadly hatred of our
  religion. . . . . What, my lord, would the Holy See think of the
  works of these Puseyites? . . ."

Another priest, himself a convert, wrote:

  "As we approach toward Catholicity our love and respect increases,
  and our violence dies away; but the bulk of these men become more
  rabid as they become like Rome, a plain proof of their designs. ...
  I do not believe that they are any nearer the portals of the
  Catholic Church than the most prejudiced Methodist and Evangelical
  preacher. . . . Such, rev. sir, is an outline of my views on the
  Oxford movement."


I do not say that such a view of us was unnatural; and, for myself, I
readily confess that I had used about the church such language that I
had no claim on Catholics for any mercy. But, after all, and in fact,
they were wrong in their anticipations--nor did their brethren agree
with them at the time. Especially Dr. Wiseman (as he was then) took a
larger and more generous view of us; nor did the Holy See interfere,
though the writer of one of these passages invoked its judgment. The
event showed that the more cautious line of conduct was the more
prudent; and one of the bishops, who had taken part against us, with a
supererogation of charity, sent me on his death-bed an expression of
his sorrow for having in past years mistrusted me. A faulty
conscience, faithfully obeyed, through God's mercy, had in the long
run brought me right.

Fully, then, do I recognize the rights of conscience in this matter. I
find no fault in your stating, as clearly and completely as you can,
the difficulties which stand in the way of your joining us. I cannot
wonder that you begin with stipulating conditions of union, though I
do not concur in them myself, and think that in the event you yourself
would be content to let them drop. Such representations as yours are
necessary to open the subject in debate; they ascertain how the land
lies, and serve to clear the ground. Thus I begin; but, after allowing
as much as this, I am obliged in honesty to say what I fear, my dear
Pusey, will pain you. Yet I am confident, my very dear friend, that at
least you will not be angry with me if I say, what I must say, or say
nothing at all, that there is much both in the matter and in the
manner of your volume calculated to wound those who love you well, but
love truth more. So it is; with the best motives and kindest
intentions, "Caedimur, et totidem plagis consumimus hostem." We give
you a sharp cut, and you return it. You complain of our being "dry,
hard, and unsympathizing;" and we answer that you are unfair and
irritating. But we at least have not professed to be composing an
Irenicon, when we treated you as foes. There was one of old time who
wreathed his sword in myrtle; excuse me--you discharge your
olive-branch as if from a catapult.

Do not think I am not serious; if I spoke seriously, I should seem to
speak harshly. Who will venture to assert that the hundred pages which
you have devoted to the Blessed Virgin give other than a one-sided
view of our teaching about her, little suited to win us? It may be a
salutary castigation, if any of us have fairly provoked it, but it is
not making the best of matters; it is not smoothing the way for an
understanding or a compromise. It leads a writer in the most moderate
and liberal Anglican newspaper of the day, the "Guardian," to turn
away from your representation of us with horror. "It is language,"
says your reviewer, "which, after having often heard it, we still can
only hear with horror. We had rather not quote any of it, or of the
comments upon it." What could an Exeter Hall orator, what could a
Scotch commentator on the Apocalypse, do more for his own side of the
controversy by the picture he drew of us?  You may be sure that what
creates horror on one side will be answered by indignation on the
other, and these are not the most favorable dispositions for a peace
conference. I had been accustomed to think that you, who in times past
were ever less declamatory in controversy than myself, now that years
had gone on, and circumstances changed, had come to look on our old
warfare against Rome as cruel and inexpedient. Indeed, I know that it
was a chief objection urged against me only last year by persons who
agreed with you in deprecating an oratory at Oxford, which at that
time was in prospect, that such an undertaking would be the signal for
the rekindling of that fierce style of polemics which is now out of
date. I had fancied you shared in that opinion; but now, as if {49} to
show how imperative you deem its renewal, you actually bring to life
one of my own strong sayings in 1841, which had long been in the
grave--that "the Roman Church comes as near to idolatry as can be
supposed in a church, of which it said, 'The idols he shall utterly
abolish,'" p. 111.

I know, indeed, and feel deeply, that your frequent references in your
volume to what I have lately or formerly written are caused by your
strong desire to be still one with me as far as you can, and by that
true affection which takes pleasure in dwelling on such sayings of
mine as you can still accept with the full approbation of your
judgment. I trust I am not ungrateful or irresponsive to you in this
respect; but other considerations have an imperative claim to be taken
into account. Pleasant as it is to agree with you, I am bound to
explain myself in cases in which I have changed my mind, or have given
a wrong impression of my meaning, or have been wrongly reported; and,
while I trust that I have better than such personal motives for
addressing you in print, yet it will serve to introduce my main
subject, and give me an opportunity for remarks which bear upon it
indirectly, if I dwell for a page or two on such matters contained in
your volume as concern myself.

1. The mistake which I have principally in view is the belief, which
is widely spread, that I have publicly spoken of the Anglican Church
as "the great bulwark against infidelity in this land." In a pamphlet
of yours, a year old, you spoke of "a very earnest body of Roman
Catholics" who "rejoice in all the workings of God the Holy Ghost in
the Church of England (whatever they think of her), and are saddened
by what weakens her who is, in God's hands, the great bulwark against
infidelity in this land." The concluding words you were thought to
quote from my "Apologia." In consequence, Dr. Manning, now our
archbishop, replied to you, asserting, as you say, "the contradictory
of that statement." In that counter-assertion he was at the time
generally considered (rightly or wrongly, as it may be), though
writing to you, to be really correcting statements in my "Apologia,"
without introducing my name. Further, in the volume which you have now
published, you recur to the saying, and you speak of its author in
terms which, did I not know your partial kindness for me, would hinder
me from identifying him with myself. You say, "The saying was not
mine, but that of one of the deepest thinkers and observers in the
Roman communion," p. 7. A friend has suggested to me that, perhaps,
you mean De Maistre; and, from an anonymous letter which I have
received from Dublin, I find it is certain that the very words in
question were once used by Archbishop Murray; but you speak of the
author of them as if now alive. At length a reviewer of your volume,
in the "Weekly Register," distinctly attributes them to me by name,
and gives me the first opportunity I have had of disowning them; and
this I now do. What, at some time or other, I may have said in
conversation or private letter, of course, I cannot tell; but I have
never, I am sure, used the word "bulwark" of the Anglican Church
deliberately. What I said in my "Apologia" was this: That that church
was "a serviceable breakwater against errors more fundamental than its
own." A bulwark is an integral part of the thing it defends; whereas
the words "serviceable" and "breakwater" imply a kind of protection
which is accidental and _de facto_. Again, in saying that the Anglican
Church is a defence against "errors more fundamental than its own," I
imply that it has errors, and those fundamental.

2. There is another passage in your volume, at p. 337, which it may be
right to observe upon. You have made a collection of passages from the
fathers, as witnesses in behalf of your doctrine that the whole
Christian faith is contained in Scripture, as if, in your sense of the
words. Catholics contradicted you here. {50} And you refer to my notes
on St. Athanasius as contributing passages to your list; but, after
all, neither do you, nor do I in my notes, affirm any doctrine which
Rome denies. Those notes also make frequent reference to a traditional
teaching, which (be the faith ever so certainly contained in
Scripture) still is necessary as a Regula Fidei, for showing us that
it is contained there--_vid_. pp. 283, 344--and this tradition, I
know, you uphold as fully as I do in the notes in question. In
consequence, you allow that there is a twofold rule. Scripture and
tradition; and this is all that Catholics say. How, then, do Anglicans
differ from Rome here? I believe the difference is merely one of
words; and I shall be doing, so far, the work of an Irenicon, if I
make clear what this verbal difference is. Catholics and Anglicans (I
do not say Protestants) attach different meanings to the word "proof,"
in the controversy whether the whole faith is, or is not, contained in
Scripture. We mean that not every article of faith is so contained
there, that it may thence be logically proved, _independently_ of the
teaching and authority of the tradition; but Anglicans mean that every
article of faith is so contained there, that it may thence be proved,
_provided_ there be added the illustrations and compensations of the
tradition. And it is in this latter sense, I conceive, the fathers
also speak in the passages which you quote from them. I am sure at
least that St. Athanasius frequently adduces passages as proofs of
points in controversy which no one would see to be proofs unless
apostolical tradition were taken into account, first as suggesting,
then as authoritatively ruling, their meaning. Thus, _you_ do not deny
that the whole is not in Scripture in such sense that pure unaided
logic can draw it from the sacred text; nor do _we_ deny that the
faith is in Scripture, in an improper sense, in the sense that
_tradition_ is able to recognize and determine it there. You do not
profess to dispense with tradition; nor do we forbid the idea of
probable, secondary, symbolical, connotative senses of Scripture, over
and above those which properly belong to the wording and context. I
hope you will agree with me in this.

3. Nor is it only in isolated passages that you give me a place in
your volume. A considerable portion of it is written with reference to
two publications of mine, one of which you name and defend, the other
you tacitly protest against: "Tract 90," and the "Essay on Doctrinal
Development," As to "Tract 90," you have from the first, as all the
world knows, boldly stood up for it, in spite of the obloquy which it
brought upon you, and have done me a great service. You are now
republishing it with my cordial concurrence; but I take this
opportunity of noticing, lest there should be any mistake on the part
of the public, that you do so with a different object from that which
I had when I wrote it. Its original purpose was simply that of
justifying myself and others in subscribing to the Thirty-nine
Articles while professing many tenets which had popularly been
considered distinctive of the Roman faith. I considered that my
interpretation of the Articles, as I gave it in that Tract, would
stand, provided the parties imposing them allowed it, otherwise I
thought it could not stand; and, when in the event the bishops and
public opinion did not allow it, I gave up my living, as having no
right to retain it. My feeling about the interpretation is expressed
in a passage in "Loss and Gain," which runs thus:

  "'Is it,' asked Reding, 'a received view?' 'No view is received,'
  said the other; 'the Articles themselves are received, but there is
  no authoritative interpretation of them at all.' 'Well,' said
  Reding, 'is it a tolerated view?' 'It certainly has been strongly
  opposed,' answered Bateman; 'but it has never been condemned.' 'That
  is no answer,' said Charles. 'Does any one bishop hold it? Did any
  one bishop ever hold it? Has it ever been formally admitted as
  tenable by any one bishop? Is it a view got up to meet existing
  difficulties, or has it an historical existence?' Bateman could give
  only one answer to {51} these questions, as they were successively
  put to him. 'I thought so,' said Charles; 'the view is specious
  certainly. I don't we why it might not have done, had it been
  tolerably sanctioned; but you have no sanction to show me. As it
  stands, it is a mere theory struck out by individuals. Our church
  _might_ have adopted this mode of interpreting the Articles; but,
  from what you tell me, it certainly has not done so.'"--Ch. 15.

However, the Tract did not carry its object and conditions on its
face, and necessarily lay open to interpretations very far from the
true one. Dr. Wiseman (as he then was), in particular, with the keen
apprehension which was his characteristic, at once saw in it a basis
of accommodation between Anglicanism and Rome. He suggested broadly
that the decrees of the Council of Trent should be made the rule of
interpretation for the Thirty-nine Articles, a proceeding of which
Sancta Clara, I think, had set the example; and, as you have observed,
published a letter to Lord Shrewsbury on the subject, of which the
following are extracts:

  "We Catholics must necessarily deplore [England's] separation as a
  deep moral evil--as state of schism of which nothing can justify the
  continuance. Many members of the Anglican Church view it in the same
  light as to the first point--its sad evil; though they excuse their
  individual position in it as an unavoidable misfortune. . . . We may
  depend upon a willing, an able, and a most zealous co-operation with
  any effort which we may make toward bringing her into her rightful
  position, in Catholic unity with the Holy See and the churches of
  its obedience--in other words, with the church Catholic. Is this a
  visionary idea? Is it merely the expression of strong desire? I know
  that many will so judge it; and, perhaps, were I to consult my own
  quiet, I would not venture to express it. But I will, in simplicity
  of heart, cling to hopefulness, cheered, as I feel it, by so many
  promising appearances. . . .

  "A natural question here presents itself--what facilities appear in
  the present state of things for bringing about so happy a
  consummation as the reunion of England to the Catholic Church,
  beyond what have before existed, and particularly under Archbishops
  Laud or Wake? It strikes me, many. First, etc. . . . A still more
  promising circumstance I think your lordship will with me consider
  the _plan_ which the eventful 'Tract No. 90' has pursued, and in
  which Mr. Ward, Mr. Oakeley, and even Dr. Pusey have agreed. I
  allude to the method of _bringing their doctrines into accordance
  with ours by explanation._ A foreign priest has pointed out to us a
  valuable document for our consideration--'Bossuet's Reply to the
  Pope,' when consulted on the best method of reconciling the
  followers of the Augsburg Confession with the Holy See. The learned
  bishop observes, that Providence had allowed so much Catholic truth
  to be preserved in that Confession that full advantage should be
  taken of the circumstance; that no retractations should be demanded,
  but an explanation of the Confession in accordance with Catholic
  doctrines. Now, for such a method as this, the way is in part
  prepared by the demonstration that such interpretation may be given
  of the most difficult Articles as will strip them of all
  contradiction to the decrees of the Tridentine Synod. The same
  method may be pursued on other points; and much pain may thus be
  spared to individuals, and much difficulty to the church."--Pp. 11,
  35, 38.

This use of my Tract, so different from my own, but sanctioned by the
great name of our cardinal, you are now reviving; and I gather from
your doing so, that your bishops and the opinion of the public are
likely now, or in prospect, to admit what twenty-five years ago they
refused. On this point, much as it rejoices me to know your
anticipation, of course I cannot have an opinion.

4. So much for "Tract 90." On the other hand, as to my "Essay on
Doctrinal Development," I am sorry to find you do not look upon it
with friendly eyes; though how, without its aid, you can maintain the
doctrines of the Holy Trinity and incarnation, and others which you
hold, I cannot understand. You consider my principle may be the means,
in time to come, of introducing into our Creed, as portions of the
necessary Catholic faith, the infallibility of the Pope, and various
opinions, pious or profane, as it may be, about our Blessed Lady. I
hope to remove your anxiety as to these consequences, before I bring
my {52} observations to an end; at present I notice it as my apology
for interfering in a controversy which at first sight is no business
of mine.

5. I have another reason for writing; and that is, unless it is rude
in me to say so, because you seem to think writing does not become me.
I do not like silently to acquiesce in such a judgment You say at p.

  "Nothing can be more unpractical than for an individual to throw
  himself into the Roman Church because he could accept the _letter_
  of the Council of Trent. Those who were born Roman Catholics have a
  liberty which, in the nature of things, a person could not have who
  left another system to embrace that of Rome. I cannot imagine how
  any faith could stand the shock of leaving one system, criticising
  _it_, and cast himself into another system, criticising _it_. For
  myself, I have always felt that had (which God of his mercy avert
  hereafter also) the English Church, by accepting heresy, driven me
  out of it, I could have gone in no other way than that of closing my
  eyes, and accepting whatever was put before me. But a liberty which
  individuals could not use, and explanations which, so long as they
  remain individual, must be unauthoritative, might be formally made
  by the Church of Rome to the Church of England as the basis of

And again, p. 210:

  "It seems to me to be a psychological impossibility for one who has
  already exchanged one system for another to make those distinctions.
  One who, by his own act, places himself under authority, cannot make
  conditions about his submission. But definite explanations of our
  Articles have, before now, been at least tentatively offered to us,
  on the Roman and Greek side, as sufficient to restore communion; and
  the Roman explanations too were, in most cases, mere supplements to
  our Articles, on points upon which our Church had not spoken."

Now passages such as these seem almost a challenge to me to speak, and
to keep silence would be to assent to the justice of them. At the
cost, then, of speaking about myself, of which I feel there has been
too much of late, I observe upon them as follows: Of course, as you
say, a convert comes to learn, and not to pick and choose. He comes in
simplicity and confidence, and it does not occur to him to weigh and
measure every proceeding, every practice which he meets with among
those whom he has joined. He comes to Catholicism as to a living
system, with a living teaching, and not to a mere collection of
decrees and canons, which by themselves are of course but the
framework, not the body and substance, of the church. And this is a
truth which concerns, which binds, those also who never knew any other
religion, not only the convert. By the Catholic system I mean that
rule of life and those practices of devotion for which we shall look
in vain in the Creed of Pope Pius. The convert comes, not only to
believe the church, but also to trust and obey her priests, and to
conform himself in charity to her people. It would never do for him to
resolve that he never would say a Hail Mary, never avail himself of an
indulgence, never kiss a crucifix, never accept the Lent
dispensations, never mention a venial sin in confession. All this
would not only be unreal, but dangerous, too, as arguing a wrong state
of mind, which could not look to receive the divine blessing.
Moreover, he comes to the ceremonial, and the moral theology, and the
ecclesiastical regulations which he finds on the spot where his lot is
cast. And again, as regards matters of politics, of education, of
general expedience, of taste, he does not criticise or controvert. And
thus surrendering himself to the influences of his new religion, and
not losing what is revealed truth by attempting by his own private
rule to discriminate every moment its substance from its accidents, he
is gradually so indoctrinated in Catholicism as at length to have a
right to speak as well as to hear. Also, in course of time, a new
generation rises round him; and there is no reason why he should not
know as much, and decide questions with as true an instinct, as those
who perhaps number fewer years than he does Easter communions. {53} He
has mastered the fact and the nature of the differences of theologian
from theologian, school from school, nation from nation, era from era.
He knows that there is much of what may be called fashion in opinions
and practices, according to the circumstances of time and place,
according to current politics, the character of the Pope of the day,
or the chief prelates of a particular country, and that fashions
change. His experience tells him, that sometimes what is denounced in
one place as a great offence, or preached up as a first principle, has
in another nation been immemorially regarded in just a contrary sense,
or has made no sensation at all, one way or the other, when brought
before public opinion; and that loud talkers, in the church as
elsewhere, are apt to carry all before them, while quiet and
conscientious persons commonly have to give way. He perceives that, in
matters which happen to be in debate, ecclesiastical authority watches
the state of opinion and the direction and course of controversy, and
decides accordingly; so that in certain cases to keep back his own
judgment on a point is to be disloyal to his superiors.

So far generally; now in particular as to myself. After twenty years
of Catholic life, I feel no delicacy in giving my opinion on any point
when there is a call for me, and the only reason why I have not done
so sooner, or more often than I have, is that there has been no call.
I have now reluctantly come to the conclusion that your volume _is_ a
call. Certainly, in many instances in which theologian differs from
theologian, and country from country, I have a definite judgment of my
own; I can say so without offence to any one, for the very reason that
from the nature of the case it is impossible to agree with all of
them. I prefer English habits of belief and devotion to foreign, from
the same causes, and by the same right, which justify foreigners in
preferring their own. In following those of my people, I show less
singularity and create less disturbance than if I made a flourish with
what is novel and exotic. And in this line of conduct I am but
availing myself of the teaching which I fell in with on becoming a
Catholic; and it is a pleasure to me to think that what I hold now,
and would transmit after me if I could, is only what I received then.
The utmost delicacy was observed on all hands in giving me advice;
only one warning remains on my mind, and it came from Dr. Griffiths,
the late vicar-apostolic of the London district. He warned me against
books of devotion of the Italian school, which were just at that time
coming into England; and when I asked him what books he recommended as
safe guides, he bade me get the works of Bishop Hay. By this I did not
understand that he was jealous of all Italian books, or made himself
responsible for all that Dr. Hay happens to have said; but I took him
to caution me against a character and tone of religion, excellent in
its place, not suited for England. When I went to Rome, though it may
seem strange to you to say it, even there I learned nothing
inconsistent with this judgment. Local influences do not supply an
atmosphere for its institutions and colleges, which are Catholic in
teaching as well as in name. I recollect one saying among others of my
confessor, a Jesuit father, one of the holiest, most prudent men I
ever knew. He said that we could not love the Blessed Virgin too much,
if we loved our Lord a great deal more. When I returned to England,
the first expression of theological opinion which came in my way was
_apropos_ of the series of translated saints' lives which the late Dr.
Faber originated. That expression proceeded from a wise prelate, who
was properly anxious as to the line which might be taken by the Oxford
converts, then for the first time coming into work. According as I
recollect his opinion, he was apprehensive of the effect of Italian
{54} compositions, as unsuited to this country, and suggested that the
lives should be original works, drawn up by ourselves and our friends
from Italian sources. If at that time I was betrayed into any acts
which were of a more extreme character than I should approve now, the
responsibility of course is mine; but the impulse came not from old
Catholics or superiors, but from men whom I loved and trusted who were
younger than myself. But to whatever extent I might be carried away,
and I cannot recollect any tangible instances, my mind in no long time
fell back to what seems to me a safer and more practical course.

Though I am a convert, then, I think I have a right to speak out; and
that the more because other converts have spoken for a long time,
while I have not spoken; and with still more reason may I speak
without offence in the case of your present criticisms of us,
considering that, in the charges you bring, the only two English
writers you quote in evidence are both of them converts, younger in
age than myself. I put aside the archbishop, of course, because of his
office. These two authors are worthy of all consideration, at once
from their character and from their ability. In their respective lines
they are perhaps without equals at this particular time; and they
deserve the influence they possess. One is still in the vigor of his
powers; the other has departed amid the tears of hundreds. It is
pleasant to praise them for their real qualifications; but why do you
rest on them as authorities? Because the one was "a popular writer;"
but is there not sufficient reason for this in the fact of his
remarkable gifts, of his poetical fancy, his engaging frankness, his
playful wit, his affectionateness, his sensitive piety, without
supposing that the wide diffusion of his works arises out of his
particular sentiments about the Blessed Virgin? And as to our other
friend, do not his energy, acuteness, and theological reading,
displayed on the vantage ground of the historic "Dublin Review," fully
account for the sensation he has produced, without supposing that any
great number of our body go his lengths in their view of the Pope's
infallibility? Our silence as regards their writings is very
intelligible: it is not agreeable to protest, in the sight of the
world, against the writings of men in our own communion whom we love
and respect. But the plain fact is this--they came to the Church, and
have thereby saved their souls; but they are in no sense spokesmen for
English Catholics, and they must not stand in the place of those who
have a real title to such an office. The chief authors of the passing
generation, some of them still alive, others gone to their reward, are
Cardinal Wiseman, Dr. Ullathorne, Dr. Lingard, Mr. Tierney, Dr.
Oliver, Dr. Rock, Dr. Waterworth, Dr. Husenbeth, and Mr. Flanagan;
which of these ecclesiastics has said anything extreme about the
prerogatives of the Blessed Virgin or the infallibility of the Pope?

I cannot, then, without remonstrance, allow you to identify the
doctrine of our Oxford friends in question, on the two subjects I have
mentioned, with the present spirit or the prospective creed of
Catholics; or to assume, as you do, that, because they are
thorough-going and relentless in their statements, therefore they are
the harbingers of a new age, when to show a deference for antiquity
will be thought little else than a mistake. For myself, hopeless as
you consider it, I am not ashamed still to take my stand upon the
fathers, and do not mean to budge. The history of their times is not
yet an old almanac to me. Of course I maintain the value and authority
of the "Schola," as one of the _loci theologici;_ still I sympathize
with Petavius in preferring to its "contentious and subtle theology"
that {55} "more elegant and fruitful teaching which is moulded after
the image of erudite antiquity." The fathers made me a Catholic, and I
am not going to kick down the ladder by which I ascended into the
church. It is a ladder quite as serviceable for that purpose now as it
was twenty years ago. Though I hold, as you remark, a process of
development in apostolic truth as time goes on, such development does
not supersede the fathers, but explains and completes them. And, in
particular, as regards our teaching concerning the Blessed Virgin,
with the fathers I am content; and to the subject of that teaching I
mean to address myself at once. I do so because you say, as I myself
have said in former years, that "that vast system as to the Blessed
Virgin . . . . to all of us has been the special _crux_ of the Roman
system," p. 101. Here, I say, as on other points, the fathers are
enough for me. I do not wish to say more than they, and will not say
less. You, I know, will profess the same; and thus we can join issue
on a clear and broad principle, and may hope to come to some
intelligible result. We are to have a treatise on the subject of our
Lady soon from the pen of the most reverend prelate; but that cannot
interfere with such a mere argument from the fathers as that to which
I shall confine myself here. Nor indeed, as regards that argument
itself, do I profess to be offering you any new matter, any facts
which have not been used by others--by great divines, as Petavius, by
living writers, nay, by myself on other occasions; I write afresh
nevertheless, and that for three reasons: first, because I wish to
contribute to the accurate statement and the full exposition of the
argument in question; next, because I may gain a more patient hearing
than has sometimes been granted to better men than myself; lastly,
because there just now seems a call on me, under my circumstances, to
avow plainly what I do and what I do not hold about the Blessed
Virgin, that others may know, did they come to stand where I stand,
what they would and what they would not be bound to hold concerning

I begin by making a distinction which will go far to remove good part
of the difficulty of my undertaking, as it presents itself to ordinary
inquirers--the distinction between faith and devotion. I fully grant
that _devotion_ toward the Blessed Virgin has increased among
Catholics with the progress of centuries; I do not allow that the
_doctrine_ concerning her has undergone a growth, for I believe that
it has been in substance one and the same from the beginning.

By "faith" I mean the Creed and the acceptance of the Creed; by
"devotion" I mean such religious honors as belong to the objecis of
our faith, and the payment of those honors. Faith and devotion are as
distinct in fact as they are in idea. We cannot, indeed, be devout
without faith, but we may believe without feeling devotion. Of this
phenomenon every one has experience both in himself and in others; and
we express it as often as we speak of realizing a truth or not
realizing it. It may be illustrated, with more or less exactness, by
matters which come before us in the world. For instance, a great
author, or public man, may be acknowledged as such for a course of
years; yet there may be an increase, an ebb and flow, and a fashion,
in his popularity. And if he takes a lasting place in the minds of his
countrymen, he may gradually grow into it, or suddenly be raised to
it. The idea of Shakespeare as a great poet has existed from a very
early date in public opinion; and there were at least individuals then
who understood him as well, and honored him as much, as the English
people can honor him now; yet, I think, there is a national devotion
to him in this day such as never has been before. This has happened
because, as education spreads in the country, there are more men able
to enter into his {56} poetical genius, and, among these, more
capacity again for deeply and critically understanding him; and yet,
from the first, he has exerted a great insensible influence over the
nation, as is seen in the circumstance that his phrases and sentences,
more than can be numbered, have become almost proverbs among us. And
so again in philosophy, and in the arts and sciences, great truths and
principles have sometimes been known and acknowledged for a course of
years; but, whether from feebleness of intellectual power in the
recipients, or external circumstances of an accidental kind, they have
not been turned to account. Thus, the Chinese are said to have known
of the properties of the magnet from time immemorial, and to have used
it for land expeditions, yet not on the sea. Again, the ancients knew
of the principle that water finds its own level, but seem to have made
little application of their knowledge. And Aristotle was familiar with
the principle of induction; yet it was left for Bacon to develop it
into an experimental philosophy. Illustrations such as these, though
not altogether apposite, serve to convey that distinction between
faith and devotion on which I am insisting. It is like the distinction
between objective and subjective truth. The sun in the springtime will
have to shine many days before he is able to melt the frost, open the
soil, and bring out the leaves; yet he shines out from the first,
notwithstanding, though he makes his power felt but gradually. It is
one and the same sun, though his influence day by day becomes greater;
and so in the Catholic Church, it is the one Virgin Mother, one and
the same from first to last, and Catholics may acknowledge her; and
yet, in spite of that acknowledgment, their devotion to her may be
scanty in one time and place and overflowing in another.

This distinction is forcibly brought home to a convert, as a
peculiarity of the Catholic religion, on his first introduction to its
worship. The faith is everywhere one and the same; but a large liberty
is accorded to private judgment and inclination in matters of
devotion. Any large church, with its collections and groups of people,
will illustrate this. The fabric itself is dedicated to Almighty God,
and that under the invocation of the Blessed Virgin, or some
particular saint; or again, of some mystery belonging to the Divine
name, or to the incarnation, or of some mystery associated with the
Blessed Virgin. Perhaps there are seven altars or more in it, and
these again have their several saints. Then there is the feast proper
to the particular day; and, during the celebration of mass, of all the
worshippers who crowd around the priest each has his own particular
devotions, with which he follows the rite. No one interferes with his
neighbor; agreeing, as it were, to differ, they pursue independently a
common end, and by paths, distinct but converging, present themselves
before God. Then there are confraternities attached to the church: of
the sacred heart, or the precious blood; associations of prayer for a
good death, or the repose of departed souls, or the conversion of the
heathen: devotions connected with the brown, blue, or red scapular;
not to speak of the great ordinary ritual through the four seasons,
the constant presence of the blessed sacrament, its ever recurring
rite of benediction, and its extraordinary forty hours' exposition.
Or, again, look through some such manual of prayers as the _Raccolta_,
and you at once will see both the number and the variety of devotions
which are open to individual Catholics to choose from, according to
their religious taste and prospect of personal edification.

Now these diversified modes of honoring God did not come to us in a
day, or only from the apostles; they are the accumulations of
centuries; and, as in the course of years some of them spring up, so
others decline and die Some are local, in memory of some particular
saint who happens to be the evangelist, or patron, or pride of the
{57} nation, or who is entombed in the church, or in the city where it
stands; and these, necessarily, cannot have an earlier date than the
saint's day of death or interment there. The first of such sacred
observances, long before these national memories, were the devotions
paid to the apostles, then those which were paid to the martyrs; yet
there were saints nearer to our Lord than either martyrs or apostles;
but, as if these had been lost in the effulgence of his glory, and
because they were not manifested in external works separate from him,
it happened that for a long while they were less thought of. However,
in process of time the apostles, and then the martyrs, exerted less
influence than before over the popular mind, and the local saints, new
creations of God's power, took their place, or again, the saints of
some religious order here or there established. Then, as comparatively
quiet times succeeded, the religious meditations of holy men and their
secret intercourse with heaven gradually exerted an influence out of
doors, and permeated the Christian populace, by the instrumentality of
preaching and by the ceremonial of the church. Then those luminous
stars rose in the ecclesiastical heavens which were of more august
dignity than any which had preceded them, and were late in rising for
the very reason that they were so specially glorious. Those names, I
say, which at first sight might have been expected to enter soon into
the devotions of the faithful, with better reason might have been
looked for at a later date, and actually were late in their coming.
St. Joseph furnishes the most striking instance of this remark; here
is the clearest of instances of the distinction between doctrine and
devotion. Who, from his prerogatives and the testimony on which they
come to us, had a greater claim to receive an early recognition among
the faithful? A saint of Scripture, the foster-father of our Lord, was
an object of the universal and absolute faith of the Christian world
from the first, yet the devotion to him is comparatively of late date.
When once it began, men seemed surprised that it had not been thought
of before; and now they hold him next to the Blessed Virgin in their
religious affection and veneration.

As regards the Blessed Virgin, I shall postpone the question of
devotion for a while, and inquire first into the doctrine of the
undivided church (to use your controversial phrase) on the subject of
her prerogatives.

What is the great rudimental teaching of antiquity from its earliest
date concerning her? By "rudimental teaching" I mean the _primâ facie_
view of her person and office, the broad outline laid down of her, the
aspect under which she comes to us in the writings of the fathers. She
is the second Eve.  [Footnote 11] Now let us consider what this
implies. Eve had a definite, essential position in the first covenant.
The fate of the human race lay with Adam; he it was who represented
us. It was in Adam that we fell; though Eve had fallen, still, if Adam
had stood, we should not have lost those supernatural privileges which
were bestowed upon him as our first father. Yet though Eve was not the
head of the race, still, even as regards the race, she had a place of
her own; for Adam, to whom was divinely committed the naming of all
things, entitled her "the mother of all the living;" a name surely
expressive not of a fact only but of a dignity; but further, as she
thus had her own general relation to the human race, so again had she
her own special place, as regards its trial and its fall in Adam. In
those primeval events, Eve had an integral share. "The woman, being
seduced, was in the transgression." She listened to the evil angel;
she offered the fruit to her husband, and he ate of it. She
co-operated not as an irresponsible instrument, but intimately and
personally in the sin; she brought it about. As the history stands,
she was a _sine qua non_, a positive, active cause of it. {58} And she
had her share in its punishment; in the sentence pronounced on her,
she was recognized as a real agent in the temptation and its issue,
and she suffered accordingly. In that awful transaction there were
three parties concerned--the serpent, the woman, and the man; and at
the time of their sentence an event was announced for the future, in
which the three same parties were to meet again, the serpent, the
woman, and the man; but it was to be a second Adam and a second Eve,
and the new Eve was to be the mother of the new Adam. "I will put
enmity between thee and the woman, and between thy seed and her seed."
The seed of the woman is the word incarnate, and the woman whose seed
or son he is is his mother Mary. This interpretation and the
parallelism it involves seem to me undeniable; but, at all events (and
this is my point), the parallelism is the doctrine of the fathers,
from the earliest times; and, this being established, by the position
and office of Eve in our fall, we are able to determine the position
and office of Mary in our restoration.

  [Footnote 11: _Vid_. "Essay on Development of Doctrine," 1845, p.
  384, etc.]

I shall adduce passages from their writings, with their respective
countries and dates; and the dates shall extend from their births or
conversions to their deaths, since what they propound is at once the
doctrine which they had received from the generation before them, and
the doctrine which was accepted and recognized as true by the
generation to whom they transmitted it.

First, then, St. Justin Martyr (A.D. 120-165), St. Irenaeus (120-200),
and Tertullian (160-240). Of these Tertullian represents Africa and
Rome, St. Justin represents Palestine, and St. Irenaeus Asia Minor and
Gaul--or rather he represents St. John the Evangelist, for he had been
taught by the martyr St. Polycarp, who was the intimate associate, as
of St. John, 60 of the other apostles.

1. St. Justin:  [Footnote 12]

  [Footnote 12: I have attempted to translate literally without caring
  to write English. ]

  "We know that he, before all creatures proceeded from the Father by
  his power and will, . . . and by means of the Virgin became man,
  that by what way the disobedience arising from the serpent had its
  beginning, by that way also it might have an undoing. For Eve, being
  a virgin and undefiled, conceiving the word that was from the
  serpent, brought forth disobedience and death; but the Virgin Mary,
  taking faith and joy, when the angel told her the good tidings, that
  the Spirit of the Lord should come upon her and the power of the
  highest overshadow her, and therefore the holy one that was born of
  her was Son of God, answered. Be it to me according to thy
  word."--_Tryph_. 100.

2. Tertullian:

  "God recovered his image and likeness, which the devil had seized,
  by a rival operation. For into Eve, as yet a virgin, had crept the
  word which was the framer of death. Equally into a virgin was to be
  introduced the Word of God which was the builder-up of life; that,
  what by that sex had gone into perdition, by the same sex might be
  brought back to salvation. Eve had believed the serpent; Mary
  believed Gabriel; the fault which the one committed by believing,
  the other by believing has blotted out."--_De Carn. Christ_, 17.

3. St Irenaeus:

  "With a fitness, Mary the Virgin is found obedient, saying, 'Behold
  thy handmaid, O Lord; be it to me according to thy word.' But Eve
  was disobedient; for she obeyed not, while she was yet a virgin. As
  she, having indeed Adam for a husband, but as yet being a virgin,
  . . . becoming disobedient, became the cause of death both to herself
  and to the whole human race, so also Mary, having the predestined
  man, and being yet a virgin, being obedient, became both to herself
  and to the whole human race the cause of salvation. . . . And on
  account of this the Lord said, that the first would be last and the
  last first. And the prophet signifies the same, saying, 'Instead of
  fathers you have children.' For, whereas the Lord, when born, was
  the first begotten of the dead, and received into his bosom the
  primitive fathers, he regenerated them into the life of God, he
  himself becoming the beginning of the living, since Adam became the
  beginning of the dying. Therefore also Luke, commencing the lines of
  generations from the Lord, referred it back to Adam, signifying that
  he regenerated the old fathers, not they him, into the gospel of
  life. And so the knot {59} of Eve's disobedience received its
  unloosing through the obedience of Mary; for what Eve, a virgin,
  bound by incredulity, that Mary, a virgin, unloosed by faith."--
  _Adv. Haer_, iii. 22. 34.

And again:

  "As Eve by the speech of an angel was seduced, so as to flee God,
  transgressing his word, so also Mary received the good tidings by
  means of the angel's speech, so as to bear God within her, being
  obedient to his word. And, though the one had disobeyed God, yet the
  other was drawn to obey God; that of the virgin Eve the virgin Mary
  might become the advocate. And, as by a virgin the human race had
  been bound to death, by a virgin it is saved, the balance being
  preserved, a virgin's disobedience by a virgin's obedience."
  --_Ibid_. v. 19.

Now, what is especially noticeable in these three writers is, that
they do not speak of the Blessed Virgin as the physical instrument of
our Lord's taking flesh, but as an intelligent, responsible cause of
it; her faith and obedience being accessories to the incarnation, and
gaining it as her reward. As Eve failed in these virtues, and thereby
brought on the fall of the race in Adam, so Mary by means of them had
a part in its restoration. You imply, pp. 255, 256, that the Blessed
Virgin was only a physical instrument in our redemption; "what has
been said of her by the fathers as the chosen _vessel_ of the
incarnation, was applied _personally_ to her" (that is, by Catholics),
p. 151; and again, "The fathers speak of the Blessed Virgin as the
_instrument_ of our salvation, _in that_ she gave birth to the
Redeemer," pp. 155, 156; whereas St. Augustine, in well-known
passages, speaks of her as more exalted by her sanctity than by her
relationship to our Lord.  [Footnote 13] However, not to go beyond the
doctrine of the three fathers, they unanimously declare that she was
not a mere instrument in the incarnation, such as David, or Judah, may
be considered; they declare she co-operated in our salvation, not
merely by the descent of the Holy Ghost upon her body, but by specific
holy acts, the effect of the Holy Ghost upon her soul; that, as Eve
forfeited privileges by sin, so Mary earned privileges by the fruits
of grace; that, as Eve was disobedient and unbelieving, so Mary was
obedient and believing; that, as Eve was a cause of ruin to all, Mary
was a cause of salvation to all; that, as Eve made room for Adam's
fall, so Mary made room for our Lord's reparation of it; and thus,
whereas the free gift was not as the offence, but much greater, it
follows that, as Eve co-operated in effecting a great evil, Mary
co-operated in effecting a much greater good.

  [Footnote 13: Opp., t. 8, p. 2, col. 369, t. 6, col. 342.]

And, beside the run of the argument, which reminds the reader of St.
Paul's antithetical sentences in tracing the analogy between Adam's
work and our Lord's work, it is well to observe the particular words
under which the Blessed Virgin's office is described. Tertullian says
that Mary "blotted out" Eve's fault, and "brought back the female
sex," or "the human race, to salvation;" and St. Irenaeus says that
"by obedience she was the cause or occasion" (whatever was the
original Greek word) "of salvation to herself and the whole human
race;" that by her the human race is saved; that by her Eve's
complication is disentangled; and that she is Eve's advocate, or
friend in need. It is supposed by critics, Protestant as well as
Catholic, that the Greek word for advocate in the original was
paraclete; it should be borne in mind, then, when we are accused of
giving our Lady the titles and offices of her Son, that St. Irenaeus
bestows on her the special name and office proper to the Holy Ghost.

So much as to the nature of this triple testimony; now as to the worth
of it. For a moment put aside St. Irenaeus, and put together St.
Justin in the East with Tertullian in the West. I think I may assume
that the doctrine of these two fathers about the Blessed Virgin was
the received doctrine of their own {60} respective times and places;
for writers after all are but witnesses of facts and beliefs, and as
such they are treated by all parties in controversial discussion.
Moreover, the coincidence of doctrine which they exhibit, and, again,
the antithetical completeness of it, show that they themselves did not
originate it. The next question is, Who did? For from one definite
organ or source, place or person, it must have come. Then we must
inquire, what length of time would it take for such a doctrine to have
extended, and to be received, in the second century over so wide an
area; that is, to be received before the year 200 in Palestine,
Africa, and Rome? Can we refer the common source of these local
traditions to a date later than that of the apostles, St. John dying
within thirty or forty years of St. Justin's conversion and
Tertullian's birth? Make what allowance you will for whatever possible
exceptions can be taken to this representation; and then, after doing
so, add to the concordant testimony of these two fathers the evidence
of St. Irenaeus, which is so close upon the school of St. John himself
in Asia Minor. "A three-fold cord," as the wise man says, "is not
quickly broken." Only suppose there were so early and so broad a
testimony to the effect that our Lord was a mere man, the son of
Joseph; should we be able to insist upon the faith of the Holy Trinity
as necessary to salvation? Or supposing three such witnesses could be
brought to the fact that a consistory of elders governed the local
churches, or that each local congregation was an independent church,
or that the Christian community was without priests, could Anglicans
maintain their doctrine that the rule of episcopal succession is
necessary to constitute a church? And recollect that the Anglican
Church especially appeals to the ante-Nicene centuries, and taunts us
with having superseded their testimony.

Having then adduced these three fathers of the second century, I have
at least got so far as this, viz., no one, who acknowledges the force
of early testimony in determining Christian truth, can wonder, no one
can complain, can object, that we Catholics should hold a very high
doctrine concerning the Blessed Virgin, unless indeed stronger
statements can be brought for a contrary conception of her, either of
as early, or at least of a later date. But, as far as I know, no
statements can be brought from the ante-Nicene literature to
invalidate the testimony of the three fathers concerning her; and
little can be brought against it from the fourth century, while in
that fourth century the current of testimony in her behalf is as
strong as in the second; and, as to the fifth, it is far stronger than
in any former time, both in its fulness and its authority. This will
to some extent be seen as I proceed.

4. St Cyril, of Jerusalem (315-386), speaks for Palestine:

  "Since through Eve, a virgin, came death, it behoved that through a
  virgin, or rather from a virgin, should life appear; that, as the
  serpent had deceived the one, so to the other Gabriel might bring
  good tidings."--_Cat_. xii. 15.

5. St. Ephrem Syrus (lie died 378) is a witness for the Syrians proper
and the neighboring Orientals, in contrast to the Graeco-Syrians. A
native of Nisibis, on the farther side of the Euphrates, he knew no
language but Syriac:

  "Through Eve the beautiful and desirable glory of men was
  extinguished; but it has revived through Mary."--_Opp. Syr._, ii. p.


  "In the beginning, by the sin of our first parents, death passed
  upon all men; to-day, through Mary, we are translated from death
  unto life. In the beginning, the serpent filled the ears of Eve, and
  the poison spread thence over the whole body; to-day, Mary from her
  ears received the {61} champion of eternal happiness; what,
  therefore, was an instrument of death, was an instrument of life
  also."--iii. p. 607.

I have already referred to St. Paul's contrast between Adam and our
Lord in his Epistle to the Romans, as also in his first Epistle to the
Corinthians. Some writers attempt to say that there is no doctrinal
truth, but a mere rhetorical display, in those passages. It is quite
as easy to say so as to attempt so to dispose of this received
comparison, in the writings of the fathers, between Eve and Mary.

6. St. Epiphanius (320-400) speaks for Egypt, Palestine, and Cyprus:

  "She it is who is signified by Eve, enigmatically receiving the
  appellation of the mother of the living. . . . It was a wonder that
  after the fall she had this great epithet. And, according to what is
  material, from that Eve all the race of men on earth is generated.
  But thus in truth from Mary the Life itself was born in the world,
  that Mary might bear living things and become the mother of living
  things. Therefore, enigmatically, Mary is called the mother of
  living things. . . Also, there is another thing to consider as to
  these women, and wonderful--as to Eve and Mary. Eve became a cause
  of death to man . . . and Mary a cause of life; . . . that life
  might be instead of death, life excluding death which came from the
  woman, viz., he who through the woman has become our life."
  --_Haer_. 78. 18.

7. By the time of St. Jerome (331-420), the contrast between Eve and
Mary had almost passed into a proverb. He says (Ep. xxii. 21, ad
Eustoch.), "Death by Eve, life by Mary." Nor let it be supposed that
he, any more than the preceding fathers, considered the Blessed Virgin
a mere physical instrument of giving birth to our Lord, who is the
life. So far from it, in the epistle from which I have quoted, he is
only adding another virtue to that crown which gained for Mary her
divine maternity. They have spoken of faith, joy, and obedience; St.
Jerome adds, what they had only suggested, virginity. After the manner
of the fathers in his own day, he is setting forth the Blessed Mary to
the high-born Roman lady whom he is addressing as the model of the
virginal life; and his argument in its behalf is, that it is higher
than the marriage state, not in itself, viewed in any mere natural
respect, but as being the free act of self-consecration to God, and
from the personal religious purpose which it involves:

  "Higher wage," he says, "is due to that which is not a compulsion,
  but an offering; for, were virginity commanded, marriage would seem
  to be put out of the question; and it would be most cruel to force
  men against nature, and to extort from them an angel's life."--20.

I do not know whose testimony is more important than St. Jerome's, the
friend of Pope Damasus at Rome, the pupil of St. Gregory Nazianzen at
Constantinople, and of Didymus in Alexandria, a native of Dalmatia,
yet an inhabitant, at different times of his life, of Gaul, Syria, and

8. St. Jerome speaks for the whole world, except Africa; and for
Africa in the fourth century, if we must limit so world-wide an
authority to place, witnesses St. Augustine (354-430). He repeats the
words as if a proverb; "By a woman death, by a woman life" (Opp. t. v.
Serm. 233); elsewhere he enlarges on the idea conveyed in it. In one
place he quotes St. Irenaeus's words as cited above (adv. Julian i.
4). In another he speaks as follows:

  "It is a great sacrament that, whereas through woman death became
  our portion, so life was born to us by woman; that, in the case of
  both sexes, male and female, the baffled devil should be tormented,
  when on the overthrow of both sexes he was rejoicing; whose
  punishment had been small, if both sexes had been liberated in us,
  without our being liberated through both."--_Opp. t. vi. De Agon,
  Christ_, c. 24.


9. St. Peter Chrysologus (400-450), Bishop of Ravenna, and one of the
chief authorities in the fourth General Council:

  "Blessed art thou among women; for among women, on whose womb Eve,
  who was cursed, brought punishment, Mary, being blest, rejoices, is
  honored, and is looked up to. And woman now is truly made through
  grace the mother of the living, who had been by nature the mother of
  the dying. . . . Heaven feels awe of God, angels tremble at him, the
  creature sustains him not, nature sufficeth not, and yet one maiden
  so takes, receives, entertains him, as a guest within her breast,
  that, for the very hire of her home, and as the price of her womb,
  she asks, she obtains, peace for the earth, glory for the heavens,
  salvation for the lost, life for the dead, a heavenly parentage for
  the earthly, the union of God himself with human flesh."--_Serm._

It is difficult to express more explicitly, though in oratorical
language, that the Blessed Virgin had a real, meritorious
co-operation, a share which had a "hire" and a "price" in the reversal
of the fall.

10. St. Fulgentius, Bishop of Ruspe in Africa (468-533). The homily
which contains the following passage is placed by Ceillier (t. xvi. p.
127) among his genuine works:

  "In the wife of the first man, the wickedness of the devil depraved
  her seduced mind; in the mother of the second Man, the grace of God
  preserved both her mind inviolate and her flesh. On her mind he
  conferred the most firm faith; from her flesh he took away lust
  altogether. Since then man was in a miserable way condemned for sin,
  therefore without sin was in a marvellous way born the God
  man."--_Serm_. 2, p. 124, _De Dupl. Nativ._

Accordingly, in the sermon which follows (if it is his), he continues,
illustrating her office of universal mother, as ascribed to her by St.

  "Come ye virgins to a virgin, come ye who conceive to her who
  conceived, ye who bear to one who bore, mothers to a mother, ye that
  suckle to one who suckled, young girls to the young girl. It is for
  this reason that the Virgin Mary has taken on her in our Lord Jesus
  Christ all these divisions of nature, that to all women who have
  recourse to her she may be a succor, and so restore the whole race
  of women who come to her, being the new Eve, by keeping virginity,
  as the new Adam, the Lord Jesus Christ, recovers the whole race of

Such is the rudimental view, as I have called it, which the fathers
have given us of Mary, as the second Eve, the mother of the living. I
have cited ten authors. I could cite more were it necessary. Except
the two last, they write gravely and without any rhetoric. I allow
that the two last write in a different style, since the extracts I
have made are from their sermons; but I do not see that the coloring
conceals the outline. And, after all, men use oratory on great
subjects, not on small; nor would they, and other fathers whom I might
quote, have lavished their high language upon the Blessed Virgin, such
as they gave to no one else, unless they knew well that no one else
had such claims as she had on their love and veneration.

And now I proceed to dwell for a while upon two inferences, which it
is obvious to draw from the rudimental doctrine itself; the first
relates to the sanctity of the Blessed Virgin, the second to her

1. Her _sanctity_. She holds, as the fathers teach us, that office in
our restoration which Eve held in our fall. Now, in the first place,
what were Eve's endowments to enable her to enter upon her trial? She
could not have stood against the wiles of the devil, though she was
innocent and sinless, without the grant of a large grace. And this she
had--a heavenly gift, which was over and above and additional to that
nature of hers, which she received from Adam, as Adam before her had
also received the same gift, at the very time (as it is commonly held)
of his original creation. This is Anglican doctrine as well as
Catholic; it is the doctrine of Bishop Bull. He has written a
dissertation on the point. He speaks of the doctrine which "many of
the schoolmen affirm, that Adam was created {63} in grace--that is,
received a principle of grace and divine life from his very creation,
or in the moment of the infusion of his soul; of which," he says, "for
my own part I have little doubt." Again, he says: "It is abundantly
manifest, from the many testimonies alleged, that the ancient doctors
of the church did, with a general consent, acknowledge that our first
parents, in the state of integrity, had in them something more than
nature--that is, were endowed with the divine principle of the
Spirit, in order to a supernatural felicity."

Now, taking this for granted, because I know that you and those who
agree with you maintain it as well as we do, I ask, Was not Mary as
fully endowed as Eve? is it any violent inference that she, who was to
co-operate in the redemption of the world, at least was not less
endowed with power from on high, than she who, given as a helpmate to
her husband, did in the event but co-operate with him for its ruin? If
Eve was raised above human nature by that indwelling moral gift which
we call grace, is it rash to say that Mary had a greater grace? And
this consideration gives significance to the angel's salutation of her
as "full of grace"--an interpretation of the original word which is
undoubtedly the right one, as soon as we resist the common Protestant
assumption that grace is a mere external approbation or acceptance,
answering to the word "favor;" whereas it is, as the fathers teach, a
real inward condition or superadded quality of soul. And if Eve had
this supernatural inward gift given her from the moment of her
personal existence, is it possible to deny that Mary too had this gift
from the very first moment of her personal existence? I do not know
how to resist this inference--well, this is simply and literally the
doctrine of the immaculate conception. I say the doctrine of the
immaculate conception is in its substance this, and nothing more or
less than this (putting aside the question of degrees of grace); and
it really does seem to me bound up in that doctrine of the fathers,
that Mary is the second Eve.

It is to me a most strange phenomenon that so many learned and devout
men stumble at this doctrine, and I can only account for it by
supposing that, in matter of fact, they do not know what we mean by
the immaculate conception; and your volume (may I say it?) bears out
my suspicion. It is a great consolation to have reason for thinking
so--for believing that in some sort the persons in question are in the
position of those great saints in former times who are said to have
hesitated about it, when they would not have hesitated at all if the
word "conception" had been clearly explained in that sense in which
now it is universally received. I do not see how any one who holds
with Bull the Catholic doctrine of the supernatural endowments of our
first parents, has fair reason for doubting our doctrine about the
Blessed Virgin. It has no reference whatever to her parents, but
simply to her own person; it does but affirm that, together with the
nature which she inherited from her parents, that is, her own nature,
she had a superadded fulness of grace, and that from the first moment
of her existence. Suppose Eve had stood the trial, and not lost her
first grace, and suppose she had eventually had children, those
children from the first moment of their existence would, through
divine bounty, have received the same privilege that she had ever had;
that is, as she was taken from Adam's side, in a garment, so to say,
of grace, so they in turn would have received what may be called an
immaculate conception. They would have been conceived in grace, as in
fact they are conceived in sin. What is there difficult in this
doctrine? What is there unnatural? Mary may be called a daughter of
Eve unfallen. You believe with us that St. John Baptist had grace
given to him three months before his birth, at the time {64} that the
Blessed Virgin visited his mother. He accordingly was not immaculately
conceived, because he was alive before grace came to him; but our
Lady's case only differs from his in this respect, that to her grace
came not three months merely before her birth, but from the first
moment of her being, as it had been given to Eve.

But it may be said, How does this enable us to say that she was
conceived without _original sin_? If Anglicans knew what we mean by
original sin, they would not ask the question. Our doctrine of
original sin is not the same as the Protestant doctrine. "Original
sin," with us, cannot be called sin in the ordinary sense of the word
"sin;" it is a term denoting the _imputation_ of Adam's sin, or the
state to which Adam's sin reduces his children; but by Protestants it
is understood to be sin in the same sense as actual sin. We, with the
fathers, think of it as something negative; Protestants as something
positive. Protestants hold that it is a disease, a change of nature, a
poison internally corrupting the soul, and propagated from father to
son, after the manner of a bad constitution; and they fancy that we
ascribe a different nature from ours to the Blessed Virgin, different
from that of her parents, and from that of fallen Adam. We hold
nothing of the kind; we consider that in Adam she died, as others;
that she was included, together with the whole race, in Adam's
sentence; that she incurred his debt, as we do; but that, for the sake
of him who was to redeem her and us upon the cross, to her the debt
was remitted by anticipation; on her the sentence was not carried out,
except indeed as regards her natural death, for she died when her time
came, as others. All this we teach, but we deny that she had original
sin; for by original sin we mean, as I have already said, something
negative, viz., this only, the _deprivation_ of that supernatural
unmerited grace which Adam and Eve had on their creation--deprivation
and the consequences of deprivation. Mary could not merit, any more
than they, the restoration of that grace; but it was restored to her
by God's free bounty from the very first moment of her existence, and
thereby, in fact, she never came under the original curse, which
consisted in the loss of it. And she had this special privilege in
order to fit her to become the mother of her and our Redeemer, to fit
her mentally, spiritually, for it; so that, by the aid of the first
grace, she might so grow in grace that when the angel came, and her
Lord was at hand, she might be "full of grace," prepared, as far as a
creature could be prepared, to receive him into her bosom.

I have drawn the doctrine of the immaculate conception, as an
immediate inference, from the primitive doctrine that Mary is the
second Eve. The argument seems to me conclusive; and, if it has not
been universally taken as such, this has come to pass because there
has not been a clear understanding among Catholics what exactly was
meant by the immaculate conception. To many it seemed to imply that
the Blessed Virgin did not die in Adam, that she did not come under
the penalty of the fall, that she was not redeemed; that she was
conceived in some way inconsistent with the verse in the _Miserere_
psalm. If controversy had in earlier days so cleared the subject as to
make it plain to all that the doctrine meant nothing else than that,
in fact, in her case the general sentence on mankind was not carried
out, and that by means of the indwelling in her of divine grace from
the first moment of her being (and this is all the decree of 1854 has
declared), I cannot believe that the doctrine would have ever been
opposed; for an instinctive sentiment has led Christians jealously to
put the Blessed Mary aside when sin comes into discussion. This is
expressed in the well-known words of St. Augustine. All have sinned
"except the holy Virgin Mary, {65} concerning whom, for the honor of
the Lord, I wish no question to be raised at all, when we are treating
of sins" (de Nat. et Grat. 42); words which, whatever St. Augustine's
actual occasion of using them (to which you refer, p. 176), certainly,
in the spirit which they breathe, are well adapted to convey the
notion that, apart from her relation to her parents, she had not
personally any part in sin whatever. It is true that several great
fathers of the fourth century do imply or assert that on one or two
occasions she did sin venially or showed infirmity. This is the only
real objection which I know of; and, as I do not wish to pass it over
lightly, I propose to consider it at the end of this letter.

2. Now, secondly, her _greatness_. Here let us suppose that our first
parents had overcome in their trial, and had gained for their
descendants for ever the full possession, as if by right, of the
privileges which were promised to their obedience--grace here and
glory hereafter. Is it possible that those descendants, pious and
happy from age to age in their temporal homes, would have forgotten
their benefactors? Would they not have followed them in thought into
the heavens, and gratefully commemorated them on earth? The history of
the temptation, the craft of the serpent, their steadfastness in
obedience--the loyal vigilance, the sensitive purity of Eve--the great
issue, salvation wrought out for all generations--would have been
never from their minds, ever welcome to their ears. This would have
taken place from the necessity of our nature. Every nation has its
mythical hymns and epics about its first fathers and its heroes. The
great deeds of Charlemagne, Alfred, Coeur de Lion, Wallace, Louis the
Ninth, do not die; and though their persons are gone from us, we make
much of their names. Milton's Adam, after his fall, understands the
force of this law, and shrinks from the prospect of its operation:

  "Who of all ages to succeed but, feeling
  The evil on him brought by me, will curse
  My head? Ill fare our ancestor impure;
  For this we may thank Adam."

If this anticipation has not been fulfilled in the event, it is owing
to the needs of our penal life, our state of perpetual change, and the
ignorance and unbelief incurred by the fall; also because, fallen as
we are, from the hopefulness of our nature we feel more pride in our
national great men than dejection at our national misfortunes. Much
more then in the great kingdom and people of God--the saints are ever
in our sight, and not as mere ineffectual ghosts, but as if present
bodily in their past selves. It is said of them, "Their works do
follow them;" what they were here, such are they in heaven and in the
church. As we call them by their earthly names, so we contemplate them
in their earthly characters and histories. Their acts, callings, and
relations below are types and anticipations of their mission above.
Even in the case of our Lord himself, whose native home is the eternal
heavens, it is said of him in his state of glory, that he is a "priest
for ever;" and when he comes again he will be recognized, by those who
pierced him, as being the very same that he was on earth. The only
question is, whether the Blessed Virgin had a part, a real part, in
the economy of grace, whether, when she was on earth, she secured by
her deeds any claim on our memories; for, if she did, it is impossible
we should put her away from us, merely because she is gone hence, and
not look at her still, according to the measure of her earthly
history, with gratitude and expectation. If, as St. Irenaeus says, she
did the part of an advocate, a friend in need, even in her mortal
life, if, as St. Jerome and St. Ambrose say, she was on earth the
great pattern of virgins, if she had a meritorious share in bringing
about our redemption, if her maternity was earned by her faith and
obedience, if her divine Son was subject to her, and if she stood by
the {66} cross with a mother's heart and drank in to the full those
sufferings which it was her portion to gaze upon, it is impossible
that we should not associate these characteristics of her life on
earth with her present state of blessedness; and this surely she
anticipated, when she said in her hymn that "all generations shall
call her blessed."

I am aware that, in thus speaking, I am following a line of thought
which is rather a meditation than an argument in controversy, and I
shall not carry it further; but still, in turning to other topics, it
is to the point to inquire whether the popular astonishment, excited
by our belief in the Blessed Virgin's present dignity, does not arise
from the circumstance that the bulk of men, engaged in matters of the
world, have never calmly considered her historical position in the
gospels so as rightly to realize (if I may use the word a second time)
what that position imports. I do not claim for the generality of
Catholics any greater powers of reflection upon the objects of their
faith than Protestants commonly have, but there is a sufficient number
of religious men among Catholics who, instead of expending their
devotional energies (as so many serious Protestants do) on abstract
doctrines, such as justification by faith only, or the sufficiency of
holy Scripture, employ themselves in the contemplation of Scripture
facts, and bring out in a tangible form the doctrines involved in
them, and give such a substance and color to the sacred history as to
influence their brethren, who, though superficial themselves, are
drawn by their Catholic instinct to accept conclusions which they
could not indeed themselves have elicited, but which, when elicited,
they feel to be true. However, it would be out of place to pursue this
course of reasoning here; and instead of doing so, I shall take what
perhaps you may think a very bold step--I shall find the doctrine of
our Lady's present exaltation in Scripture.

I mean to find it in the vision of the woman and child in the twelfth
chapter of the Apocalypse.  [Footnote 14] Now here two objections will
be made to me at once: first, that such an interpretation is but
poorly supported by the fathers; and secondly, that in ascribing such
a picture of the Madonna (as it may be called) to the apostolic age, I
am committing an anachronism.

  [Footnote 14: _Vid_. "Essay on Doctr. Development," p. 384, and
  Bishop Ullathorne's work on the "Immaculate Conception," p. 77.]

As to the former of these objections, I answer as follows: Christians
have never gone to Scripture for proofs of their doctrines till there
was actual need from the pressure of controversy. If in those times
the Blessed Virgin's dignity were unchallenged on all hands as a
matter of doctrine, Scripture, as far as its argumentative matter was
concerned, was likely to remain a sealed book to them. Thus, to take
an instance in point, the Catholic party in the English Church (say
the Non-jurors), unable by their theory of religion simply to take
their stand on tradition, and distressed for proof of their doctrines,
had their eyes sharpened to scrutinize and to understand the letter of
holy Scripture, which to others brought no instruction. And the
peculiarity of their interpretations is this--that they have in
themselves great logical cogency, yet are but faintly supported by
patristical commentators. Such is the use of the word [Greek text] or
_facere_ in our Lord's institution of the holy eucharist, which, by a
reference to the old Testament, is found to be a word of sacrifice.
Such again is [Greek text] in the passage in the Acts, "As they
_ministered_ to the Lord and fasted," which again is a sacerdotal
term. And such the passage in Rom. xv. 16, in which several terms are
used which have an allusion to the sacrificial eucharistic rite. Such,
too, is St. Paul's repeated message to the _household_ of Onesiphorus,
with no mention of Onesiphorus himself, but in one place, with the
addition of a prayer that "he might find mercy of the Lord" in the day
of {67} judgment, which, taking into account its wording and the known
usage of the first centuries, we can hardly deny is a prayer for his
soul. Other texts there are which ought to find a place in ancient
controversies, and the omission of which by the fathers affords matter
for more surprise; those, for instance, which, according to
Middleton's rule, are real proofs of our Lord's divinity, and yet are
passed over by Catholic disputants; for these bear upon a then
existing controversy of the first moment and of the most urgent

As to the second objection which I have supposed, so far from allowing
it, I consider that it is built upon a mere imaginary fact, and that
the truth of the matter lies in the very contrary direction. The
Virgin and Child is _not_ a mere modern idea; on the contrary, it is
represented again and again, as every visitor to Rome is aware, in the
paintings of the Catacombs. Mary is there drawn with the Divine Infant
in her lap, she with hands extended in prayer, he with his hand in the
attitude of blessing. No representation can more forcibly convey the
doctrine of the high dignity of the mother, and, I will add, of her
power over her Son. Why should the memory of his time of subjection be
so dear to Christians, and so carefully preserved? The only question
to be determined, is the precise date of these remarkable monuments of
the first age of Christianity. That they belong to the centuries of
what Anglicans call the "undivided church" is certain; but lately
investigations have been pursued which place some of them at an
earlier date than any one anticipated as possible. I am not in a
position to quote largely from the works of the Cavaliere de Rossi,
who has thrown so much light upon the subject; but I have his "Imagini
Scelte," published in 1863, and they are sufficient for my purpose. In
this work he has given us from the Catacombs various representations
of the Virgin and Child; the latest of these belong to the early part
of the fourth century, but the earliest he believes to be referable to
the very age of the apostles. He comes to this conclusion from the
style and the skill of the composition, and from the history,
locality, and existing inscriptions of the subterranean in which it is
found. However, he does not go so far as to insist upon so early a
date; yet the utmost liberty he grants is to refer the painting to the
era of the first Antonines--that is, to a date within half a century
of the death of St. John. I consider then that, as you fairly use, in
controversy with Protestants, the traditional doctrine of the church
in early times, as an explanation of the Scripture text, or at least
as a suggestion, or as a defence, of the sense which you may wish to
put on it, quite apart from the question whether your interpretation
itself is traditional, so it is lawful for me, though I have not the
positive words of the fathers on my side, to shelter my own
interpretation of the apostle's vision under the fact of the extant
pictures of Mother and Child in the Roman Catacombs. There is another
principle of Scripture interpretation which we should hold with
you--when we speak of a doctrine being contained in Scripture, we do
not necessarily mean that it is contained there in direct categorical
terms, but that there is no other satisfactory way of accounting for
the language and expressions of the sacred writers, concerning the
subject-matter in question, than to suppose that they held upon it the
opinions which we hold; that they would not have spoken as they have
spoken _unless_ they held it. For myself I have ever felt the truth of
this principle, as regards the Scripture proof of the Holy Trinity; I
should not have found out that doctrine in the sacred text without
previous traditional teaching; but when once it is suggested from
without, it commends itself as the one true interpretation, from its
appositeness, because no other view of doctrine, which can be ascribed
to the inspired writers, so happily {68} solves the obscurities and
seeming inconsistencies of their teaching. And now to apply what I
have said to the passage in the Apocalypse.

If there is an apostle on whom, _à priori_, our eyes would be fixed,
as likely to teach us about the Blessed Virgin, it is St. John, to
whom she was committed by our Lord on the cross--with whom, as
tradition goes, she lived at Ephesus till she was taken away. This
anticipation is confirmed _à posteriori_; for, as I have said above,
one of the earliest and fullest of our informants concerning her
dignity, as being the second Eve, is Irenaeus, who came to Lyons from
Asia Minor, and had been taught by the immediate disciples of St.
John. The apostle's vision is as follows:

"A great sign appeared in heaven; a woman clothed with the sun, and
the moon under her feet; and on her head a crown of twelve stars. And
being with child, she cried travailing in birth, and was in pain to be
delivered. And there was seen another sign in heaven; and behold a
great red dragon . . . And the dragon stood before the woman who was
ready to be delivered, that, when she should be delivered, he might
devour her son. And she brought forth a man-child, who was to rule all
nations with an iron rod; and her son was taken up to God and to his
throne. And the woman fled into the wilderness." Now I do not deny, of
course, that, under the image of the woman, the church is signified;
but what I would maintain is this, that the holy apostle would not
have spoken of the church under this particular image _unless_ there
had existed a Blessed Virgin Mary, who was exalted on high, and the
object of veneration to all the faithful.

No one doubts that the "man-child" spoken of is an allusion to our
Lord; why, then, is not "the woman" an allusion to his mother? This
surely is the obvious sense of the words; of course it has a further
sense also, which is the scope of the image; doubtless the child
represents the children of the church, and doubtless the woman
represents the church; this, I grant, is the real or direct sense, but
what is the sense of the symbol? _who_ are the woman and the child? I
answer, They are not personifications but persons. This is true of the
child, therefore it is true of the woman.

But again: not only mother and child, but a serpent, is introduced
into the vision. Such a meeting of man, woman, and serpent has not
been found in Scripture, since the beginning of Scripture, and now it
is found in its end. Moreover, in the passage in the Apocalypse, as if
to supply, before Scripture came to an end, what was wanting in its
beginning, we are told, and for the first time, that the serpent in
Paradise was the evil spirit. If the dragon of St. John is the same as
the serpent of Moses, and the man-child is "the seed of the woman,"
why is not the woman herself she whose seed the man-child is? And, if
the first woman is not an allegory, why is the second? if the first
woman is Eve, why is not the second Mary?

But this is not all. The image of the woman, according to Scripture
usage, is too bold and prominent for a mere personification. Scripture
is not fond of allegories. We have indeed frequent figures there, as
when the sacred writers speak of the arm or sword of the Lord; and so
too when they speak of Jerusalem or Samaria in the feminine; or of the
mountains leaping for joy, or of the church as a bride or as a vine;
but they are not much given to dressing up abstract ideas or
generalizations in personal attributes. This is the classical rather
than the Scripture style. Xenophon places Hercules between Virtue and
Vice, represented as women; AEschylus introduces into his drama Force
and Violence; Virgil gives personality to public rumor or Fame, and
Plautus to Poverty. So on monuments done in the classical style, we
{69} see  virtues, vices, rivers, renown, death, and the like, turned
into human figures of men and women. I do not say there are no
instances at all of this method in Scripture, but I say that such
poetical compositions are strikingly unlike its usual method. Thus we
at once feel its difference from Scripture, when we betake ourselves
to the Pastor of Hermes, and find the church a woman, to St.
Methodius, and find Virtue a woman, and to St. Gregory's poem, and
find Virginity again a woman. Scripture deals with types rather than
personifications. Israel stands for the chosen people, David for
Christ, Jerusalem for heaven. Consider the remarkable representations,
dramatic I may call them, in Jeremiah, Ezechiel, and Hosea;
predictions, threatenings, and promises are acted out by those
prophets. Ezechiel is commanded to shave his head, and to divide and
scatter his hair; and Ahias tears his garment, and gives ten out of
twelve parts of it to Jeroboam. So, too, the structure of the imagery
in the Apocalypse is not a mere allegorical creation, but is founded
on the Jewish ritual. In like manner our Lord's bodily cures are
visible types of the power of his grace upon the soul; and his
prophecy of the last day is conveyed under that of the fall of
Jerusalem. Even his parables are not simply ideal, but relations of
occurrences which did or might take place, under which was conveyed a
spiritual meaning. The description of Wisdom in the Proverbs, and
other sacred books, has brought out the instinct of commentators in
this respect. They felt that Wisdom could not be a mere
personification, and they determined that it was our Lord; and the
later of these books, by their own more definite language, warranted
that interpretation. Then, when it was found that the Arians used it
in derogation of our Lord's divinity, still, unable to tolerate the
notion of a mere allegory, commentators applied the description to the
Blessed Virgin. Coming back then to the Apocalyptic vision, I ask, If
the woman must be some real person, who can it be whom the apostle
saw, and intends, and delineates, but that same great mother to whom
the chapters in the Proverbs are accommodated? And let it be observed,
moreover, that in this passage, from the allusion in it to the history
of the fall, she may be said still to be represented under the
character of the second Eve. I make a further remark; it is sometimes
asked, Why do not the sacred writers mention our Lady's greatness? I
answer, she was, or may have been, alive when the apostles and
evangelists wrote; there was just one book of Scripture certainly
written after her death, and that book does (if I may so speak)
canonize her.

But if all this be so, if it is really the Blessed Virgin whom
Scripture represents as clothed with the sun, crowned with the stars
of heaven, and with the moon as her footstool, what height of glory
may we not attribute to her? and what are we to say of those who,
through ignorance, run counter to the voice of Scripture, to the
testimony of the fathers, to the traditions of East and West, and
speak and act contemptuously toward her whom her Lord delighteth to

Now I have said all I mean to say on what I have called the rudimental
teaching of antiquity about the Blessed Virgin; but, after all, I have
not insisted on the highest view of her prerogatives which the fathers
have taught us. You, my dear friend, who know so well the ancient
controversies and councils, may have been surprised why I should not
have yet spoken of her as the Theotocos; but I wished to show on how
broad a basis her greatness rests, independent of that wonderful
title; and again, I have been loth to enlarge upon the force of a
word, which is rather matter for devotional thought than for polemical
dispute. However, I might as well not {70} write on my subject at all
as altogether be silent upon it.

It is, then, an integral portion of the faith fixed by ecumenical
council, a portion of it which you hold as well as I, that the Blessed
Virgin is Theotocos, Deipara, or Mother of God; and this word, when
thus used, carries with it no admixture of rhetoric, no taint of
extravagant affection; it has nothing else but a well-weighed, grave,
dogmatic sense, which corresponds and is adequate to its sound. It
intends to express that God is her Son, as truly as any one of us is
the son of his own mother. If this be so, what can be said of any
creature whatever which may not be said of her? what can be said too
much, so that it does not compromise the attributes of the Creator?
He, indeed, might have created a being more perfect, more admirable,
than she is; he might have endued that being, so created, with a
richer grant of grace, of power, of blessedness; but in one respect
she surpasses all even possible creations, viz., that she is Mother of
her Creator. It is this awful title, which both illustrates and
connects together the two prerogatives of Mary, on which I have been
lately enlarging, her sanctity and her greatness. It is the issue of
her sanctity; it is the source of her greatness. What dignity can be
too great to attribute to her who is as closely bound up, as
intimately one, with the Eternal Word, as a mother is with a son? What
outfit of sanctity, what fulness and redundance of grace, what
exuberance of merits must have been hers, on the supposition, which
the fathers justify, that her Maker regarded them at all, and took
them into account, when he condescended "not to abhor the Virgin's
womb?" Is it surprising, then, that on the one hand she should be
immaculate in her conception? or on the other that she should be
exalted as a queen, with a crown of twelve stars? Men sometimes wonder
that we call her mother of life, of mercy, of salvation; what are all
these titles compared to that one name, Mother of God?

I shall say no more about this title here. It is scarcely possible to
write of it without diverging into a style of composition unsuited to
a letter; so I proceed to the history of its use.

The title of _Theotocos_ [Footnote 15] begins with ecclesiastical
writers of a date hardly later than that at which we read of her as
the second Eve. It first occurs in the works of Origen (185-254); but
he, witnessing for Egypt and Palestine, witnesses also that it was in
use before his time; for, as Socrates informs us, he "interpreted how
it was to be used, and discussed the question at length" (Hist. vii.
32). Within two centuries (431), in the general council held against
Nestorius, it was made part of the formal dogmatic teaching of the
church. At that time Theodoret, who from his party connections might
have been supposed disinclined to its solemn recognition, owned that
"the ancient and more than ancient heralds of the orthodox faith
taught the use of the term according to the apostolic tradition." At
the same date John of Antioch, who for a while sheltered Nestorius,
whose heresy lay in the rejection of the term, said, "This title no
ecclesiastical teacher has put aside. Those who have used it are many
and eminent, and those who have not used it have not attacked those
who did." Alexander again, one of the fiercest partisans of Nestorius,
allows the use of the word, though he considers it dangerous. "That in
festive solemnities," he says, "or in preaching or teaching,
_theotocos_ should be unguardedly said by the orthodox without
explanation is no blame, because such statements were not dogmatic,
nor said with evil meaning." If we look for those, in the interval
between Origen and the council, to whom Alexander refers, we find it
used again and again by the fathers in such of their works as are
extant: by {71} Archelans of Mesopotamia, Eusebius of Palestine,
Alexander of Egypt, in the third century; in the fourth, by Athanasius
many times with emphasis, by Cyril of Palestine, Gregory Nyssen of
Cappadocia, Gregory Nazianzen of Cappadocia, Antiochus of Syria, and
Ammonius of Thrace; not to speak of the Emperor Julian, who, having no
local or ecclesiastical domicile, speaks for the whole of Christendom.
Another and earlier emperor, Constantine, in his speech before the
assembled bishops at Nicaea, uses the still more explicit title of
"the Virgin Mother of God;" which is also used by Ambrose of Milan,
and by Vincent and Cassian in the south of France, and then by St.

  [Footnote 15: _Vid_. "translation of St. Athanasius," pp. 420, 440,

So much for the term; it would be tedious to produce the passages of
authors who, using or not using the term, convey the idea. "Our God
was carried in the womb of Mary," says Ignatius, who was martyred A.D.
106. "The word of God," says Hippolytus, "was carried in that virgin
frame." "The Maker of all," says Amphilochius, "is born of a virgin."
"She did compass without circumscribing the Sun of justice--the
Everlasting is born," says Chrysostom. "God dwelt in the womb," says
Proclus. "When thou hearest that God speaks from the bush," asks
Theodotus, "in the bush seest thou not the Virgin?" Cassian says,
"Mary bore her Author." "The one God only-begotten," says Hilary, "is
introduced into the womb of a virgin." "The Everlasting," says
Ambrose, "came into the Virgin him." "The closed gate," says Jerome,
"by which alone the Lord God of Israel enters, is the Virgin Mary."
"That man from heaven," says Capriolus, "is God conceived in the
womb." "He is made in thee," says Augustine, "who made thee."

This being the faith of the fathers about the Blessed Virgin, we need
not wonder that it should in no long time be transmuted into devotion.
No wonder if their language should be unmeasured, when so great a term
as "Mother of God" had been formally set down as the safe limit of it.
No wonder if it became stronger and stronger as time went on, since
only in a long period could the fulness of its import be exhausted.
And in matter of fact, and as might be anticipated (with the few
exceptions which I have noted above, and which I am to treat of
below), the current of thought in those early ages did uniformly tend
to make much of the Blessed Virgin and to increase her honors, not to
circumscribe them. Little jealousy was shown of her in those times;
but, when any such niggardness of devotion occurred, then one father
or other fell upon the offender, with zeal, not to say with
fierceness. Thus St. Jerome inveighs against Helvidius; thus St.
Epiphanius denounces Apollinaris, St. Cyril Nestorius, and St. Ambrose
Bonosus; on the other hand, each successive insult offered to her by
individual adversaries did but bring out more fully the intimate
sacred affection with which Christendom regarded her. "She was alone,
and wrought the world's salvation and conceived the redemption of
all," says Ambrose;  [Footnote 16] "she had so great grace, as not
only to preserve virginity herself, but to confer it upon those whom
she visited." "The rod out of the stem of Jesse," says Jerome, "and
the eastern gate through which the high priest alone goes in and out,
yet is ever shut" "The wise woman," says Nilus, who "hath clad
believers, from the fleece of the Lamb born of her, with the clothing
of incorruption, and delivered them from their spiritual nakedness."
"The mother of life, of beauty, of majesty, the morning star,"
according to Antiochus. "The mystical new heavens," "the heavens
carrying the Divinity," "the fruitful vine," "by whom we are
translated from death to life," according to St. Ephrem. "The manna
which is delicate, bright, sweet, and virgin, {72} which, as though
coming from heaven, has poured down on all the people of the churches
a food pleasanter than honey," according to St. Maximus.

  [Footnote 16: "Essay on Doctr. Dev.," p. 408]

Proclus calls her "the unsullied shell which contains the pearl of
price," "the church's diadem," "the expression of orthodoxy." "Run
through all creation in your thought," he says, "and see if there be
one equal or superior to the Holy Virgin, Mother of God." "Hail,
mother, clad in light, of the light which sets not," says Theodotus,
or some one else at Ephesus--"hail, all-undefiled mother of holiness;
hail, most pellucid fountain of the life-giving stream." And St. Cyril
too at Ephesus, "Hail, Mary, Mother of God, majestic common-treasure
of the whole world, the lamp unquenchable, the crown of virginity, the
staff of orthodoxy, the indissoluble temple, the dwelling of the
illimitable, mother and virgin, through whom he in the holy gospels is
called blessed who cometh in the name of the Lord, .... through whom
the Holy Trinity is sanctified, through whom angels and archangels
rejoice, devils are put to flight, .... and the fallen creature is
received up into the heavens, etc, etc."   [Footnote 17] Such is but a
portion of the panegyrical language which St. Cyril used in the third
ecumenical council.

  [Footnote 17: Opp., t. 6, p. 355. ]

I must not close my review of the Catholic doctrine concerning the
Blessed Virgin without directly speaking of her intercessory power,
though I have incidentally made mention of it already. It is the
immediate result of two truths, neither of which you dispute: first,
that "it is good and useful," as the Council of Trent says,
"suppliantly to invoke the saints and to have recourse to their
prayers;" and secondly, that the Blessed Mary is singularly dear to
her Son and singularly exalted in sanctity and glory. However, at the
risk of becoming didactic, I will state somewhat more fully the
grounds on which it rests.

To a candid pagan it must have been one of the most remarkable points
of Christianity, on its first appearance, that the observance of
prayer formed so vital a part of its organization; and that, though
its members were scattered all over the world, and its rulers and
subjects had so little opportunity of correlative action, yet they,
one and all, found the solace of a spiritual intercourse, and a real
bond of union, in the practice of mutual intercession. Prayer, indeed,
is the very essence of religion; but in the heathen religions it was
either public or personal; it was a state ordinance, or a selfish
expedient, for the attainment of certain tangible, temporal goods.
Very different from this was its exercise among Christians, who were
thereby knit together in one body, different as they were in races,
ranks, and habits, distant from each other in country, and helpless
amid hostile populations. Yet it proved sufficient for its purpose.
Christians could not correspond; they could not combine; but they
could pray one for another. Even their public prayers partook of this
character of intercession; for to pray for the welfare of the whole
church was really a prayer for all classes of men, and all the
individuals of which it was composed. It was in prayer that the church
was founded. For ten days all the apostles "persevered with one mind
in prayer and supplication, with the women, and Mary the Mother of
Jesus, and with his brethren." Then again at Pentecost "they were all
with one mind in one place;" and the converts then made are said to
have "persevered in prayer." And when, after a while, St. Peter was
seized and put in prison with a view to his being put to death,
"prayer was made without ceasing" by the church of God for him; and,
when the angel released him, he took refuge in a house "where many
were gathered together in prayer."


We are so accustomed to these passages as hardly to be able to do
justice to their singular significance; and they are followed up by
various passages of the apostolic epistles. St. Paul enjoins his
brethren to '"pray with all prayer and supplication at all times in
the Spirit, with all instance and supplication for all saints," to
"pray in every place," "to make supplication, prayers, intercessions,
giving of thanks for all men." And in his own person he "ceases not to
give thanks for them, commemorating them in his prayers," and "always
in all his prayers making supplication for them all with joy."

Now, was this spiritual bond to cease with life? or had Christians
similar duties to their brethren departed? From the witness of the
early ages of the church, it appears that they had; and you, and those
who agree with you, would be the last to deny that they were then in
the practice of praying, as for the living, so for those also who had
passed into the intermediate state between earth and heaven. Did the
sacred communion extend further still, on to the inhabitants of heaven
itself? Here too you agree with us, for you have adopted in your
volume the words of the Council of Trent which I have quoted above.
But now we are brought to a higher order of thoughts.

It would be preposterous to pray for those who are already in glory;
but at least they can pray for us, and we can ask their prayers, and
in the Apocalypse at least angels are introduced both sending us their
blessing and presenting our prayers before the divine Presence. We
read there of an angel who "came and stood before the altar, having a
golden censer;" and "there was given to him much incense, that he
should offer of the prayers of all saints upon the golden altar which
is before the throne of God." On this occasion, surely, the angel
Michael, as the prayer in mass considers him, performed the part of a
great intercessor or mediator above for the children of the church
militant below. Again, in the beginning of the same book, the sacred
writer goes so far as to speak of "grace and peace" being sent us, not
only from the Almighty, but "from the seven spirits that are before
his throne," thus associating the Eternal with the ministers of his
mercies; and this carries us on to the remarkable passage of St.
Justin, one of the earliest fathers, who, in his "Apology," says, "To
him (God), and his Son who came from him, and taught us these things,
and the host of the other good angels who follow and resemble them,
and the prophetic Spirit, we pay veneration and homage." Further, in
the Epistle to the Hebrews, St. Paul introduces, not only angels, but
"the spirits of the just" into the sacred communion: "Ye have come to
Mount Sion, to the heavenly Jerusalem, to myriads of angels, to God,
the Judge of all, to the spirits of the just made perfect, and to
Jesus, the Mediator of the New Testament." What can be meant by having
"come to the spirits of the just," unless in some way or other they do
us good, whether by blessing or by aiding us? that is, in a word, to
speak correctly, by praying for us; for it is by prayer alone that the
creature above can bless or aid the creature below.

Intercession thus being the first principle of the church's life, next
it is certain again that the vital principle of that intercession, as
an availing power, is, according to the will of God, sanctity. This
seems to be suggested by a passage of St. Paul, in which the supreme
intercessor is said to be "the Spirit:" "The Spirit himself maketh
intercession for us; he maketh intercession for the saints according
to God." However, the truth thus implied is expressly brought out in
other parts of Scripture, in the form both of doctrine and of example.
The words of the man born blind speak the common sense of nature: "If
any man be a worshipper of God, him he heareth." {74} And apostles
confirm them: "The prayer of a just man availeth much," and "whatever
we ask we receive, because we keep his commandments." Then, as for
examples, we read of Abraham and Moses as having the divine purpose of
judgment revealed to them beforehand, in order that they might
deprecate its execution. To the friends of Job it was said, "My
servant Job shall pray for you; his face I will accept." Elias by his
prayer shut and opened the heavens. Elsewhere we read of "Jeremias,
Moses, and Samuel," and of "Noe, Daniel, and Job," as being great
mediators between God and his people. One instance is given us, which
testifies the continuance of so high an office beyond this life.
Lazarus, in the parable, is seen in Abraham's bosom. It is usual to
pass over this striking passage with the remark that it is a Jewish
expression; whereas, Jewish belief or not, it is recognized and
sanctioned by our Lord himself. What do we teach about the Blessed
Virgin more wonderful than this? Let us suppose that, at the hour of
death, the faithful are committed to her arms; but if Abraham, not yet
ascended on high, had charge of Lazarus, what offence is it to affirm
the like of her, who was not merely "the friend," but the very "Mother
of God?"

It may be added that, though it availed nothing for influence with our
Lord to be one of his company if sanctity was wanting, still, as the
gospel shows, he on various occasions allowed those who were near him
to be the means by which supplicants were brought to him, or miracles
gained from him, as in the instance of the miracle of the loaves; and
if on one occasion he seems to repel his mother when she told him that
wine was wanting for the guests at the marriage feast, it is obvious
to remark on it that, by saying that she was then separated from him
_because_ his hour was not yet come, he implied that, when that hour
was come, such separation would be at an end. Moreover, in fact, he
did, at her intercession, work the miracle which she desired.

I consider it impossible, then, for those who believe the church to be
one vast body in heaven and on earth, in which every holy creature of
God has his place, and of which prayer is the life, when once they
recognize the sanctity and greatness of the Blessed Virgin, not to
perceive immediately that her office above is one of perpetual
intercession for the faithful militant, and that our very relation to
her must be that of clients to a patron, and that, in the eternal
enmity which exists between the woman and the serpent, while the
serpent's strength is that of being the tempter, the weapon of the
second Eve and Mother of God is prayer.

As then these ideas of her sanctity and greatness gradually penetrated
the mind of Christendom, so did her intercessory power follow close
upon and with them. From the earliest times that mediation is
symbolized in those representations of her with uplifted hands, which,
whether in plaster or in glass, are still extant in Rome--that
church, as St. Irenaeus says, with which "every church, that is, the
faithful from every side, must agree, because of its more powerful
principality;" "into which," as Tertullian adds, "the apostles poured
out, together with their blood, their whole doctrines." As far,
indeed, as existing documents are concerned, I know of no instance to
my purpose earlier than A.D. 234, but it is a very remarkable one;
and, though it has been often quoted in the controversy, an argument
is not the weaker for frequent use.

St. Gregory Nyssen,  [Footnote 18] a native of Cappadocia in the
fourth century, relates that his namesake, Bishop of Neo-Caesarea,
surnamed Thaumaturgus, in the century preceding, shortly before he was
called to the priesthood, received in a vision a creed, which is still
extant, from the Blessed Mary at the hands of St. John.

  [Footnote 18: _Vid_. "Essay on Doctr. Dev." p. 386.]


The account runs thus: He was deeply pondering theological doctrine,
which the heretics of the day depraved. "In such thoughts," says his
namesake of Nyssa, "he was passing the night, when one appeared, as if
in human form, aged in appearance, saintly in the fashion of his
garments, and very venerable both in grace of countenance and general
mien. Amazed at the sight, he started from his bed, and asked who it
was, and why he came; but, on the other calming the perturbation of
his mind with his gentle voice, and saying he had appeared to him by
divine command on account of his doubts, in order that the truth of
the orthodox faith might be revealed to him, he took courage at the
word, and regarded him with a mixture of joy and fright. Then, on his
stretching his hand straight forward and pointing with his fingers at
something on one side, he followed with his eyes the extended hand,
and saw another appearance opposite to the former, in the shape of a
woman, but more than human. . . . When his eyes could not, bear the
apparition, he heard them conversing together on the subject of his
doubts; and thereby not only gained a true knowledge of the faith, but
learned their names, as they addressed each other by their respective
appellations. And thus he is said to have heard the person in woman's
shape bid 'John the Evangelist' disclose to the young man the mystery
of godliness; and he answered that he was ready to comply in this
matter with the wish of 'the Mother of the Lord,' and enunciated a
formulary, well turned and complete, and so vanished. He, on the other
hand, immediately committed to writing that divine teaching of his
mystagogue, and henceforth preached in the church according to that
form, and bequeathed to posterity, as an inheritance, that heavenly
teaching, by means of which his people are instructed down to this
day, being preserved from all heretical evil." He proceeds to rehearse
the creed thus given, "There is one God, father of a living Word,"
etc. Bull, after quoting it in his work upon the Nicene faith, alludes
to this history of its origin, and adds, "No one should think it
incredible that such a providence should befal a man whose whole life
was conspicuous for revelations and miracles, as all ecclesiastical
writers who have mentioned him (and who has not?) witness with one

Here she is represented as rescuing a holy soul from intellectual
error. This leads me to a further reflection. You seem, in one place
in your volume, to object to the antiphon, in which it is said of her,
"All heresies thou hast destroyed alone." Surely the truth of it is
verified in this age, as in former times, and especially by the
doctrine concerning her on which I have been dwelling. She is the
great exemplar of prayer in a generation which emphatically denies the
power of prayer _in toto_, which determines that fatal laws govern the
universe, that there cannot be any direct communication between earth
and heaven, that God cannot visit his earth, and that man cannot
influence his providence.

I cannot help hoping that your own reading of the fathers will on the
whole bear me out in the above account of their teaching concerning
the Blessed Virgin. Anglicans seem to me to overlook the strength of
the argument adducible from their works in our favor, and they open
the attack upon our mediaeval and modern writers, careless of leaving
a host of primitive opponents in their rear. I do not include you
among such Anglicans; you know what the fathers assert; but, if so,
have you not, my dear friend, been unjust to yourself in your recent
volume, and made far too much of the differences which exist between
Anglicans and us on this particular point? It is the office of an
Irenicon to smooth difficulties; I shall be pleased if I succeed in
removing some of yours. Let the public judge between us here. Had you
{76} happened in your volume to introduce your notice of our teaching
about the Blessed Virgin with a notice of the teaching of the fathers
concerning her, ordinary men would have considered that there was not
much to choose between you and us. Though you appealed ever so much to
the authority of the "undivided church," they certainly would have
said that you, who had such high notions of the Blessed Mary, were one
of the last men who had a right to accuse us of quasi-idolatry. When
they found you calling her by the titles of Mother of God, Second Eve,
and Mother of all Living, the Mother of life, the Morning Star, the
Stay of Believers, the Expression of Orthodoxy, the All-undefiled
Mother of Holiness, and the like, they would have deemed it a poor
compensation for such language that you protested against her being
called a co-redemptress or a priestess. And, if they were violent
Protestants, they would not have read you with that relish and
gratitude with which, as it is, they have perhaps accepted your
testimony against us. Not that they would have been altogether right
in their view of you;--on the contrary, I think there is a real
difference between what you protest against and what with the fathers
you hold; but unread men and men of the world form a broad practical
judgment of the things which come before them, and they would have
felt in this case that they had the same right to be shocked at you as
you have to be shocked at us;--and further, which is the point to
which I am coming, they would have said that, granting some of our
modern writers go beyond the fathers in this matter, still the line
cannot be logically drawn between the teaching of the fathers
concerning the Blessed Virgin and our own. This view of the matter
seems to me true and important; I do not think the line _can_ be
satisfactorily drawn, and to this point I shall now direct my
attention. It is impossible, I say, in a doctrine like this, to draw
the line cleanly between truth and error, right and wrong. This is
ever the case in concrete matters, which have life. Life in this world
is motion, and involves a continual process of change. Living things
grow into their perfection, into their decline, into their death. No
rule of art will suffice to stop the operation of this natural law,
whether in the material world or in the human mind. We can indeed
encounter disorders, when they occur, by external antagonisms and
remedies; but we cannot eradicate the process itself out of which they
arise. Life has the same right to decay as it has to wax strong. This
is specially the case with great ideas. You may stifle them; or you
may refuse them elbow-room; or you may torment them with your
continual meddling; or you may let them have free course and range,
and be content, instead of anticipating their excesses, to expose and
restrain those excesses after they have occurred. But you have only
this alternative; and for myself, I prefer much, wherever it is
possible, to be first generous and then just; to grant full liberty of
thought, and to call it to account when abused.

If what I have been saying be true of energetic ideas generally, much
more is it the case in matters of religion. Religion acts on the
affections; who is to hinder these, when once roused, from gathering
in their strength and running wild? They are not gifted with any
connatural principle within them which renders them self-governing and
self-adjusting. They hurry right on to their object, and often in
their case it is, more haste and worse speed. Their object engrosses
them, and they see nothing else. And of all passions love is the most
unmanageable; nay, more, I would not give much for that love which is
never extravagant, which always observes the proprieties, and can move
about in perfect good taste, under all emergencies. What mother, what
husband or wife, what youth or maiden in love, {77} but says a
thousand foolish things, in the way of endearment, which the speaker
would be sorry for strangers to hear; yet they were not on that
account unwelcome to the parties to whom they are addressed. Sometimes
by bad luck they are written down, sometimes they get into the
newspapers; and what might be even graceful, when it was fresh from
the heart, and interpreted by the voice and the countenance, presents
but a melancholy exhibition when served up cold for the public eye. So
it is with devotional feelings. Burning thoughts and words are as open
to criticism as they are beyond it. What is abstractedly extravagant,
may in religions persons be becoming and beautiful, and only fall
under blame when it is found in others who imitate them. When it is
formalized into meditations or exercises, it is as repulsive as
love-letters in a police report. Moreover, even holy minds readily
adopt and become familiar with language which they would never have
originated themselves, when it proceeds from a writer who has the same
objects of devotion as they have; and, if they find a stranger
ridicule or reprobate supplication or praise which has come to them so
recommended, they feel as keenly as if a direct insult were offered to
those to whom that homage is addressed. In the next place, what has
power to stir holy and refined souls is potent also with the
multitude; and the religion of the multitude is ever vulgar and
abnormal; it ever will be tinctured with fanaticism and superstition
while men are what they are. A people's religion is ever a corrupt
religion. If you are to have a Catholic Church, you must put up with
fish of every kind, guests good and bad, vessels of gold, vessels of
earth. You may beat religion out of men, if you will, and then their
excesses will take a different direction; but if you make use of
religion to improve them, they will make use of religion to corrupt
it. And then you will have effected that compromise of which our
countrymen report so unfavorably from abroad:--a high grand faith and
worship which compel their admiration, and puerile absurdities among
the people which excite their contempt.

Nor is it any safeguard against these excesses in a religious system
that the religion is based upon reason, and develops into a theology.
Theology both uses logic and baffles it; and thus logic acts both as a
protection and as the perversion of religion. Theology is occupied
with supernatural matters, and is ever running into mysteries which
reason can neither explain nor adjust. Its lines of thought come to an
abrupt termination, and to pursue them or to complete them is to
plunge down the abyss. But logic blunders on, forcing its way, as it
can, through thick darkness and ethereal mediums. The Arians went
ahead with logic for their directing principle, and so lost the truth;
on the other hand, St. Augustine, in his treatise on the Holy Trinity,
seems to show that, if we attempt to find and tie together the ends of
lines which run into infinity, we shall only succeed in contradicting
ourselves; that for instance it is difficult to find the logical
reason for not speaking of three Gods as well as of one, and of one
person in the Godhead as well as of three. I do not mean to say that
logic cannot be used to set right its own error, or that in the hands
of an able disputant the balance of truth may not be restored. This
was done at the Councils of Antioch and Nicaea, in the instances of
Paulus and Arius. But such a process is circuitous and elaborate; and
is conducted by means of minute subtleties which will give it the
appearance of a game of skill in the case of matters too grave and
practical to deserve a mere scholastic treatment. Accordingly, St.
Augustine simply lays it down that the statements in question are
heretical, for the former is trltheism and the latter Sabellianism.
That is, good sense and a large {78} view of truth are the correctives
of his logic. And thus we have arrived at the final resolution of the
whole matter; for good sense and a large view of truth are rare gifts;
whereas all men are bound to be devout, and most men think they can
argue and conclude.

Now let me apply what I have been saying to the teaching of the church
on the subject of the Blessed Virgin. I have to recur to a subject of
so sacred a nature, that, writing as I am for publication, I need the
apology of my object for venturing to pursue it. I say then, when once
we have mastered the idea that Mary bore, suckled, and handled the
Eternal in the form of a child, what limit is conceivable to the rush
and flood of thoughts which such a doctrine involves? What awe and
surprise must attend upon the knowledge that a creature has been
brought so close to the Divine Essence? It was the creation of a new
idea and a new sympathy, a new faith and worship, when the holy
apostles announced that God bad become incarnate; and a supreme love
and devotion to him became possible which seemed hopeless before that
revelation. But beside this, a second range of thoughts was opened on
mankind, unknown before, and unlike any other, as soon as it was
understood that that incarnate God had a mother. The second idea is
perfectly distinct from the former, the one does not interfere with
the other. He is God made low, she is a woman made high. I scarcely
like to use a familiar illustration on such a subject, but it will
serve to explain what I mean when I ask you to consider the difference
of feeling with which we read the respective histories of Maria
Theresa and the Maid of Orleans; or with which the middle and lower
classes of a nation regard a first minister of the day who has come of
an aristocratic house and one who has risen from the ranks. May God's
mercy keep me from the shadow of a thought dimming the light or
blunting the keenness of that love of him which is our sole happiness
and our sole salvation! But surely, when he became man he brought home
to us his incommunicable attributes with a distinctiveness which
precludes the possibility of our lowering him by exalting a creature.
He alone has an entrance into our soul, reads our secret thoughts,
speaks to our heart, applies to us spiritual pardon and strength. On
him we solely depend. He alone is our inward life; he not only
regenerates us, but (to allude to a higher mystery) _semper gignit;_
he is ever renewing our new birth and our heavenly sonship. In this
sense he may be called, as in nature, so in grace, our real father.
Mary is only our adopted mother, given us from the cross; her presence
is above, not on earth; her office is external, not within us. Her
name is not heard in the administration of the sacraments. Her work is
not one of ministration toward us; her power is indirect. It is her
prayers that avail, and they are effectual by the _fiat_ of him who is
our all in all. Nor does she hear us by any innate power, or any
personal gift; but by his manifestation to her of the prayers which we
make her. When Moses was on the Mount, the Almighty told him of the
idolatry of his people at the foot of it, in order that he might
intercede for them; and thus it is the Divine presence which is the
intermediating power by which we reach her and she reaches us.

Woe is me, if even by a breath I sully these ineffable truths! but
still, without prejudice to them, there is, I say, another range of
thought quite distinct from them, incommensurate with them, of which
the Blessed Virgin is the centre. If we placed our Lord in that
centre, we should only be degrading him from his throne, and making
him an Arian kind of a God; that is, no God at all. He who charges us
with marking Mary a divinity, is thereby denying the divinity of
Jesus. Such a man does not know what divinity is. Our Lord cannot {79}
pray for us, as a creature, as Mary prays; he cannot inspire those
feelings which a creature inspires. To her belongs, as being a
creature, a natural claim on our sympathy and familiarity, in that she
is nothing else than our fellow. She is our pride,--in the poet's
words, "Our tainted nature's solitary boast." We look to her without
any fear, any remorse, any consciousness that she is able to read us,
judge us, punish us. Our heart yearns toward that pure virgin, that
gentle mother, and our congratulations follow her, as she rises from
Nazareth and Ephesus, through the choirs of angels, to her throne on
high. So weak, yet so strong; so delicate, yet so glory-laden; so
modest, yet so mighty. She has sketched for us her own portrait in the
magnificat. "He hath regarded the low estate of his handmaid; for
behold, from henceforth all generations shall call me blessed. He hath
put down the mighty from their seat; and hath exalted the humble. He
hath filled the hungry with good things, and the rich he hath sent
empty away." I recollect the strange emotion which took by surprise
men and women, young and old, when, at the coronation of our present
queen, they gazed on the figure of one so like a child, so small, so
tender, so shrinking, who had been exalted to so great an inheritance
and so vast a rule, who was such a contrast in her own person to the
solemn pageant which centred in her. Could it be otherwise with the
spectators, if they had human affection? And did not the All-wise know
the human heart when he took to himself a mother? did he not
anticipate our emotion at the sight of such an exaltation? If he had
not meant her to exert that wonderful influence in his church which
she has in the event exerted, I will use a bold word, he it is who has
perverted us. If she is not to attract our homage, why did he make her
solitary in her greatness amid his vast creation? If it be idolatry in
us to let our affections respond to our faith, he would not have made
her what she is, or he would not have told us that he had so made her;
but, far from this, he has sent his prophet to announce to us, "A
virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall call his name
Emmanuel," and we have the same warrant for hailing her as God's
Mother, as we have for adoring him as God.

Christianity is eminently an objective religion. For the most part it
tells us of persons and facts in simple words, and leaves the
announcement to produce its effect on such hearts as are prepared to
receive it. This at least is its general character; and Butler
recognizes it as such in his "Analogy" when speaking of the Second and
Third Persons of the Holy Trinity: "The internal worship," he says,
"to the Son and Holy Ghost is no further matter of pure revealed
command than as the relations they stand in to us are matters of pure
revelation; for the relations being known, the obligations to such
internal worship are _obligations of reason arising out of those
relations themselves_." [Footnote 19]

  [Footnote 19: _Vid_. "Essay on Doctr. Dev.," p. 50.]

It is in this way that the revealed doctrine of the incarnation
exerted a stronger and a broader influence on Christians, as they more
and more apprehended and mastered its meaning and its bearings. It is
contained in the brief and simple declaration of St John, "The Word
was made flesh;" but it required century after century to spread it
out in its fulness and to imprint it energetically on the worship and
practice of the Catholic people as well as on their faith. Athanasius
was the first and the great teacher of it. He collected together the
inspired notices scattered through David, Isaias, St. Paul, and St.
John, and he engraved indelibly upon the imaginations of the faithful,
as had never been before, that man is God, and God is man, that in
Mary they meet, and that in this sense Mary {80} is the centre of all
things. He added nothing to what was known before, nothing to the
popular and zealous faith that her Son was God; he has left behind him
in his works no such definite passages about her as those of St.
Irenaeus or St. Epiphanius; but he brought the circumstances of the
incarnation home to men's minds by the manifold evolutions of his
analysis, and secured it for ever from perversion. Still, however,
there was much to be done; we have no proof that Athanasius himself
had any special devotion to the Blessed Virgin; but he laid the
foundations on which that devotion was to rest, and thus noiselessly
and without strife, as the first temple in the holy city, she grew up
into her inheritance, and was "established in Sion and her power was
in Jerusalem." Such was the origin of that august _cultus_ which has
been paid to the Blessed Mary for so many centuries in the East and in
the West. That in times and places it has fallen into abuse, that it
has even become a superstition, I do not care to deny; for, as I have
said above, the same process which brings to maturity carries on to
decay, and things that do not admit of abuse have very little life in
them. This of course does not excuse such excesses, or justify us in
making light of them, when they occur. I have no intention of doing so
as regards the particular instances which you bring against us, though
but a few words will suffice for what I need say about them:--before
doing so, however, I am obliged to make three or four introductory

1. I have almost anticipated my first remark already. It is this: that
the height of our offending in our devotion to the Blessed Virgin
would not look so great in your volume as it does, had you not placed
yourself on lower ground than your own feelings toward her would have
spontaneously prompted you to take. I have no doubt you had some good
reason for adopting this course, but I do not know it. What I do know
is that, for the fathers' sake, who so exalt her, you really do love
and venerate her, though you do not evidence it in your book. I am
glad, then, in this place, to insist on a fact which will lead those
among us who know you not to love you from their love of her, in spite
of what you refuse to give her; and Anglicans, on the other hand, who
do know you, to think better of us, who refuse her nothing, when they
reflect that you do not actually go against us, but merely come short
of us in your devotion to her.

2. As you revere the fathers, so you revere the Greek Church; and here
again we have a witness on our behalf of which you must be aware as
fully as we are, and of which you must really mean to give us the
benefit. In proportion as this remarkable fact is understood, it will
take off the edge of the surprise of Anglicans at the sight of our
devotions to our Lady. It must weigh with them when they discover that
we can enlist on our side in this controversy those seventy millions
(I think they so consider them) of Orientals who are separated from
our communion. Is it not a very pregnant fact that the Eastern
churches, so independent of us, so long separated from the West, so
jealous of antiquity, should even surpass us in their exaltation of
the Blessed Virgin? That they go further than we do is sometimes
denied, on the ground that the Western devotion toward her is brought
out into system, and the Eastern is not; yet this only means really
that the Latins have more mental activity, more strength of intellect,
less of routine, less of mechanical worship among them, than the
Greeks. We are able, better than they, to give an account of what we
do; and we seem to be more extreme merely because we are more
definite. But, after all, what have the Latins done so bold as that
substitution of the name of Mary for the name of Jesus at the end of
the collects and petitions in the breviary, nay, in the ritual and
liturgy? Not {81} merely in local or popular, and in semi-authorized
devotions, which are the kind of sources that supplies you with your
matter of accusation against us, but in the formal prayers of the
Greek eucharistic service, petitions are offered, not "in the name of
Jesus Christ," but "of the Theotocos." Such a phenomenon, in such a
quarter, I think, ought to make Anglicans merciful toward those
writers among ourselves who have been excessive in singing the praises
of the Deipara. To make a rule of substituting Mary with all saints
for Jesus in the public service, has more "Mariolatry" in it than to
alter the Te Deum to her honor in private devotion.

3. And thus I am brought to a third remark supplemental to your
accusation of us. Two large views, as I have said above, are opened
upon our devotional thoughts in Christianity; the one centring in the
Son of Mary, the other in the Mother of Jesus. Neither need obscure
the other; and in the Catholic Church, as a matter of fact, neither
does. I wish you had either frankly allowed this in your volume, or
proved the contrary. I wish, when you report that "a certain
proportion, it has been ascertained by those who have inquired, do
stop short in her," p. 107, that you had added your belief, that the
case was far otherwise with the great bulk of Catholics. Might I not
have expected it? May I not, without sensitiveness, be somewhat pained
at the omission? From mere Protestants, indeed, I expect nothing
better. They content themselves with saying that our devotions to our
Lady _must necessarily_ throw our Lord into the shade, and thereby
they relieve themselves of a great deal of trouble. Then they catch at
any stray fact which countenances or seems to countenance their
prejudice. Now I say plainly I never will defend or screen any one
from your just rebuke who, through false devotion to Mary, forgets
Jesus. But I should like the fact to be proved first; I cannot hastily
admit it. There is this broad fact the other way: that if we look
through Europe we shall find, on the whole, that just those nations
and countries have lost their faith in the divinity of Christ who have
given up devotion to his Mother, and that those, on the other hand,
who have been foremost in her honor, have retained their orthodoxy.
Contrast, for instance, the Calvinists with the Greeks, or France with
the north of Germany, or the Protestant and Catholic communions in
Ireland. As to England, it is scarcely doubtful what would be the
state of its Established Church if the Liturgy and Articles were not
an integral part of its establishment; and when men bring so grave a
charge against us as is implied in your volume, they cannot be
surprised if we in turn say hard things of Anglicanism.  [Footnote 20]
In the Catholic Church Mary has shown herself, not the rival, but the
minister of her Son. She has protected him, as in his infancy, so in
the whole history of the religion. There is, then, a plain historical
truth in Dr. Fisher's words which you quote to condemn: "Jesus is
obscured, because Mary is kept in the background."

  [Footnote 20: I have spoken more more on this subject in my "Essay
  on Development," p. 438. "Nor does it avail to object, that, in this
  contrast of devotional exercises, the human is sure to supplant the
  divine, from the infirmity of out nature; for, I repeat, the
  question is one of fact, whether it has done so. And next, it must
  be asked, _whether the character of Protestant devotion toward our
  Lord has been that of worship at all:_ and not rather such as we pay
  to an excellent human being? . . . Carnal minds will ever create a
  carnal worship for themselves; and to forbid them the service of the
  saints will have no tendency to teach them the worship of God.
  Moreover. . . . great and constant as is the devotion which the
  Catholic pays to St. Mary, it has a special province, and _has far
  more connection with the public services and the festive aspect of
  Christianity,_ and with certain extraordinary offices which she
  holds, _than with what is strictly personal and primary_ in
  religion." Our late cardinal, on my reception, singled out to me
  this last sentence for the expression of his especial approbation.]

This truth, exemplified in history, might also be abundantly
illustrated, did my space admit, from the lives and writings of holy
men in modern times. Two of them, St. Alfonso Liguori and the Blessed
Paul of the Cross, for all their notorious devotion {82} to the
Mother, have shown their supreme love of her divine Son in the names
which a have given to their respective congregations, viz, "of the
Redeemer," and "of the Cross and Passion." However, I will do no more
than refer to an apposite passage in the Italian translation of the
work of a French Jesuit, Fr. Nepveu, "Christian Thoughts for every Day
in the Year," which was recommended to the friend who went with me to
Rome by the same Jesuit father there with whom, as I have already
said, I stood myself in such intimate relations; I believe it is a
fair specimen of the teaching of our spiritual books:

  "The love of Jesus Christ is the most sure pledge of our future
  happiness, and the most infallible token of our predestination.
  Mercy toward the poor, devotion to the Holy Virgin, are very
  sensible tokens of predestination; nevertheless they are not
  absolutely infallible; but one cannot have a sincere and constant
  love of Jesus Christ without being predestinated. . . . The
  destroying angel which bereaved the houses of the Egyptians of their
  first-born, had respect to all the houses which were marked with the
  blood of the Lamb."

And it is also exemplified, as I verily believe, not only in formal
and distinctive confessions, not only in books intended for the
educated class, but also in the personal religion of the Catholic
populations. When strangers are so unfavorably impressed with us,
because they see images of our Lady in our churches, and crowds
flocking about her, they forget that there is a Presence within the
sacred walls, infinitely more awful, which claims and obtains from us
a worship transcendently different from any devotion we pay to her.
That devotion might indeed tend to idolatry if it were encouraged in
Protestant churches, where there is nothing higher than it to attract
the worshipper; but all the images that a Catholic church ever
contained, all the crucifixes at its altars brought together, do not
so affect its frequenters as the lamp which betokens the presence or
absence there of the blessed sacrament. Is not this so certain, so
notorious, that on some occasions it has been even brought as a charge
against us, that we are irreverent in church, when what seemed to the
objector to be irreverence was but the necessary change of feeling
which came over those who were there on their knowing that their Lord
was away?

The mass again conveys to us the same lesson of the sovereignty of the
incarnate Son; it is a return to Calvary, and Mary is scarcely named
in it. Hostile visitors enter our churches on Sunday at mid-day, the
time of the Anglican service. They are surprised to see the high mass
perhaps poorly attended, and a body of worshippers leaving the music
and the mixed multitude who may be lazily fulfilling their obligation,
for the silent or the informal devotions which are offered at an image
of the Blessed Virgin. They may be tempted, with one of your
informants, to call such a temple not a "Jesus Church," but a "Mary
Church." But, if they understood our ways, they would know that we
begin the day with our Lord and then go on to his mother. It is early
in the morning that religious persons go to mass and communion. The
high mass, on the other hand, is the festive celebration of the day,
not the special devotional service; nor is there any reason why those
who have been at a low mass already, should not at that hour proceed
to ask the intercession of the Blessed Virgin for themselves and all
that is dear to them.

Communion, again, which is given in the morning, is a solemn,
unequivocal act of faith in the incarnate God, if any can be such; and
the most gracious of admonitions, did we need one, of his sovereign
and sole right to possess us. I knew a lady who on her death-bed was
visited by an excellent Protestant friend. She, with great tenderness
for her soul's welfare, asked her whether her prayers to the {83}
Blessed Virgin did not, at that awful hour, lead to forgetfulness of
her Saviour. "Forget him!" she replied with surprise; "why, he has
just been here." She had been receiving him in communion. When, then,
my dear Pusey, you read anything extravagant in praise of our Lady, is
it not charitable to ask, even while you condemn it in itself, did the
author write nothing else? Did he write on the blessed sacrament? Had
he given up "all for Jesus?" I recollect some lines, the happiest, I
think, which that author wrote, which bring out strikingly the
reciprocity, which I am dwelling on, of the respective devotions to
Mother and Son:

  "But scornful men have coldly said
    Thy love was leading me from God;
  And yet in this I did but tread
    The very path my Savior trod.

  "They know but little of thy worth
    Who speak these heartless words to me;
  For what did Jesus love on earth
    One half so tenderly as thee?

  "Get me the grace to love thee more;
    Jesus will give, if thou wilt plead;
  And, Mother, when life's cares are o'er,
    Oh, I shall love thee then indeed.

  "Jesus, when his three hours were run,
    Bequeathed thee from the cross to me;
  And oh I how can I love thy Son,
    Sweet Mother, if I love not thee?"

4. Thus we are brought from the consideration of the sentiments
themselves, of which you complain, to the persons who wrote, and the
places where they wrote them. I wish you had been led, in this part of
your work, to that sort of careful labor which you have employed in so
masterly a way in your investigation of the circumstances of the
definition of the immaculate conception. In the latter case you have
catalogued the bishops who wrote to the Holy See, and analyzed their
answers. Had you in like manner discriminated and located the Marian
writers, as you call them, and observed the times, places, and
circumstances of their works, I think they would not, when brought
together, have had their present startling effect on the reader. As it
is, they inflict a vague alarm upon the mind, as when one hears a
noise, and does not know whence it comes and what it means. Some of
your authors, I know, are saints; all, I suppose, are spiritual
writers and holy men; but the majority are of no great celebrity, even
if they have any kind of weight. Suarez has no business among them at
all, for, when he says that no one is saved without the Blessed
Virgin, he is speaking not of devotion to her, but of her
intercession. The greatest name is St. Alfonso Liguori; but it never
surprises me to read anything unusual in the devotions of a saint.
Such men are on a level very different from our own, and we cannot
understand them. I hold this to be an important canon in the lives of
the saints, according to the words of the apostle, "The spiritual man
judges all things, and he himself is judged of no one." But we may
refrain from judging, without proceeding to imitate. I hope it is not
disrespectful to so great a servant of God to say, that I never read
his "Glories of Mary;" but here I am speaking generally of all saints,
whether I know them or not; and I say that they are beyond us, and
that we must use them as patterns, not as copies. As to his practical
directions, St. Alfonso wrote them for Neapolitans, whom he knew, and
we do not know. Other writers whom you quote, as De Salazar, are too
ruthlessly logical to be safe or pleasant guides in the delicate
matters of devotion. As to De Montford and Oswald, I never even met
with their names, till I saw them in your book; the bulk of our laity,
not to say of our clergy, perhaps know them little better than I do.
Nor did I know till I learnt it from your volume that there were two
Bernardines. St. Bernardine, of Sienna, I knew of course, and knew too
that he had a burning love for our Lord. But about the other,
"Bernardine de Bustis," I was quite at fault. I find from the
Protestant Cave that he, as well as his name-sake, made himself
conspicuous also for his zeal for the holy name, {84} which is much to
the point here. "With such devotion was he carried away," says Cave,
"for the bare name of Jesus (which, by a new device of Bernardine, of
Sienna, had lately began to receive divine honors), that he was urgent
with Innocent VIII. to assign it a day and rite in the calendar."

One thing, however, is clear about all these writers; that not one of
them is an Englishman. I have gone through your book, and do not find
one English name among the various authors to whom you refer, except,
of course, the name of that author whose lines I have been quoting,
and who, great as are his merits, cannot, for the reasons I have given
in the opening of my letter, be considered a representative of English
Catholic devotion. Whatever these writers may have said or not said,
whatever they may have said harshly, and whatever capable of fair
explanation, still they are foreigners; we are not answerable for
their particular devotions; and as to themselves, I am glad to be able
to quote the beautiful words which you use about them in your letter
to the "Weekly Register" of November 25th last. "I do not presume,"
you say, "to prescribe to Italians or Spaniards what they shall hold,
or how they shall express their pious opinions; and least of all did I
think of imputing to any of the writers whom I quoted that they took
from our Lord any of the love which they gave to his Mother." In these
last words, too, you have supplied one of the omissions in your volume
which I noticed above.

5. Now, then, we come to England itself, which after all, in the
matter of devotion, alone concerns you and me; for though doctrine is
one and the same everywhere, devotions, as I have already said, are
matters of the particular time and the particular country. I suppose
we owe it to the national good sense that English Catholics have been
protected from the extravagances which are elsewhere to be found. And
we owe it, also, to the wisdom and moderation of the Holy See, which
in giving us the pattern for our devotion, as well as the rule of our
faith, has never indulged in those curiosities of thought which are
both so attractive to undisciplined imaginations and so dangerous to
grovelling hearts. In the case of our own common people I think such a
forced style of devotion would be simply unintelligible; as to the
educated, I doubt whether it can have more than an occasional or
temporary influence. If the Catholic faith spreads in England, these
peculiarities will not spread with it. There is a healthy devotion to
the Blessed Mary, and there is an artificial; it is possible to love
her as a Mother, to honor her as a Virgin, to seek her as a Patron,
and to exalt her as a Queen, without any injury to solid piety and
Christian good sense: I cannot help calling this the English style. I
wonder whether you find anything to displease you in the "Garden of
the Soul," the "Key of Heaven," the "Vade Mecum," the "Golden Manual,"
or the "Crown of Jesus?" These are the books to which Anglicans ought
to appeal who would be fair to us in this matter. I do not observe
anything in them which goes beyond the teaching of the fathers, except
so far as devotion goes beyond doctrine.

There is one collection of devotions, beside, of the highest
authority, which has been introduced from abroad of late years. It
consists of prayers of various kinds which have been indulgenced by
the popes; and it commonly goes by the name of the "Raccolta." As that
word suggests, the language of many of the prayers is Italian, while
others are in Latin. This circumstance is unfavorable to a
translation, which, however skilful, must ever savor of the words and
idioms of the original; but, passing over this necessary disadvantage,
I consider there is hardly a clause in the good-sized volume in
question which even the sensitiveness of English Catholicism would
wish changed. Its anxious observance of doctrinal exactness is almost
a fault. {85} It seems afraid of using the words "give me," "make me,"
in its addresses to the Blessed Virgin, which are as natural to adopt
as in addressing a parent or friend. Surely we do not disparage divine
Providence when we say that we are indebted to our parents for our
life, or when we ask their blessing; we do not show any atheistical
leanings because we say that a man's recovery must be left to nature,
or that nature supplies brute animals with instincts. In like manner
it seems to me a simple purism to insist upon minute accuracy of
expression in devotional and popular writings. However, the
"Raccolta," as coming from responsible authority, for the most part
observes it. It commonly uses the phrases, "gain for us by thy
prayers," "obtain for us," "pray to Jesus for me," "speak for me,
Mary," "carry thou our prayers," "ask for us grace," "intercede for
the people of God," and the like, marking thereby with great emphasis
that she is nothing more than an advocate, and not a source of mercy.
Nor do I recollect in this book more than one or two ideas to which
you would be likely to raise an objection. The strongest of these is
found in the novena before her nativity, in which, _apropos_ of her
birth, we pray that she "would come down again and be re-born
spiritually in our souls;" but it will occur to you that St. Paul
speaks of his wish to impart to his converts, '"not only the gospel,
but his own soul;" and writing to the Corinthians, he says he has
"begotten them by the gospel," and to Philemon, that he had "begotten
Onesimus in his bonds;" whereas St. James, with greater accuracy of
expression, says "of his own will hath God begotten us with the word
of truth." Again we find the petitioner saying to the Blessed Mary,
"In thee I place all my hope;" but this is explained in another
passage, "Thou art my best hope after Jesus." Again, we read
elsewhere, "I would I had a greater love for thee, since to love thee
is a great mark of predestination;" but the prayer goes on, "Thy Son
deserves of us an immeasurable love; pray that I may have this grace
--a great love for Jesus;" and further on, "I covet no good of the
earth, but to love my God alone."

Then, again, as to the lessons which our Catholics receive, whether by
catechizing or instruction, you would find nothing in our received
manuals to which you would not assent, I am quite sure. Again, as to
preaching, a standard book was drawn up three centuries ago, to supply
matter for the purpose to the parochial clergy. You incidentally
mention, p. 153, that the comment of Cornelius à Lapide on Scripture
is "a repertorium for sermons;" but I never heard of this work being
used, nor indeed can it, because of its size. The work provided for
the purpose by the church is the "Catechism of the Council of Trent,"
and nothing extreme about our Blessed Lady is propounded there. On the
whole, I am sanguine that you will come to the conclusion that
Anglicans may safely trust themselves to us English Catholics as
regards any devotions to the Blessed Virgin which might be required of
them, over and above the rule of the Council of Trent.

6. And, now at length coming to the statements, not English, but
foreign, which offend you in works written in her honor, I will
frankly say that I read some of those which you quote with grief and
almost anger; for they seemed to me to ascribe to the Blessed Virgin a
power of "searching the reins and hearts" which is the attribute of
God alone; and I said to myself, how can we any more prove our Lord's
divinity from Scripture, if those cardinal passages which invest him
with divine prerogatives after all invest him with nothing beyond what
his Mother shares with him? And how, again, is there anything of
incommunicable greatness in his death and passion, if he who was alone
in the garden, alone upon the cross, alone in the resurrection, after
{86} all is not alone, but shared his solitary work with his Blessed
Mother--with her to whom, when he entered on his ministry, he said for
our instruction, not as grudging her her proper glory, "Woman, what
have I to do with thee?" And then again, if I hate those perverse
sayings so much, how much more must she, in proportion to her love of
him? And how do we show our love for her, by wounding her in the very
apple of her eye? This I said and say; but then, on the other hand, I
have to observe that these strange words after all are but few in
number, out of the many passages you cite; that most of them exemplify
what I said above about the difficulty of determining the exact point
where truth passes into error, and that they are allowable in one
sense or connection, and false in another. Thus to say that prayer
(and the Blessed Virgin's prayer) is omnipotent, is a harsh expression
in everyday prose; but, if it is explained to mean that there is
nothing which prayer may not obtain from God, it is nothing else than
the very promise made us in Scripture. Again, to say that Mary is the
centre of all being, sounds inflated and profane; yet after all it is
only one way, and a natural way, of saying that the Creator and the
creature met together, and became one in her womb; and as such, I have
used the expression above. Again, it is at first sight a paradox to
say that "Jesus is obscured, because Mary is kept in the background;"
yet there is a sense, as I have shown above, in which it is a simple

And so again certain statements may be true, under circumstances and
in a particular time and place, which are abstractedly false; and
hence it may be very unfair in a controversialist to interpret by an
English or a modern rule whatever may have been asserted by a foreign
or mediaeval author. To say, for instance, dogmatically, that no one
can be saved without personal devotion to the Blessed Virgin, would be
an untenable proposition: yet it might be true of this man or that, or
of this or that country at this or that date; and if the very
statement has ever been made by any writer of consideration (and this
has to be ascertained), then perhaps it was made precisely under these
exceptional circumstances. If an Italian preacher made it, I should
feel no disposition to doubt him, at least as regards Italian youths
and Italian maidens.

Then I think you have not always made your quotations with that
consideration and kindness which is your rule. At p. 106 you say, "It
is commonly said, that if any Roman Catholic acknowledges that 'it is
good and useful to pray to the saints,' he is not bound himself to do
so. Were the above teaching true, it would be cruelty to say so;
because, according to it, he would be forfeiting what is morally
necessary to his salvation." But now, as to the fact, where is it said
that to pray to our Lady and the saints is necessary to salvation? The
proposition of St. Alfonso is, that "God gives no grace except through
Mary;" that is, through her intercession. But intercession is one
thing, devotion is another. And Suarez says, "It is the universal
sentiment that the intercession of Mary is not only useful, but also
in a certain manner necessary;" but still it is the question of her
intercession, not of our invocation of her, not of devotion to her. If
it were so, no Protestant could be saved; if it were so, there would
be grave reasons for doubting of the salvation of St. Chrysostom or
St. Athanasius, or of the primitive martyrs; nay, I should like to
know whether St. Augustine, in all his voluminous writings, invokes
her once. Our Lord died for those heathens who did not know him; and
his mother intercedes for those Christians who do not know her; and
she intercedes according to his will, and, when he wills to save a
particular soul, she at once prays for it. {87} I say, he wills indeed
according to her prayer, but then she prays according, to his will.
Though then it is natural and prudent for those to have recourse to
her who, from the church's teaching, know her power, yet it cannot be
said that devotion to her is a _sine quâ non_ of salvation. Some
indeed of the authors whom you quote go further; they do speak of
devotion; but even then they do not enunciate the general proposition
which I have been disallowing. For instance, they say, "It is morally
impossible for those to be saved who _neglect_ the devotion to the
Blessed Virgin;" but a simple omission is one thing, and neglect
another. "It is impossible for any to be saved who _turns away_ from
her;" yes; but to "turn away" is to offer some positive disrespect or
insult toward her, and that with sufficient knowledge; and I certainly
think it would be a very grave act if, in a Catholic country (and of
such the writers were speaking, for they knew of no other), with
ave-marias sounding in the air, and images of the Madonna at every
street and road, a Catholic broke off or gave up a practice that was
universal, and in which he was brought up, and deliberately put her
name out of his thoughts.

7. Though, then, common sense may determine for us that the line of
prudence and propriety has been certainly passed in the instance of
certain statements about the Blessed Virgin, it is often not easy to
prove the point logically; and in such cases authority, if it attempt
to act, would be in the position which so often happens in our courts
of law, when the commission of an offence is morally certain, but the
government prosecutor cannot find legal evidence sufficient to insure
conviction. I am not denying the right of sacred congregations, at
their will, to act peremptorily, and without assigning reasons for the
judgment they pass upon writers; but, when they have found it
inexpedient to take this severe course, perhaps it may happen from the
circumstances of the case that there is no other that they can take,
even if they would. It is wiser then for the most part to leave these
excesses to the gradual operation of public opinion--that is, to the
opinion of educated and sober Catholics; and this seems to me the
healthiest way of putting them down. Yet in matter of fact I believe
the Holy See has interfered from time to time, when devotion seemed
running into superstition; and not so long ago. I recollect hearing in
Gregory the XVI.'s time of books about the Blessed Virgin which had
been suppressed by authority; and in particular of a representation of
the immaculate conception which he had forbidden, and of measures
taken against the shocking notion that the Blessed Mary is present in
the holy eucharist in the sense in which our Lord is present; but I
have no means of verifying the information I received.

Nor have I time, any more than you have had, to ascertain how far
great theologians have made protests against those various
extravagances of which you so rightly complain. Passages, however,
from three well-known Jesuit fathers have opportunely come in my way,
and in one of them is introduced, in confirmation, the name of the
great Gerson. They are Canisius, Petavius, and Raynaudus; and as they
speak very appositely, and you do not seem to know them, I will here
make some extracts from them:

(1.) Canisius:

  "We confess that in the _cultus_ of Mary it has been and is possible
  for corruptions to creep in; and we have a more than ordinary desire
  that the pastors of the Church should be carefully vigilant here,
  and give no place to Satan, whose characteristic office it has ever
  been, while men sleep, to sow the cockle amid the Lord's wheat. . .
  . For this purpose it is his wont gladly to avail himself of the aid
  of heretics, fanatics, and false Catholics, as may be seen in the
  instance of this _Marianus cultus_. This _cultus_, heretics,
  suborned by Satan, attack with hostility Thus, too, certain mad
  heads are so {88} demented by Satan, as to embrace superstitions and
  idolatries instead of the true _cultus_ and neglect altogether the
  due measures whether in respect to God or to Mary. Such indeed were
  the Collyridians of old. . . . Such that German herdsman a hundred
  years ago, who gave out publicly that he was a new prophet and had
  had a vision of the Deipara, and told the people in her name to pay
  no more tributes and taxes to princes. .... Moreover, how many
  Catholics does one see who, by great and shocking negligence, have
  neither care nor regard for her _cultus_, but, given to profane and
  secular objects, scarce once a year raise their earthly minds to
  sing her praises or to venerate her!"--_De Mariâ Deiparâ_, p. 518.

(2.) Father Petau says, when discussing the teaching of the fathers
about the Blessed Virgin (de Incarn. xiv. 8):

  "I will venture to give this advice to all who would be devout and
  panegyrical toward the Holy Virgin, viz., not to exceed in their
  piety and devotion to her, but to be content with true and solid
  praises, and to cast aside what is otherwise. The latter kind of
  idolatry, lurking, as St. Augustine says, nay implanted, in human
  hearts, is greatly abhorrent from theology, that is from the gravity
  of heavenly wisdom, which never thinks or asserts anything but what
  is measured by certain and accurate rules. What that rule should be,
  and what caution is to be used in our present subject, I will not
  determine of myself, but according to the mind of a most weighty and
  most learned theologian, John Gerson, who in one of his epistles
  proposes certain canons, which he calls truths, by means of which
  are to be measured the assertions of theologians concerning the
  incarnation. . . By these truly golden precepts Gerson brings within
  bounds the immoderate license of praising the Blessed Virgin, and
  restrains it within the measure of sober and healthy piety. And from
  these it is evident that that sort of reasoning is frivolous and
  nugatory in which so many indulge, in order to assign any sort of
  grace they please, however unusual, to the Blessed Virgin. For they
  argue thus: 'Whatever the Son of God could bestow for the glory of
  his mother, that it became him in fact to furnish;' or again,
  'Whatever honors or ornaments he has poured out on other saints,
  those all together hath he heaped upon his mother;' whence they draw
  their chain of reasoning to their desired conclusion; a mode of
  argumentation which Gerson treats with contempt as captious and

He adds, what of course we all should say, that, in thus speaking, he
has no intention to curtail the liberty of pious persons in such
meditations and conjectures, on the mysteries of faith, sacred
histories, and the Scripture text, as are of the nature of comments,
supplements, and the like.

(3.) Raynaud is an author full of devotion, if any one is so, to the
Blessed Virgin; yet, in the work which he has composed in her honor
("Diptycha Mariana"), he says more than I can quote here to the same
purpose as Petau. I abridge some portions of his text:

  "Let this be taken for granted, that no praises of ours can come up
  to the praises due to the Virgin Mother. But we must not make up for
  our inability to reach her true praise by a supply of lying
  embellishment and false honors. For there are some whose affection
  for religious objects is so imprudent and lawless, that they
  transgress the due limits even toward the saints. This Origen has
  excellently observed upon in the case of the Baptist, for very many,
  instead of observing the measure of charity, consider whether he
  might not be the Christ"--p. 9. ". . . St. Anselm, the first, or
  one of the first, champions of the public celebration of the Blessed
  Virgin's immaculate conception, says (de Excell. Virg.) that the
  church considers it indecent, that anything that admits of doubt
  should be said in her praise, when the things which are certainly
  true of her supply such large materials for laudation. It is right
  so to interpret St. Epiphanius also, when he says that human tongues
  should not pronounce anything lightly of the Deipara; and who is
  more justly to be charged with speaking lightly of the most holy
  Mother of God, than he who, as if what is certain and evident did
  not suffice for her full investiture, is wiser than the aged, and
  obtrudes on us the toadstools of his own mind, and devotions unheard
  of by those holy fathers who loved her best? Plainly as St. Anselm
  says that she is the Mother of God, this by itself exceeds every
  elevation which can be named or imagined, short of God. About so
  sublime a majesty we should not speak hastily from prurience of wit,
  or flimsy pretext of promoting piety; but with great maturity of
  thought; and, whenever the maxims of the church and the oracles of
  {89} faith do not suffice, then not without the suffrages of the
  doctors. . . . Those who are subject to this prurience of
  innovation, do not perceive how broad is the difference between
  subjects of human science and heavenly things. All novelty
  concerning the objects of our faith is to be put far away; except so
  far as by diligent investigation of God's word, written and
  unwritten, and a well founded inference from what is thence to be
  elicited, something is brought to light which, though already indeed
  there, had not hitherto been recognized. The innovations which we
  condemn are those which rest neither on the written nor unwritten
  word, nor on conclusions from it, nor on the judgment of ancient
  sages, nor sufficient basis of reason, but on the sole color and
  pretext of doing more honor to the Deipara."--p. 10.

In another portion of the same work, he speaks in particular of one of
those imaginations to which you especially refer, and for which,
without strict necessity (as it seems to me), you allege the authority
of à Lapide:

  "Nor is that honor of the Deipara to be offered, viz., that the
  elements of the body of Christ, which the Blessed Virgin supplied to
  it, remain perpetually unaltered in Christ, and thereby are found
  also in the eucharist. . . . This solicitude for the Virgin's glory
  must, I consider, be discarded; since, if rightly considered, it
  involves an injury toward Christ, and such honors the Virgin loveth
  not. And first, dismissing philosophical bagatelles about the
  animation of blood, milk, etc., who can endure the proposition that
  a good portion of the substance of Christ in the eucharist should be
  worshipped with a _cultus_ less than _latria_? viz., by the inferior
  _cultus_ of _hyperdulia?_ The preferable class of theologians
  contend that not even the humanity of Christ is to be materially
  abstracted from the Word of God, and worshipped by itself; how then
  shall we introduce a _cultus_ of the Deipara in Christ, which is
  inferior to the _cultus_ proper to him? How is this other than
  casting down of the substance of Christ from his royal throne, and a
  degradation of it to some inferior sitting-place? Is is nothing to
  the purpose to refer to such fathers as say that the flesh of Christ
  is the flesh of Mary, for they speak of its origin. What will
  hinder, if this doctrine be admitted, our also admitting that there
  is something in Christ which is detestable? for, as the first
  elements of a body which were communicated by the Virgin to Christ
  have (as these authors say) remained perpetually in Christ, so the
  same _materia_, at least in part, which belonged originally to the
  ancestors of Christ, came down to the Virgin from her father,
  unchanged, and taken from her grandfather, and so on. And thus,
  since it is not unlikely that some of these ancestors were
  reprobate, there would now be something actually in Christ which had
  belonged to a reprobate and worthy of detestation."--p. 237.

8. After such explanations, and with such authorities, to clear my
path, I put away from me, as you would wish, without any hesitation,
as matters in which my heart and reason have no part (when taken in
their literal and absolute sense, as any Protestant would naturally
take them, and as the writers doubtless did not use them), such
sentences, and phrases, as these: that the mercy of Mary is infinite;
that God has resigned into her hands his omnipotence; that
(unconditionally) it is safer to seek her than her Son; that the
Blessed Virgin is superior to God; that he is (simply) subject to her
command; that our Lord is now of the same disposition as his Father
toward sinners, viz., a disposition to reject them, while Mary takes
his place as an advocate with Father and Son; that the saints are more
ready to intercede with Jesus than Jesus with the Father; that Mary is
the only refuge of those with whom God is angry; that Mary alone can
obtain a Protestant's conversion; that it would have sufficed for the
salvation of men if our Lord had died not to obey his Father, but to
defer to the decree of his mother; that she rivals our Lord in being
God's daughter, not by adoption, but by a kind of nature; that Christ
fulfilled the office of Saviour by imitating her virtues; that, as the
incarnate God bore the image of his Father, so he bore the image of
his mother; that redemption derived from Christ indeed its
sufficiency, but from Mary its beauty and loveliness; that us we are
clothed with the merits of Christ, so we are clothed with {90} the
merits of Mary; that, as he is priest, in like manner is she
priestess; that his body and blood in the eucharist are truly hers and
appertain to her; that as he is present and received therein, so is
she present and received therein; that priests are ministers, as of
Christ, so of Mary; that elect souls are born of God and Mary; that
the Holy Ghost brings into fruitfulness his action by her, producing
in her and by her Jesus Christ in his members; that the kingdom of God
in our souls, as our Lord speaks, is really the kingdom of Mary in the
soul--and she and the Holy Ghost produce in the soul extraordinary
things--and when the Holy Ghost finds Mary in a soul he flies there.

Sentiments such as these I never knew of till I read your book, nor,
as I think, do the vast minority of English Catholics know them. They
seem to me like a bad dream. I could not have conceived them to be
said. I know not to what authority to go for them, to Scripture, or to
the fathers, or to the decrees of councils, or to the consent of
schools, or to the tradition of the faithful, or to the Holy See, or
to reason. They defy all the _loci theologici_. There is nothing of
them in the Missal, in the Roman Catechism, in the Roman '"Raccolta,"
in the "Imitation of Christ," in Gother, Challoner, Milner, or
Wiseman, as far as I am aware. They do but scare and confuse me. I
should not be holier, more spiritual, more sure of perseverance, if I
twisted my moral being into the reception of them; I should but be
guilty of fulsome, frigid flattery toward the most upright and noble
of God's creatures if I professed them, and of stupid flattery too;
for it would be like the compliment of painting up a young and
beautiful princess with the brow of a Plato and the muscle of an
Achilles. And I should expect her to tell one of her people in waiting
to turn me off her service without warning. Whether thus to feel be
the _scandalum parvulorum_ in my case, or the _scandalum
Pharisaeorum_, I leave others to decide; but I will say plainly that I
had rather believe (which is impossible) that there is no God at all,
than that Mary is greater than God. I will have nothing to do with
statements which can only be explained by being explained away. I do
not, however, speak of these statements as they are found in their
authors, for I know nothing of the originals, and cannot believe that
they have meant what you say; but I take them as they lie in your
pages. Were any of them the sayings of saints in ecstasy, I should
know they had a good meaning; still, I should not repeat them myself;
but I am looking at them not as spoken by the tongues of angels, but
according to that literal sense which they bear in the mouths of
English men and English women. And, as spoken by man to man, in
England, in the nineteenth century, I consider them calculated to
prejudice inquirers, to frighten the unlearned, to unsettle
consciences, to provoke blasphemy, and to work the loss of souls.

9. And now, after having said so much as this, bear with me, my dear
friend, if I end with an expostulation. Have you not been touching us
on a very tender point in a very rude way? Is not the effect of what
you have said to expose her to scorn and obloquy who is dearer to us
than any other creature? Have you even hinted that our love for her is
anything else than an abuse? Have you thrown her one kind word
yourself all through your book? I trust so, but I have not lighted
upon one. And yet I know you love her well. Can you wonder, then--can
I complain much, much as I grieve--that men should utterly misconceive
of you, and are blind to the fact that you have put the whole argument
between you and us on a new footing; and that, whereas it was said
twenty-five years ago in the "British Critic," "Till Rome ceases to be
what practically she is, union is _impossible_ between her and
England," you declare, on the contrary, "It is _possible_ as soon as
Italy and England, {91} haying the same faith and the same centre of
unity, are allowed to hold severally their own theological opinions?"
They have not done you justice here because, in truth, the honor of
our Lady is dearer to them than the conversion of England.

Take a parallel case, and consider how you would decide it yourself.
Supposing an opponent of a doctrine for which you so earnestly
contend, the eternity of punishment, instead of meeting you with
direct arguments against it, heaped together a number of extravagant
descriptions of the place, mode, and circumstances of its infliction,
quoted Tertullian as a witness for the primitive fathers, and the
Covenanters and Ranters for these last centuries; brought passages
from the "Inferno" of Dante, and from the sermons of Whitfield; nay,
supposing he confined himself to the chapters on the subject in Jeremy
Taylor's work on "The State of Man," would you think this a fair and
becoming method of reasoning? and if he avowed that he should ever
consider the Anglican Church committed to all these accessories of the
doctrine till its authorities formally denounced Taylor and Whitfield,
and a hundred others, would you think this an equitable determination,
or the procedure of a theologian?

So far concerning the Blessed Virgin, the chief but not the only
subject of your volume. And now, when I could wish to proceed, she
seems to stop me, for the Feast of her Immaculate Conception is upon
us; and close upon its octave, which is kept with special solemnities
in the churches of this town, come the great antiphons, the heralds of
Christmas. That joyful season, joyful for all of us, while it centres
in him who then came on earth, also brings before us in peculiar
prominence that Virgin Mother who bore and nursed him. Here she is not
in the background, as at Eastertide, but she brings him to us in her
arms. Two great festivals, dedicated to her honor, to-morrow's and the
Purification, mark out and keep the ground, and, like the towers of
David, open the way to and fro for the high holiday season of the
Prince of Peace. And all along it her image is upon it, such as we see
it in the typical representation of the Catacombs. May the sacred
influences of this time bring us all together in unity! May it destroy
all bitterness on your side and ours! May it quench all jealous, sour,
proud, fierce antagonism on our side; and dissipate all captious,
carping, fastidious refinements of reasoning on yours! May that bright
and gentle lady, the Blessed Virgin Mary, overcome you with her
sweetness, and revenge herself on her foes by interceding effectually
for their conversion!

I am, yours, most affectionately,
John H. Newman.

_In fest. S. Ambrosii_, 1865.


From The Sixpenny Magazine.



"That boy needs more attention," said Mr. Green, referring to his
eldest son, a lad whose wayward temper and inclination to vice
demanded a steady, consistent, wise, and ever-present exercise of
parental watchfulness and authority.

"You may well say that," returned the mother of the boy, for to her
the remark had been made. "He is getting entirely beyond me."

"If I only had the time to look after him?" Mr. Green sighed as he
uttered these words.

"I think you ought to take more time for a purpose like this," said
Mrs. Green.

"More time!" Mr. Green spoke with marked impatience. "What time have I
to attend to him, Margaret? Am I not entirely absorbed in business?
Even now I should be at the counting-house, and am only kept away by
your late breakfast."

Just then the breakfast bell rang, and Mr. and Mrs. Green, accompanied
by their children, repaired to the dining-room. John, the boy about
whom the parents had been talking, was among the number. As they took
their places at the table he exhibited certain disorderly movements,
and a disposition to annoy his younger brothers and sisters. But these
were checked, instantly, by his father, of whom John stood in some

Before the children had finished eating, Mr. Green laid his knife and
fork side by side on his plate, pushed his chair back, and was in the
act of rising, when his wife said:

"Don't go yet. Just wait until John is through with his breakfast. He
acts dreadfully the moment your back is turned."

Mr. Green turned a quick, lowering glance upon the boy, whose eyes
shrank beneath his angry glance, saying as ho did so:

"I haven't time to stay a moment longer; I ought to have been at my
business an hour ago, But see here, my lad," addressing himself to
John, "there has been enough of this work. Not a day passes that I am
not worried with complaints about you. Now, mark me! I shall inquire
particularly as to your conduct when I come home at dinner-time; and,
if you have given your mother any trouble, or acted in any way
improperly, I will take you severely to account. It's outrageous that
the whole family should be kept in constant trouble by you. Now, be on
your guard!"

A moment or two Mr. Green stood frowning upon the boy, and then

Scarcely had the sound of the closing street-door, which marked the
fact of Mr. Green's departure, ceased to echo through the house, ere
John began to act as was his custom when his father was out of the
way. His mother's remonstrances were of no avail; and, when she
finally compelled him to leave the table, he obeyed with a most
provoking and insolent manner.

All this would have been prevented if Mr. Green had taken from
business just ten minutes, and conscientiously devoted that time to
{93} the government of his wayward boy and the protection of the
family from his annoyances.

On arriving at his counting-house, Mr. Green found two or three
persons waiting, and but a single clerk in attendance. He had felt
some doubts as to the correctness of his conduct in leaving home so
abruptly, under the circumstances; but the presence of the customers
satisfied him that he had done right. Business, in his mind, was
paramount to everything else; and his highest duty to his family he
felt to be discharged when he was devoting himself most assiduously to
the work of procuring for them the means of external comfort, ease,
and luxury. Worldly well-doing was a cardinal virtue in his eyes.

Mr. Green was the gainer, perhaps, of two shillings in the way of
profit on sales, by being at his counting-house ten minutes earlier
than would have been the case had he remained with his family until
the completion of their morning meal. What was lost to his boy by the
opportunity thus afforded for an indulgence in a perverse and
disobedient temper it is hard to say. Something was, undoubtedly,
lost--something, the valuation of which, in money, it would be
difficult to make.

Mrs. Green did not complain of John's conduct to his father at
dinner-time. She was so often forced to complain that she avoided the
task whenever she felt justified in doing so; and that was, perhaps,
far too often. Mr. Green asked no questions; for he knew, by
experience, to what results such questions would lead, and he was in
no mood for unpleasant intelligence. So John escaped, as he had
escaped hundreds of times before, and felt encouraged to indulge his
bad propensities at will, to his own injury and the annoyance of all
around him.

If Mr. Green had no time in the morning or through the day to attend
to his children, the evening, one might think, would afford
opportunity for conference with them, supervision of their studies,
and an earnest inquiry into their conduct and moral and intellectual
progress. But such was not the case. Mr. Green was too much wearied
with the occupation of the day to bear the annoyance of the children;
or his thoughts were too busy with business matters, or schemes of
profit, to attend to the thousand and one questions they were ready to
pour in upon him from all sides; or he had a political club to attend,
an engagement with some merchant for the discussion of a matter
connected with trade, or felt obliged to be present at the meeting of
some society of which he was a member. So he either left home
immediately after tea, or the children were sent to bed in order that
he might have a quiet evening for rest, business reflection, or the
enjoyment of a new book.

Mr. Green had so much to do and so much to think about that he had no
time to attend to his children; and this neglect was daily leaving
upon them ineffaceable impressions that would inevitably mar the
happiness of their after lives. This was particularly the case with
John. Better off in the world was Mr. Green becoming every day--better
off as it regarded money; but poorer in another sense--poorer in
respect to home affections and home treasures. His children were not
growing up to love him intensely, to confide in him implicitly, and to
respect him as their father and friend. He had no time to attend to
them, and rather pushed them away than drew them toward him with the
strong cords of affection. To his wife he left their government, and
she was not equal to the task.

"I don't believe," said Mrs. Green, one day, "that John is learning
much at the school where he goes. I think you ought to see after him a
little. He never studies a lesson at home."

"Mr. Elden has the reputation of being one of our best teachers. His
school stands high," replied Mr. Green. {94} "That may happen," said
Mrs. Green. "Still, I really think you ought to know, for yourself,
how John is getting along. Of one thing I am certain, he does not
improve in good manners nor good temper in the least. And he is never
in the house between school-hours, except to get his meals. I wish you
would require him to be at your counting-house during the afternoons.
School is dismissed at four o'clock, and he ranges the streets with
other boys, and goes where he pleases from that time until night.

"That's very bad,"--Mr. Green spoke in a concerned voice,--"very bad.
And it must be broken up. But as to having him with me, that is out of
the question. He would be into everything, and keep me in hot water
all the while. He'd like to come well enough, I do not doubt; but I
can't have him there."

"Couldn't you set him to do something?"

"I might. But I haven't time to attend to him, Margaret. Business is
business, and cannot be interrupted."

Mrs. Green sighed, and then remarked:

"I wish you would call on Mr. Elden and have a talk with him about

"I will, if you think it best."

"Do so, by all means. And beside, I would give more time to John in
the evenings. If, for instance, you devoted an evening to him once a
week, it would enable you to understand how he is progressing, and
give you a control over him not now possessed."

"You are right in this, no doubt, Margaret."

But reform went not beyond this acknowledgment. Mr. Green could never
find time to see John's teacher, nor feel himself sufficiently at
leisure, or in the right mood of mind, to devote to the boy even a
single evening.

And thus it went on from day to day, from month to month, and from
year to year, until, finally, John was sent home from school by Mr.
Elden with a note to his father, in which idleness, disorderly
conduct, and vicious habits were charged upon him in the broadest

The unhappy Mr. Green called immediately upon the teacher, who gave
him a more particular account of his son's bad conduct, and concluded
by saying that he was unwilling to receive him back into his school.

Strange as it may seem, it was four months before Mr. Green "found
time" to see about another school, and to get John entered therein;
during which long period the boy had full liberty to go pretty much
where he pleased, and to associate with whom he liked. It is hardly to
be supposed that he grew any better for this.

By the time John was seventeen years of age, Mr. Green's business had
become greatly enlarged, and his mind more absorbed therein. With him
gain was the primary thing; and, as a consequence, his family held a
secondary place in his thoughts. If money were needed, he was ever
ready to supply the demand; that done, he felt that his duty to them
was, mainly, discharged. To the mother of his children he left the
work of their wise direction in the paths of life--their government
and education; but she was inadequate to the task imposed.

From the second school at which John was entered he was dismissed
within three months, for bad conduct. He was then sent to school in a
distant city, where, removed from all parental restraint and
admonition, he made viler associates than any he had hitherto known,
and took thus a lower step in vice. He was just seventeen, when a
letter from the principal of this school conveyed to Mr. Green such
unhappy intelligence of his son that he immediately resolved, as a
last resort, to send him to sea, before the mast--and this was done,
spite of all the mother's tearful remonstrances, and the boy's threats
that he would {95} escape from the vessel on the very first

And yet, for all this sad result of parental neglect, Mr. Green
devoted no more time nor care to his children. Business absorbed the
whole man. He was a merchant, both body and soul. His responsibilities
were not felt as extending beyond his counting-house, further than to
provide for the worldly well-being of his family. Is it any cause of
wonder that, with his views and practice, it should not turn out well
with his children; or, at least, with some of them?

At the end of a year John came home from sea, a rough, cigar-smoking,
dram-drinking, overgrown boy of eighteen, with all his sensual desires
and animal passions more active than when he went away, while his
intellectual faculties and moral feelings were in a worse condition
than at his separation from home. Grief at the change oppressed the
hearts of his parents; but their grief was unavailing. Various efforts
were made to get him into some business, but he remained only a short
time in any of the places where his father had him introduced.
Finally, he was sent to sea again. But he never returned to his
friends. In a drunken street-brawl, that occurred while on shore at
Valparaiso, he was stabbed by a Spaniard, and died shortly afterward.

On the very day this tragic event took place, Mr. Green was rejoicing
over a successful speculation, from which he had come out the gainer
by two thousand pounds. In the pleasure this circumstance occasioned,
all thoughts of the absent one, ruined by his neglect, were swallowed

Several months elapsed. Mr. Green had returned home, well satisfied
with his day's business. In his pocket was the afternoon paper, which,
after the younger children were in bed, and the older ones out of his
way, he sat down to read. His eyes turned to the foreign intelligence,
and almost the first sentence he read was the intelligence of his
son's death. The paper dropped from his hands, while he uttered an
expression of surprise and grief that caused the cheeks of his wife,
who was in the room, to turn deadly pale. She had not power to ask the
cause of her husband's sudden exclamation; but her heart, that ever
yearned toward her absent boy, instinctively divined the truth.

"John is dead!" said Mr. Green, at length, speaking in a tremulous
tone of voice.

There was from the mother no wild burst of anguish. The boy had been
dying to her daily for years, and she had suffered for him worse than
the pangs of death. Burying her face in her hands, she wept silently,
yet hopelessly.

"If we were only blameless of the poor child's death!" said Mrs.
Green, lifting her tearful eyes, after the lapse of nearly ten
minutes, and speaking in a sad, self-rebuking tone of voice.

When those with whom we are in close relationship die, how quickly is
that page in memory's book turned on which lies the record of
unkindness or neglect! Already had this page been turned for Mr.
Green, and conscience was sweeping therefrom the dust that well-nigh
obscured the handwriting. He inwardly trembled as he read the
condemning sentences that charged him with his son's ruin.

"If we were only blameless of the poor child's death!"

How these words of the grieving mother smote upon his heart. He did
not respond to them. How could he do so at that moment?

"Where is Edward?" he inquired, at length.

"I don't know," sobbed the mother. "He is out somewhere almost every
evening. Oh! I wish you would look to him a little more closely. He is
past my control."

"I must do so," returned Mr. Green, speaking from a strong conviction
of the necessity of doing as his wife suggested; "if I only had a
little more time----"


He checked himself. It was the old excuse--the rock upon which all his
best hopes for his first-born had been fearfully wrecked. His lips
closed, his head was bowed, and, in the bitterness of unavailing
sorrow, he mused on the past, while every moment the conviction of
wrong toward his child, now irreparable, grew stronger and stronger.

After that, Mr. Green made an effort to exercise more control over his
children; but he had left the reins loose so long that his tighter
grasp produced restiveness and rebellion. He persevered, however; and,
though Edward followed too closely the footsteps of John, yet the
younger children were brought under salutary restraints. The old
excuse--want of time--was frequently used by Mr. Green to justify
neglect of parental duties; but a recurrence of his thoughts to the
sad ruin of his eldest boy had, in most cases, the right effect; and
in the end he ceased to give utterance to the words--"I haven't time."
However, frequently he fell into neglect, from believing that business
demanded his undivided attention.




  There's a music aloft in the air
  As if devils were singing a song;
  There's a shriek like the shriek of despair.
  And a crash which the echoes prolong.

  There's a voice like the voice of the gale,
  When it strikes a tall ship on the sea;
  There's a rift like the rent of her sail.
  As she helplessly drifts to the lee.

  There's a rush like the rushing of fiends.
  Compelled by an horrible spell;
  There's a flame like the flaming of brands,
  Snatched in rage from the furnace of hell.

  There's a wreath like the foam on the wave,
  There's a silence unbroke by a breath;
  There's a thud like the clod in a grave,
  There are writhings, and moanings, and death!



From The Lamp.




The chief was well aware of the reputation which the priest had
obtained through the parish for medical skill, and was himself
convinced of how well he deserved it. Indeed, had the alternative
rested in any case between Father Farrell and the dispensary doctor,
there was not a parishioner who would not have preferred his pastor's
medical as well as spiritual aid.

The chief, instead of ordering off the dispensary doctor to see young
Lennon upon a rumor that he was worse, went quietly to Father Farrell,
who must know the truth, and be able to give good advice as to what
steps, if any, were necessary to adopt.

The matter turned out to be another black-crow story. Father Farrell
had also heard it in its exaggerated form, and had not lost a moment
in proceeding to the spot. Young Lennon had gone out to assist his
father in planting some potatoes--so far the rumor was correct. But he
had been premature in his own opinion of his convalescence. The very
first stoop he made he felt quite giddy; and although he did not fall
forward on his face, he was obliged to lean upon his father for
support for a few moments. This little experiment served to keep him
quiet for a while longer; but Father Farrell assured the chief that
matters were no worse than they had been--he might make his mind easy;
there was no injury beyond the flesh, which, of course, had become
much sorer, and must do so for a few days still.

The chief, however, suggested the prudence, if not the necessity, of
having a medical man to see him. "Not," said he, "but that I have as
much, if not more, confidence in your own skill and experience than in
any which is available in this wild district."

"That is rather an equivocal compliment; but perhaps it is fully as
much as I deserve," said the priest.

"Well, I don't mean it as such, Father Farrell; but you know a great
responsibility would rest upon me, should anything unfortunate occur."

"I see. It would not do in a court of justice to put a priest upon the
table in a medical position. I certainly could not produce a diploma.
You are quite right, my dear sir; you would be held responsible.
However, I can go the length to assure you that at present there is
not the slightest necessity for medical aid, particularly--between you
and me--under existing circumstances, which I understand very well.
The matter was a mere accident I am fully persuaded. Bat, supposing
for a moment that it was not, I know young Lennon since he was a child
running to school in his bare feet, with 'his turf and his
read-a-ma-daisy;' and I am convinced that no power on earth would
induce him to prosecute Tom Murdock."

"Why? are they such friends?"

"No; quite the reverse, and that is the very reason. But ask me no
more about it. Another objection I see to calling in the dispensary
doctor is this--that I am aware of an ill-feeling existing between him
and Tom {98} Murdock about a prize at a coursing-match, which the
doctor thinks was unfairly given to Tom Murdock through his influence
with the judge; and the doctor was heard to say in reference to it,
'that it was a long lane that had no turning.' Now here would be an
open for the doctor to put a turn on the lane, however straight it
might be in fact. He would not certify that Lennon's life was out of
danger--you would have to arrest Tom Murdock; young Lennon would go
distracted, and the two parishes would be in an uproar. Ill-will would
be engendered between all the young men of opposite sides, and all for
nothing; for young Lennon will be as well as ever he was in ten days.
These are my views of the case. But if your official responsibility
obliges you to differ with me, I am ready to hear you further."

This was a great oration of Father Farrell's, but it was both sensible
and true from beginning to end, and it convinced the chief of the
propriety of "resting on his oars" for a few days longer at all

The result proved at least that there was more luck in leisure than
danger in delay. Emon-a-knock grew better; but it was by degrees. He
could not yet venture to attend to his usual daily labor, by which he
so materially contributed to the support of the family. The weather
was fine, and "the spring business" was going forward rapidly in all
directions. Poor Emon fretted that he was not able to add his
accustomed portion to the weekly earnings; but Father Farrell watched
him too closely. Once or twice he stole out to do some of their own
work, and let his father earn some of the high wages which was just
then to be had; but his own good sense told him that he was still
unable for the effort. At the end of an hour's work the old idea
haunted him that an attempt had been made to murder him, and if he had
been made a merchant-prince for it, he could not recollect how it had
happened. The only thing he did recollect distinctly about it was,
that Shanvilla won the day, and that he had been sent home in Winny
Cavana's cart and jennet--_that_, if he were in a raging fever, he
could never forget.

But it was a sad loss to the family, Emon's incapacity to work. He had
been now three weeks ill; and although the wound in his head was in a
fair way of being healed, there was still a confused idea in his mind
about the whole affair which he could not get rid of. At times, as he
endeavored to review the matter as it had actually occurred, he could
not persuade himself but that it was really an accident; and while
under this impression he felt quite well, and able for his ordinary
labor. But there were moments when a sudden thought would cross his
mind that it had been a secret and premeditated attempt upon his life;
and then it was that the confusion ensued which rendered him unable to
recollect. What if it were really this attempt--supposing that
positive proof could be adduced of the fact--what then? Would he
prosecute Tom Murdock? Oh, no. Father Farrell was right; but he had
not formed his opinion upon the true foundation. Emon-a-knock would
not prosecute, even if he could do so to conviction. He would deal
with Tom Murdock himself if ever a fair opportunity should arise; and
if not, he might yet be in a position more thoroughly to despise him.

In the meantime Lennon's family had not been improving in
circumstances. Emon was losing all the high wages of the spring's
work. Upon one or two occasions, when he stealthily endeavored to do a
little on his own land, while his father was catching the ready penny
abroad, he found, before he was two hours at work, the haunting idea
press upon his brain; and he returned to the house and threw himself
upon the bed confused and sad. In spite of this, however, the wound in
his head was now progressing more favorably, and {99} returning
strength renewed a more cheerful spirit within him. He fought hard
against the idea which at times forced itself upon him. The priest,
who was a constant visitor, saw that all was not yet right. He took
Emon kindly by the hand and said: "My dear young friend, do you not
feel as well as your outward condition would indicate that you ought
to be?"

"Yes, Father Farrell, I thank God I feel my strength almost perfectly
restored. I shall be able, I hope, to give my poor father the usual
help in a few days. The worst of it is that the throng of the spring
work is over, and wages are now down a third from what they were a
month or three weeks ago."

"If _that_ be all that is fretting you, Emon, cheer up, for there is
plenty of work still to be had; and if the wages are not quite so high
as they were a while back, you shall have constant work for some time,
which will be better than high wages for a start. I can myself afford
to make up for some of the loss this unfortunate blow has caused you.
You must accept of this." And he pulled a pound-note from his breeches

If occasionally there were moments when Emon's ideas were somewhat
confused, they were never clearer or sharper than as Father Farrell
said this. It so happened that he was thinking of Winny Cavana at the
moment; indeed, it would be hard to hit upon the moment when he was
not. Shanvilla was proverbially a poor parish; and Father Farrell's
continual and expressed regret was, that he was not able personally to
do more for the poor of his flock. Emon was sharp enough, and stout
enough, to speak his mind even to his priest, when he found it

He looked inquiringly into Father Farrell's face. "No, Father Farrell,
you _cannot_ afford it," he said. "It is your kindness leads you to
say so; and if you could afford it there are--and no man knows it
better than you do--many still poorer families than ours in the parish
requiring your aid. But under no circumstances shall I touch _that_

The priest was found out, and became disconcerted; but the matter was
coming to a point, and he might as well have it out.

"Why do you lay such an emphasis upon the word _that_?" said he. "It
is a very good one," he added, laughing.

"Well, Father Farrell, I am always ready and willing to answer you any
questions you may choose to ask me, for you are always discreet and
considerate. Of course I must always answer any questions you have a
right to ask; but you have no right to probe me now."

"Certainly not, Emon, but you know a counsel's no command."

"Your counsel, Father Farrell, is always good, and almost amounts to a
command. I beg your pardon, if I have spoken hastily."

"Emon, my good young friend, and I will add, my dear young friend, I
do not wish to probe you upon any subject you are not bound to give me
your confidence upon; but why did you lay such an emphasis just now on
the word _that_? If you do not wish to answer me, you need not do so.
But you must take _this_ pound-note. You see I can lay an emphasis as
well as you when I think it is required."

"No, Father Farrell. If the note was your own, I might take the loan
of it, and work it in with you, or pay you when I earned it. But I do
not think it is: there is the truth for you, Father Farrell."

"I see how it is, Emon, and you are very proud. However, the truth is,
the pound was sent to me anonymously for you from a friend."

"She might as well have signed her name in full," said Emon, sadly,
"for any loss that I can be at upon the subject--or perhaps you
yourself, Father Farrell."

"Well, I was at no loss, I confess. But you were to know nothing about
it, Emon; only you were so sharp. {100} There is no fear that your
intellects have been injured by the blow, at all events. It was meant
kindly, Emon, and I think you ought to take it--here."

"You think so, Father Farrell?"

"I do; indeed I do, Emon."

"Give it me, then," he said, taking it; and before Father Farrell's
face he pressed it to his lips. He then got a pen and ink, and wrote
something upon it. It was nothing but the date; he wanted no
memorandum of anything else respecting it. But he would hardly have
written even that, had he intended to make use of it.

The priest stood up to leave. He knew more than he chose to tell
Emon-a-knock. But there was an amicable smile upon his lips as he held
out his hand to bid him goodby.

Oh, the suspicion of a heart that loves!

"Father Farrell," he said, still holding the priest's hand, "is this
the note, the very note, the identical note, she sent me?"

"Yes, Emon; I would not deceive you about it. It is the very note;
which, I fear," he added, "is not likely to be of much use to you."

"Why do you say that, Father Farrell? You shall one day see the

"Because you seem to me rather inclined to 'huxter it up,' as we say,
than to make use of it. Believe me, that was not the intention it was
sent with; oh, no, Emon; it was sent with the hope that it might be of
some use, and not to be hoarded up through any morbid sentimentality."

"Give me one instead of it. Father Farrell, and keep this one until I
can redeem it."

"I have not got another, Emon; pounds are not so plenty with me."

"And yet you would have persuaded me just now that it was your own and
that you could afford to bestow it upon me!"

"Pardon me, Emon, I would not have persuaded you; I was merely silent
upon the subject until your suspicions made you cross-examine me. I
was then plain enough with you. I used no deceit; and I now tell you
plainly that if you take this pound-note, you ought to use it;
otherwise you will give her who sent it very just cause for

"Then it shall be as she wishes and as you advise, Father Farrell. I
cannot err under your guidance. I shall use it freely and with
gratitude; but you need not tell her that I know who sent it."

"Do you think that I am an _aumadhawn_, Emon? The very thing she was
anxious to avoid herself. I shall never speak to her, perhaps, upon
the subject."

The priest then left him with a genuine and hearty blessing, which
could not fail of a beneficial influence.


The priest had been a true prophet and a good doctor, and perhaps it
was well for all parties concerned that the dispensary M.D. had been
dispensed with. Emon now recovered his strength every day more and
more. The wound in his head had completely healed. There was scarcely
a mark left of where it had been, unless you blew his beautiful soft
hair aside, when a slight hard ridge was just perceptible. Father
Farrell had procured him a permanent job of some weeks, at rather an
increase of wages from what was "going" at the time, for the spring
business was now over and work was slack. But a gentleman who had
recently purchased a small property in that part of the country, and
intended to reside, had commenced alterations in the laying-out of the
grounds about his "mansion;" and meeting Father Farrell one day, asked
him if he could recommend a smart, handy man for a tolerably long job.
There would be a good deal of "skinning" and cutting of sods, {101}
levelling hillocks, and filling up hollows, and wheeling of clay. For
the latter portion of the work, the man should have help. What he
wanted was a tasty, handy fellow, who would understand quickly what
was required as it was explained to him.

Father Farrell, as the gentleman said all this, thought that he must
have actually had Emon-a-knock in his mind's eye. He was the very man
on every account, and the priest at once recommended him. This job
would soon make up for all the time poor Emon had lost with his broken
head. And for his intelligence and taste Father Farrell had gone bail.
Thus it was that Emon after all had not broken the pound-note, but, in
spite of the priest, had hoarded it as a trophy of Winny's love.

Emon would have had a rather long walk every morning to his work, and
the same in the evening after it was over. But Mr. D---- on the very
first interview with young Lennon, was sharp enough to find out his
value as a rural engineer, and, for his own sake as well as Lennon's,
he made arrangements that he should stop at a tenant's house, not far
from the scene of his landscape-gardening, which was likely to last
for some time. Mr. D---- was not a man who measured a day's work by
its external extent. He looked rather to the manner of its
accomplishment, and would not allow the thing to be "run over." He did
not care for the expense; what he wanted was to have the thing well
done; and he gave Father Farrell great credit for his choice in a
workman. If he liked the job when it was finished, he did not say but
that he would give Lennon a permanent situation, as overseer, at a
fixed salary. But up to this time he had not seen, nor even heard of,
Winny Cavana, except what had been implied to his heart by the
priest's pound-note. He was further now from Rathcash chapel than
ever; nevertheless he would show himself there, "God willing," next
Sunday. What was Tom Murdock's surprise and chagrin on the following
Sunday to observe "that confounded whelp" on the road before him, as
he went to prayers--looking, too, better dressed, and as well and
handsome as ever! He thought he had "put a spoke in his wheel" for the
whole summer at the least; and before that was over, he had determined
to have matters irrevocably  _clinched_ if not _settled_ with Miss
Winifred Cavana.

After what manner this was to be accomplished was only known to
himself and three others, associates in his villany.

The matter had been already discussed in all its bearings. All the
arguments in favor of, and opposed to, its success had been exhausted,
and the final result was, that the thing should be done, and was only
waiting a favorable opportunity to be put in practice. Some matters of
detail, however, had to be arranged, which would take some time; but
as the business was kept "dark" there was no hurry. Tom Murdock's
secret was safe in the keeping of his coadjutors, whose "oath of
brotherhood" bound them not only to inviolable silence, but to their
assistance in carrying out his nefarious designs.

The sight of young Lennon once more upon the scene gave a spur to
Tom's plans and determination. He had hoped that that "accidental tip"
which he had given him would at least have had the effect of reducing
him in circumstances and appearance, and have kept him in his own
parish. He knew that Lennon was depending upon his day's wages for
even the sustenance of life; that there was a family of at least four
beside himself to support; and he gloated himself over the idea that a
month or six weeks' sick idleness, recovering at best when there was
no work to be had, would have left "that whelp" in a condition almost
unpresentable even at his own parish chapel. What was his
mortification, therefore, when he now beheld young Lennon before him
on the road!


"By the table of war," he said in his heart, "this must hasten my
plans! I cannot permit an intimacy to be renewed in that quarter. I
must see my friends at once."

Winny Cavana, although she had not seen Emon-a-knock since the
accident, had taken care to learn through her peculiar resources how
"the poor fellow was getting on." Her friend Kate Mulvey was one of
these resources.

Although it has not yet oozed out in this story, it is necessary that
it should now do so: Phil M'Dermott, then, was a great admirer of Kate
Mulvey. He was one of those who advocated an interchange of
parishioners in the courting line. He did not think it fair that
"exclusive dealing" should be observed in such cases.

Now, useless as it was, and forlorn as had been hitherto the hope,
Phil M'Dermott, like all true lovers, could not keep away from his
cold-hearted Kate. It was a satisfaction to him at all events "to be
looking at her;" and somehow since Emon's accident she seemed more
friendly and condescending in her manner to poor Phil. It will be
remembered that Phil M'Dermott was a great friend of Emon-a-knock's,
and it may now be said that he was a near neighbor. It was natural,
then, that Kate Mulvey should find out all about Emon from him, and
"have word" for Winny when they met. This was one resource, and Father
Farrell, as he sometimes passed Kate's door, was another. Father
Farrell could guess very well, notwithstanding Kate's careless manner
of asking, that his information would not rest in her own breast, and
gave it as fully and satisfactorily as he could.

Kate Mulvey, however, "would not for the world" say a word to either
Phil M'Dermott or Father Farrell which could be construed as coming
from Winny Cavana to Emon-a-knock; she had Winny's strict orders to
that effect. But Kate felt quite at liberty to make any remarks she
chose, as coming from herself.

Poor Emon, upon this his first occasion of, it may be said, appearing
in public after his accident, was greeted, after prayers were over,
with a genuine cordiality by the Rathcash boys, and several times
interfered with in his object of "getting speech" of Winny Cavana, who
was some distance in advance, in consequence of these delays.

But Winny was not the girl to be frustrated by any unnecessary prudery
on such an occasion.

"Father," she said, "there's Emon at our chapel to-day for the first
time since he was hurt. Let us not be behindhand with the neighbors to
congratulate him on his recovery. I see all the Rathcash people are
glad to see him."

"And so they ought, Winny; I'm glad you told me he was here, for I did
not happen to see him. Stand where you are until he comes up." And the
old man stood patiently for some minutes while Emon's friends were
expressing their pleasure at his reappearance.

Winny had kept as clear as possible of Tom Murdock since the accident
at the hurling match; so much so that he could not but know it was

Tom had remarked during prayers that Winny's countenance had
brightened up wonderfully when young Lennon came into the chapel, and
took a quiet place not far inside the door; for he had been kept
outside by the kind inquiries of his friends until the congregation
had become pretty throng. He had observed too, for he was on the
watch, that Winny's eyes had often wandered in the direction of the
door up to the time when "that whelp" had entered; but from that
moment, when he had observed the bright smile light up her face, she
had never turned them from the officiating priest and the altar.

Tom had not ventured to walk home with Winny from the chapel for some
Sundays past, nor would he to-day. What puzzled him not a little was
what his line of conduct ought to be with respect to Lennon, whom he
had not seen since the accident. His course {103} was, however, taken
after a few moments' reflection. He did not forget that on the
occasion of the blow he had exhibited much sympathy with the sufferer,
and had declared it to have been purely accidental. He should keep up
that character of the affair now, or make a liar of himself, both as
to the past and his feelings.

"Beside," thought he, "I may so delay him that Miss Winifred cannot
have the face to delay for him so long."

Just then, as Emon had emancipated himself from the cordiality of
three or four young men, and was about to step out quickly to where he
saw Winny and her father standing on the road, Tom came up.

"Ah, Lennon!" he said, stretching out his hand, "I am glad to see you
in this part of the country again. I hope you are quite recovered."

"Quite, thank God," said Emon, pushing by without taking his hand.
"But I see Winny and her father waiting on the road, and I cannot stop
to talk to you;" and he strode on. Emon left out the "Cavana" in the
above sentence on purpose, because he knew the familiarity its
omission created would vex Tom Murdock.

"Bad luck to your impudence, you conceited cub, you!" was Murdock's
mental ejaculation as he watched the cordial greeting between him and
Winny Cavana, to say nothing of her father, who appeared equally glad
to see him.

Phil M'Dermott had come for company that day with Emon, and had
managed to join Kate Mulvey as they came out of chapel. She had her
eyes about her, and saw very well how matters had gone so far. For the
first time in her life she noticed the scowl on Tom Murdock's brow as
she came toward him.

"God between us and harm, but he looks wicked this morning!" thought
she; and she was almost not sorry when he turned suddenly round and
walked off without waiting for her so much as to "bid him the time of

"That's more of it," said Tom to himself. "There is that one now
taking up with that tinker."

He felt something like the little boy who said, "What! will nobody
come and play with me?" But Tom did not, like him, become a good boy
after that.

He watched the Cavanas and Lennon, who had not left the spot where
Lennon came up with them until they were joined by Kate And Phil
M'Dermott, when they all walked on together, chatting and laughing as
if nobody in the world was wicked or unhappy.

He dodged them at some distance, and was not a little surprised to see
the whole party-"the whelp," "the tinker," and all--turn up the lane
and go into Cavana's house.

"_That will do_," said he; "I must see my friends this very night, and
before this day fortnight we'll see who will win the trick."

Emon-a-knock and Phil M'Dermott actually paid a visit to old Ned
Cavana's that Sunday. Tom Murdock had seen them going in, and he
minuted them by his silver hunting-watch--for he had one. His eye
wandered from the door to his watch, and from his watch to the door,
as if he were feeling the pulse of their visit. He thought he had
never seen Kate Mulvey looking so handsome, or Phil M'Dermott so clean
or so well-dressed.

But it mattered not. If Kate was a Venus, Tom will carry out his plans
with respect to Winny, and let Phil M'Dermott work his own point in
that other quarter. Not that he cared much for Winny herself, but he
wanted her farm, and he _hated "that whelp Lennon."_

They remained just twenty-five minutes in old Cavana's; this for Kate
Mulvey was nothing very wonderful, but for two young men--neither of
whom had ever darkened his doors before--Tom thought it rather a long


There they were now, going down the lane together, laughing and
chatting, all three seemingly in good humor.

Cranky and out of temper as he was, Tom's observation was correct in
more matters than one, Phil M'Dermott was particularly well-dressed on
this occasion, his first visit to Rathcash chapel. Perhaps after
to-day he may be oftener there than at his own.


Perhaps there was nothing extraordinary, after the encouragement which
Emon had met with upon his first appearance at Rathcash chapel after
"the accident," if he found it pleasanter to "overtake mass" there
than to come in quietly at Shanvilla. The walk did him good. Be this
as it may, he was now a regular attendant at a chapel which was a mile
and a half further from his home than his own.

Two Sundays had now come round since Tom Murdock had seen the
reception which "that whelp" had met with from the Cavanas, not only
as he came out of the chapel, but in asking him up to the house, and,
he supposed, giving him luncheon; for the visits had been repeated
each successive Sunday. Then that fellow M'Dermott had also come to
their chapel, and he and Kate Mulvey had also gone up with the
Cavanas. This was now the third Sunday on which this had taken place;
and not only Winny herself, but her father seemed to acquiesce in
bringing it about.

Tom's fortnight had passed by, and he had not "won the trick," as he
had threatened to do. "Well," thought he, "it cannot be done in a
minute. I have been dealing the cards, and, contrary to custom, the
dealer shall lead beside; and that soon."

Winny's happy smile was now so continuous and so gratifying to her
father's heart, that if he had not become altogether reconciled to an
increased intimacy with Edward Lennon, he had at all events become a
convert to her dislike to Tom Murdock, and no mistake.

In spite of all his caution, one or two matters had crept out as to
his doings, and had come to old Ned's ears in such a way that no doubt
could remain on his mind of their veracity. He began to give Winny
credit for more sharpness than he had been inclined to do; and it
crossed his mind once that, if Winny was not mistaken about Tom
Murdock's villany, she might not be mistaken either about _anybody
else's worth_. The thought had not individualized itself as yet. In
the meantime young Lennon's quiet and natural manner, his unvarying
attention and respect for the old man himself, and his apparent
carelessness for Winny's private company, grew upon old Ned
insensibly; and it was now almost as a fixed rule that he paid a
Sunday visit after mass at Rathcash, the old man putting his hand upon
his shoulder, and facing him toward the house at the end of the lane,
saying, "Come, Edward Lennon, the murphys will be teemed by the time
we get up, and no one can fault our bacon or our butter."

"_My_ butter, Emon," said Winny on one occasion, at a venture.

Her father looked at her. But there was never another word about it.

All this was anything but pleasing to Tom Murdock, who always sulkily
dogged them at some distance behind.

Now we shall not believe that Emon-a-knock was such a muff, or Winny
Cavana such a prude, as to suppose that no little opportunity was
seized upon for a kind soft word between them _unknownt_. Nor shall we
suppose that Kate Mulvey, who was always of the party, was such a
marplot as to obstruct such a happy casualty, should it occur,
particularly if Phil was to the fore.

Emon's careless, loud laugh along the road, as he escorted Kate to her
own door, gave evidence that his heart was light and that (as Kate
thought, though she did not question him) {105} matters were on the
right road for him. Winny, too, when they met, was so happy, and so
different from what for a while she had been, that Kate, although she
did not question her either, guessed that all was right with her too.

Matters, as they now seemed to progress, and he watched them close,
were daggers to Tom Murdock's heart. He had seen Winny Cavana, on more
than one evening, leave the house and take the turn toward Kate
Mulvey's. On these occasions he had the meanness and want of spirit to
watch her movements; and although he could not satisfy himself that
young Lennon came to meet her, he was not quite satisfied that he did

Winny invariably turned into Kate Mulvey's, and remained for a long
visit. Might not "that hound" be there?--Tom sometimes varied his
epithets--might it not be a place of assignation? This was but the
suspicion of a low, mean mind like Tom Murdock's.

The fact is, since Tom's threat about "winning the trick" he had been
rather idle. His game was not one which could be played out by
correspondence--he was too cunning for that--and the means which he
would be obliged to adopt were not exactly ready at his hand. He saw
that matters were not pressing in another quarter yet, if ever they
should press, and he would "ride a waiting race," and win
unexpectedly. Thus the simile of Tom's thoughts still took their tone
from the race-course, and he would "hold hard" for another bit.
Circumstances, however, soon occurred which made him "push forward
toward the front" if he had any hope "to come in first."

Edward Lennon having finished his "landscape gardening" at Mr. D----s,
and the overseership being held over for the present, had got another
rather long job, on the far part of Ned Cavana's farm, in laying out
and cutting drains, where the land required reclaiming. He had shown
so much taste and intelligence, in both planning and performing, that
old Ned was quite delighted with him, and began to regret "that he had
not known his value as an agricultural laborer long before." There was
one other at least--if not two--who sympathized in that regret. At all
events, there he was now every day up to his hips in dirty red clay,
scooping it up from the bottom of little drains more than three feet
deep, in a long iron scoop with a crooked handle. This job was at the
far end of Ned's farm, and, in coming to his work, Lennon need hardly
come within sight of the house, for the work lay in the direction of
Shanvilla. Emon did not "quit work" until it was late; he was then in
anything but visiting trim, if such a thing were even possible. He,
therefore, saw no more of Winny on account of the job than if he had
been at work on the Giant's Causeway. But a grand object had been
attained, nevertheless--he was working for Ned Cavana, and had given
him more than satisfaction in the performance of the job, and on one
occasion old Ned had called him "Emon-a-wochal," a term of great
familiarity. This was a great change for the better. If young Lennon
had been as well acquainted with racing phraseology as Tom Murdock, he
also would have thought that he would "make a waiting race of it." But
the expression of _his_ thoughts was that he "would bide his time."

The Sundays, however, were still available, and Emon did not lose the
chance. He now because so regular an attendant at Rathcash chapel, and
went up so regularly with old Ned and his daughter after prayers, that
it was no wonder if people began to talk.

"I donna what Tom Murdock says to all this, Bill," said Tim Fahy to a
neighbor, on the road from the chapel.

"The sorra wan of me knows, Tim, but I hear he isn't over-well

"Arrah, what id he be plaised at? Is it to see a Shanvilla boy,
without a cross, intherlopin' betune him an' his bachelor?"

"Well, they say he needn't be a bit afeared, Lennon is a very good
workman, {106} and undherstan's dhrainin', an' ould Ned's cute enough
to get a job well done; but he'd no more give his daughter with her
fine fortin' to that chap, than he'd throw her an' it into the
say--b'lieve you me."

"There's some very heavy cloud upon Tom this while back, any way; and
though he keeps it very close, there's people thinks it's what she
refused him."

"The sorra fear iv her, Tim; she has more sinse nor that."

"Well, riddle me this, Bill. What brings that chap here Sunda' afther
Sunda', and what takes him up to ould Ned Cavana's every Sunda' afther
mass? He is a very good-lookin' young fellow, an' knows a sheep's head
from a sow's ear, or Tim Fahy's a fool."

"_Och badhershin_, doesn't he go up to walk home wid Kate Mulvey, for
she's always iv the party?"

"And _badhershin_ yourself, Bill, isn't Phil M'Dermott always to the
fore for Kate?--another intherloper from Shanvilla. I donna what the
sorra the Rathcash boys are about."

Other confabs of a similar nature were carried on by different sets as
they returned from prayers, and saw the Cavanas with their company
turn up the lane toward the house. The young girls of the district,
too, had their chats upon the subject; but they were so voluble, and
some of them so ill-natured, that I forbear to give the reader any
specimen of their remarks. One or two intimate associates of Tom
ventured to quiz him upon the state of affairs. Now none but an
intimate friend, indeed, of Tom's should have ventured, under the
circumstances, to have touched upon so sore a subject, and those who
did, intimate as they were, did not venture to repeat the joke. No, it
was no joke; and that they soon found out. To one friend who had
quizzed him privately he said, "Suspend your judgment, Denis; and if I
don't prove myself more than a match for that half-bred _kiout_, then
condemn me."

But to another, who had quizzed him before some bystanders in rather a
ridiculous point of view, he turned like a bull-terrier, while his
face assumed a scowl of a peculiarly unpleasant character.

"It is no business of yours," he said, "and I advise you to mind your
own affairs, or perhaps I'll make you."

The man drew in his horns, and sneaked off, of course; and from that
moment they all guessed that the business had gone against Tom, and
they left off quizzing.

Tom felt that he had been wrong, and had only helped to betray
himself. His game now was to prevent, if possible, any talk about the
matter, one way or the other, until his plans should be matured, when
he doubted not that success would gain him the approbation of every
one, no matter what the means.

The preface to his plans was, to spread a report that he had gone back
to Armagh to get married to a girl with an immense fortune, and he
endorsed the report by the fact of his leaving home; but whether to
Armagh or not, was never clearly known.

Young Lennon went on with his job, at which old Ned told him "to take
his time, an' do it well. It was not," he said, "like digging a plot,
which had to be dug every year, or maybe twice. When it was wance
finished and covered up, there it was; worse nor the first day, if it
was not done right; so don't hurry it over, Emon-a-wochal. I don't
mind the expense; ground can't be dhrained for nothin', an' it id be a
bad job if we were obliged to be openin' any of the dhrains a second
time, an' maybe not know where the stoppage lay; so take your time,
and don't blame me if you botch it."

"You need not fear, sir," said Lennon. (He always said "sir" as yet.)
"You need not fear; if every drain of them does not run like the
stream from Tubbernaltha, never give me a day's work again."


"As far as you have gone, Emon, I think they are complate; we'll have
forty carts of stones in afore Saturda' night. I hope you have help
enough, boy."

"Plenty, sir, until we begin to cover in."

"Wouldn't you be able for that yourself? or couldn't you bring your
father with you? I'd wish to put whatever I could in your way."

"Thank you, sir, very much. I will do so if I want more help; but for
the lucre of keeping up his wages and mine, I would not recommend you
to lose this fine weather in covering in the drains."

"You are an honest boy, Emon, and I like your way of talkin', as well
as workin'; plaise God we won't see you or your father idle."

Up to this it will be seen that Emon was not idle in any sense of the
word. He was ingratiating himself, but honestly, into the good graces
of old Ned; "if he was not fishing, he was mending his nets;" and the
above conversation will show that he was not a dance at that same.

It happened, upon one or two occasions, that old Ned was with Emon at
leaving off work in the evening, and he asked him to "cum' up to the
house and have a dhrink of beer, or whiskey-and-wather, his choice."

But Emon excused himself, saying he was no fit figure to go into any
decent man's parlor in that trim, and indeed his appearance did not
belie his words; for he was spotted and striped with yellow clay, from
his head and face to his feet, and the clothes he brought to the work
were worth nothing.

"Well, you'll not be always so, Emon, when you're done wid the
scoopin'," said old Ned; and he added, laughing, "The divil a wan o'
me'd know you to be the same boy I seen cumin' out o' mass a Sunda'."

Emon had heard, as everybody else had heard, that Tom Murdock had left
home, and he felt as if an incubus had been lifted off his heart. Not
that he feared Tom in any one way; but he knew that his absence would
be a relief to Winny, and, as such, a relief to himself.

Emon was now as happy as his position and his hopes permitted him to
be; and there can be little doubt but this happiness arose from an
understanding between himself and Winny; but how, when, or where that
understanding had been confirmed, it would be hard to say.

Old Ned's remarks to his daughter respecting young Lennon were nuts
and apples to her. She knew the day would come, and perhaps at no far
distant time, when she must openly avow, not only a preference for
Emon, but declare an absolute determination to cast her lot with his,
and ask her father's blessing upon them. She was aware that this could
not, that it ought not to, be hurried. She hoped--oh, how fervently
she hoped!--that the report of Tom Murdock's marriage might be true:
that of his absence from home she knew to be so. In the meantime it
kept the happy smile for ever on her lips to know that Emon was daily
creeping into the good opinion of her father. Oh! how could Emon, her
own Emon, fail, not only to creep but to rush into the good opinion,
the very heart, of all who knew him? Poor enthusiastic Winny! But she
was right. With the solitary exception of Tom Murdock, there was not a
human being who knew him who did not love Edward Lennon. But where is
the man with Tom Murdock's heart, and in Tom Murdock's place, who
would not have hated him as he did?


Tom Murdock, seeing that his hopes by fair means were completely at an
end, and that matters were likely to progress in another quarter at a
rate which made it advisable not to let the leading horse get too far
ahead, {108} determined to make a rush to the front, no matter whether
he went the wrong side of a post or not--let that be settled after.

He had left home, and left a report behind him, which he took care to
have industriously circulated, that he had gone to Armagh, and was
about to be married to "a young lady" with a large fortune, and that
he would visit the metropolis, Fermanagh, and perhaps Sligo, before he
returned. But he did not go further than an obscure public-house in a
small village in the lower part of the county of Cavan. There he met
the materials for carrying out his plan. The object of it was shortly
this--to carry away Winny Cavana by force, and bring her to a
_friend's_ house in the mountains behind the village adverted to. Here
he was to have an old buckle-beggar at hand to marry them the moment
Winny's spirit was broken to consent. This man, a degraded clergyman,
as the report went, wandered about the country in green spectacles and
a short, black cloak, always ready and willing to perform such a job;
doubly willing and ready for this particular one from the reward which
Tom had promised him. If even the marriage ceremony should fail,
either through Winny's obstinacy or the clergyman's want of spirit to
go through with it in the face of opposition, still he would keep her
for ten days or a fortnight at this _friend's_ house, stopping there
himself too; and at the end of that time, should he fail in obtaining
her consent, he would quit the country for a while, and allow her to
return home "so blasted in character" that even "that whelp" would
disown her. There was a pretty specimen of a lover--a husband!

It was now the end of June. The weather had been dry for some time,
and the nights were clear and mild; the stars shone brightly, and the
early dawn would soon present a heavy dew hanging on the bushes and
the grass. The moon was on the wane; but at a late hour of the night
it was conspicuous in the heavens, adding a stronger light to that
given by the clearness of the sky and the brilliancy of the stars.

Rathcash and Rathcashmore were sunk in still repose; and if silence
could be echoed, it was echoed by the stillness of the mountains
behind Shanvilla and beyond them. The inhabitants of the whole
district had long since retired to rest, and now lay buried in sleep,
some of them in confused dreams of pleasure and delight.

The angel of the dawn was scarcely yet awake, or he might have heard
the sound of muffled horses' feet and muffled wheels creeping along
the road toward the lane turning up to Rathcash house, about two hours
before day; and he must have seen a man with a dark mask mounted on
another muffled horse at a little distance from the cart.

Presently Tom Murdock--there is no use in simulating mystery where
none exists--took charge of the horse and cart to prevent them from
moving, while three men stole up toward the house. Ay, there is
Bully-dhu's deep bark, and they are already at the door.

"That dog! he'll betray us, boys," said one of the men.

"I'd blow his brains out if this pistol was loaded," said another;
"and I wanted Tom to give me a cartridge."

"He wouldn't let any one load but himself, and he was right; a shot
would be twiste as bad as the dog; beside, he's in the back yard, and
cannot get out. Never heed him, but to work as fast as possible."

Old Ned Cavana and Winny heard not only the dog, but the voices.
Winny's heart foretold the whole thing in a moment, and she braced her
nerves for the scene.

The door was now smashed in, and the three men entered. By this time
old Ned had drawn on his trousers; and as he was throwing his coat
over his head to got his arms into the sleeves he was seized, and ere
you could count ten he was pinioned, with his arms behind him and his
legs tied {109} at the ankles, and a handkerchief tied across his
mouth. Thus rendered perfectly powerless, he was thrown back upon the
bed, and the room-door locked. Jamesy Doyle, who slept in the barn,
had heard the crash of the door, and dressed himself in "less than no
time," let Bully-dhu out of the yard, and brought him to the front
door, in at which he rushed like a tiger. But Jamesy Doyle did not go
in. That was not his game; but he peeped in at the window. No light
had been struck, so he could make nothing of the state of affairs
inside, except from the voices; and from what he heard he could make
no mistake as to the object of this attack. He could not tell whether
Tom Murdock was in the house or not, but he did not hear his voice.
One man said, "Come, now, be quick, Larry; the sooner we're off with
her the better."

Jamesy waited for no more; he turned to the lane as the shortest way,
but at a glance he saw the horse and cart and the man on horseback on
the road outside; and turning again he darted off across the fields as
fast as his legs could carry him.

Bully-dhu, having gained access to the house, showed no disposition to
compromise the matter. "No quarter!" was his cry, as he flew at the
nearest man to him, and seizing him by the throat, brought him to the
ground with a _sough_, where in spite of his struggles, he held him
fast with a silent, deadly grip. He had learned this much, at least,
by his encounter with the mastiff on New Year's day.

Careless of their companion's strait, who they thought ought to be
able to defend himself, the other two fellows--and powerful fellows
they were--proceeded to the bed-room to their left; they had locked
the door to their right, leaving poor old Ned tied and insensible on
the bed. Winny was now dressed and met them at the door.

"Are you come to commit murder?" she cried, as they stopped her in the
doorway; "or have you done it already? Let me to my father's room."

"The sorra harm on him, miss, nor the sorra take the hair of his head
well hurt no more nor your own. Come, put on your bonnet an' cloak,
an' come along wid us; them's our ordhers."

"You have a master, then. Where is he? where is Tom Murdock?--I knew
Tom _Murder_ should have been his name. Where is he, I say?"

"Come, come, no talk; but on wid your bonnet and cloak at wanst."

"Never; nor shall I ever leave this house except torn from it by the
most brutal force. Where is your master, I say? Is he afraid of the
rope himself which he would thus put round your necks?"

"Come, come, on wid your bonnet an' cloak, or, be the powers, we'll
take you away as you are."

"Never; where is your master, I say?"

"Come, Larry, we won't put up wid any more of her pillaver; out wid
the worsted."

Here Biddy Murtagh rushed in to her mistress's aid; but she was soon
overpowered and tied "neck and heels," as they called it, and thrown
upon Winny's bed. They had the precaution to gag her also with a
handkerchief, that she might not give the alarm, and they locked the
door like that at the other end of the house.

Larry, whoever he was, then pulled a couple of skeins of coarse
worsted from his pocket, while his companion seized Winny round the
waist, outside her arms; and the other fellow, who seemed expert, soon
tied her feet together, and then her hands. A thick handkerchief was
then tied across her mouth.

"Take care to lave plenty of braithin' room out iv her nose, Larry,"
said the other ruffian; and, thus rendered unable to move or scream,
they carried her to the road and laid her on the car. The horseman in
the mask asked them where the third man was, and they replied that he
must have {110} "made off" from the dog, for that they neither saw nor
heard him after the dog flew at him.

This was likely enough. He was the only man of the party in whom Tom
Murdock could not place the most unbounded confidence.

"The cowardly rascal," he said. "We must do without him."

But he had _not_ made off from the dog.

The cart was well provided--_to do Tom Murdock justice_--with a
feather-bed over plenty of straw, and plenty of good covering to keep
out the night air. They started at a brisk trot, still keeping the
horses' feet and the wheels muffled; and they passed down the road
where the reader was once caught at a dog-fight.

But to return, for a few minutes, to Rathcash house. Bully-dhu was
worth a score of old Ned Cavana, even supposing him to have been at
liberty, and free of the cords by which he was bound. The poor old man
had worked the handkerchief by which he had been gagged off his mouth,
by rubbing it against the bed-post. He had then rolled himself to the
door; but further than that he was powerless, except to ascertain, by
placing his chin to the thumb-latch, for he had got upon his feet,
that it was fastened outside. He then set up a lamentable demand for
help--upon Winny, upon Biddy Murtagh, and upon Bully-dhu. The dog was
the only one who answered him, with a smothered growl, for he still
held fast by the grip he had taken of the man's throat. Poor Bully!
you need not have been so pertinacious of that grip--the man has been
_dead_ for the last ten minutes! Finding that it was indeed so, from
the perfect stillness of the man, Bully-dhu released his hold, and lay
licking his paws and keeping up an angry growl, in answer to the old
man's cries.

We must leave them and follow Jamesy Doyle across the fields, and see
if it was cowardice that made him run so fast from the scene of
danger. Ah, no! Jamesy was not that sort of a chap at all. He was
plucky as well as true to the heart's core. Nor was his intelligence
and judgment at fault for a moment as to the best course for him to
adopt. Seeing the fearful odds of three stout men against him, he knew
that he could do better than to remain there, to be tied "neck and
crop" like the poor old man and Biddy. So, having brought Bully-dhu
round and given him 'his cue, he started off, and never drew breath
until he found himself outside Emon-a-knock's window at Shanvilla, on
his way to the nearest police station.

"Are you there, Emon?" said he, tapping at it.

"Yes," Emon replied from his bed; "who are you, or what do you want?"

"Jamesy Doyle from Rathcash house. Get up at wanst! They have taken
away Miss Winny."

"Great heaven I do you say so? Here, father, get up in a jiffy and
dress yourself. They have taken away Winny Cavana, and we must be off
to the rescue like a shot. Come in, Jamesy, my boy." And while they
were "drawing on" their clothes, they questioned him as to the

But Jamesy had few such to give them, as the reader knows; for, like a
sensible boy, he was off for help without waiting for particulars.

The principal point, however, was to know what road they had taken.
Upon this Jamesy was able to answer with some certainty, for ere he
had started finally off, he had watched them, and he had seen the cart
move on under the smothered cries of Winny; and he heard the horseman
say, "Now, boys, through the pass between 'the sisters.'"

"They took the road to the left from the end of the lane, that's all I
know; so let you cut across the country as fast as you can, an' you'll
be at Boher before them. Don't delay me now, for I must go on to the
police station an' hurry out the sargent {111} and his men; if you can
clog them at the bridge till I cam' up with the police, all will be
rights an' we'll have her back wid us. I know very well if I had a
word wid Miss Winny unknown to the men, she would have sent me for the
police; but I took you in my way--it wasn't twenty perch of a round."

"Thank you, Jamesy, a thousand times! There, be off to the sergeant as
fast as you can; tell him you called here, and that I have calculated
everything in my mind, and for him and his men to make for
Boher-na-Milthiogue bridge as fast as possible. There, be off, Jamesy,
and I'll give you a pound-note if the police are at the bridge before
Tom Murdock comes through the pass with the cart."

"You may keep your pound, man! I'd do more nor that for Miss Winny."
And he was out of sight in a moment.

The father and son were now dressed, and, arming themselves with two
stout sticks, they did not "let the grass grow under their feet." They
hurried on until they came to the road turning down to where we have
indicated that our readers were once caught at a dog-fight. Here Emon
examined the road as well as he could by the dim light which
prevailed, and found the fresh marks of wheels. He could scarcely
understand them. They were not like the tracks of any wheels he had
ever seen before, and there were no tracks of horses' feet at all,
although Jamesy had said there was a horseman beside the horse and

Emon soon put down these unusual appearances--and he could not well
define them for want of light--to some cunning device of Tom Murdock;
and how right he was!

"Come on, father," said he. "I am quite certain they have gone down
here. I know Tom Murdock has plenty of associates in the county Cavan,
and the pass between 'the sisters' is the shortest way he can take.
Beside, Jamesy heard him say the words. Our plan must be to cut across
the country and get to Milthiogue bridge before they get through the
pass and so escape us. What say you, father--are you able and willing
to push on, and to stand by me? Recollect the odds that are against
us, and count the cost."

"Emon, I'll count nothing; but I'll--

"Here, father, in here at this gap, and across by the point of Mullagh
hill beyond; we must get to Boher before them."

"I'll count no cost, Emon, I was going to tell you. I'm both able and
willing, thank God, to stand by you. You deserve it well of me, and so
do the Cavanas. God forbid I should renuage my duty to you and them!
Aren't ye all as wan as the same thing to me now?"

Emon now knew that his father knew all about Winny and him.

"Father," said he, "that is a desperate man, and he'll stop at

"Is it sthrivin' to cow me you are, Emon?"

"No, father; but you saw the state my mother was in as we left."

"Yes, I did, and why wouldn't she? But shure that should not stop us
when we have right on our side; an' God knows what hoult, or distress,
that poor girl is in, or what that villain may do to her; an' what
state would your mother be in if you were left a desolate madman all
your life through that man's wickedness?"

These were stout words of his father, and almost assured Emon that all
would be well.

"Father," he continued, "if we get to the bridge before them, and can
hold it for half an hour, or less, the police will be up with Jamesy
Doyle, and we shall be all right."

The conversation was now so frequently interrupted in getting over
ditches and through hedges, and they had said so much of what they had
to say, that they were nearly quite silent for the rest of the way,
except where Emon pointed out to his father the easiest place to get
over a ditch, or through a hedge, or up the face of a {112} hill. Both
their hearts were evidently in their journey. No less the father's
than the son's: the will made the way.

The dappled specks of red had still an hour to slumber ere the dawn
awoke, and they had reached the spot; there was the bridge, the
Boher-na-Milthiogue of our first chapter, within a stone's throw of
them. They crept to the battlement and peered into the pass. As yet no
sound of horse or cart, or whispered word, reached their ears.

"They must be some distance off yet, father," said Emon; "thank God!
The police will have the more time to be up."

"Should we not hide, Emon?"

"Certainly; and if the police come up before they do, they should hide
also. That villain is mounted; and if a strong defence of the pass was
shown too soon, he would turn and put spurs to his horse."

As he spoke a distant noise was heard of horses' feet and unmuffled
wheels. The muffling had all been taken off as soon as they had
reached the far end of the pass between the mountains, and they were
now hastening their speed.

"The odds will be fearfully against us, father," said Emon, who now
felt more than ever the dangerous position he had placed his father
in, and the fearful desolation his loss would cause in his mother's
heart and in his home. He felt no fear for himself. "You had better
leave Tom himself to me, father. I know he will be the man on
horseback. Let you lay hold of the horse's head under the cart, and
knock one of the men, or both, down like lightning, if you can. You
have your knife ready to cut the cords that tie her?"

"I have, Emon; and don't you fear me; one of them shall tumble at all
events, almost before they know that we are on them. I hope I may kill
him out an' out; we might then be able for the other two. Do you think
Tom is armed?" he added, turning pale. But it was so dark Emon did not
see it.

"I am not sure, but I think not He cannot have expected any

"God grant it, Emon! I don't want to hould you back, but don't be
'fool-hardy,' dear boy."

"Do you want to cow me, father, as you said yourself, just now?"

"No, Emon. But stoop, stoop, here they are."

Crouching behind the battlements of the bridge, these two resolute men
waited the approach of the cavalcade. As they came to the mouth of the
pass the elder Lennon sprang to the head of the horse under the cart,
and, seizing him with his left hand, struck the man who drove such a
blow as felled him from the shaft upon which he sat. Emon had already
seized the bridle of the horseman who still wore the mask, and pushing
the horse backward on his haunches, he made a fierce blow at the
rider's head with his stick. But he had darted his heels--spurs he
had none--into his horse's sides, which made him plunge forward,
rolling Emon on the ground. Forward to the cart the rider then rushed,
crying out, "On, on with the cart!" But Lennon's father was still
fastened on the horse's head with his left hand, while with his right
he was alternately defending himself against the two men, for the
first had somewhat recovered, who were in charge of it.

Tom Murdock would have ridden him down also, and turned the battle in
favor of a passage through; but Emon had regained his feet, and was
again fastened in the horse's bridle, pushing him back on his
haunches, hoping to get at the rider's head, for hitherto his blows
had only fallen upon his arms and chest. Here Tom Murdock felt the
want of the spurs, for his horse did not spring forward with life and
force enough upon his assailant.

A fearful struggle now ensued between them. The men at the cart had
not yet cleared their way from the {113} desperate opposition given
them by old Lennon, who defendant himself ably, and at the same time
attacked them furiously. He had not time, however, to cut the cords by
which Winny was bound. A single pause in the use of his stick for that
purpose would have been fatal. Neither had he been successful in
getting beyond his first position at the horse's head. During the
whole of this confused attack and defence, poor Winny Cavana, who had
managed to shove herself up into a sitting posture in the cart,
continued to cry out, "Oh, Tom Murdock, Tom Murdock! even now give me
up to these friends and be gone, and I swear there shall never be a
word more about it."

But Tom Murdock was not the man either to yield to entreaties, or to
be baffled in his purpose. He had waled Edward Lennon with the butt
end of his whip about the head and shoulders as well as he could
across his horse's head, which Lennon had judiciously kept between
them, at times making a jump up and striking at Tom with his stick.

Matters had now been interrupted too long to please Tom Murdock, and
darting his heels once more into his horse's sides, he sprang forward,
rolling young Lennon on the road again.

"All right now, lads!" he cried; "on, on with the cart!" and he rode
at old Lennon, who still held his ground against both his antagonists

But all was not right. A cry of "The police, the police!" issued from
one of the men at the cart, and Jamesy Doyle with four policemen were
seen hurrying up the boreen from the lower road.

Perhaps it would be unjust to accuse Tom Murdock of cowardice even
then--it was not one of his faults--if upon seeing an accession of
four armed policemen he turned to fly, leaving his companions in for
it. One of them fled too; but Pat Lennon held the other fast.

As Tom turned to traverse the mountain pass back again at full speed,
Lennon, who had recovered himself, sprang like a tiger once more at
the horse's head. Now or never he must stay his progress.

Tom Murdock tore the mask from his face, and, pulling a loaded pistol
from his breast, he said: "Lennon, it was not my intention to injure
you when I saw you first spring up from the bridge to-night; nor will
I do so now, if your own obstinacy and foolhardy madness does not
bring your doom upon yourself. Let go my horse, or by hell I'll blow
your brains out! this shall be no mere tip of the hurl, mind you." And
he levelled the pistol at his head, not more than a foot from his

"Never, with life!" cried Lennon; and he aimed a blow at Tom's
pistol-arm. Ah, fatal and unhappy chance! His stick had been raised to
strike Tom Murdock down, and he had not time to alter its direction.
Had he struck the pistol-arm upward, it might have been otherwise; but
the blow of necessity descended. Tom Murdock fired at the same moment,
and the only difference it made was, that instead of his brains having
been blown out, the ball entered a little to one side of his left

Lennon jumped three feet from the ground, with a short, sudden shout,
and rolled convulsively upon the road, where soon a pool of bloody mud
attested the murderous work which had been done.

The angel of the dawn now awoke, as he heard the report of the pistol
echoing and reverberating through every recess in the many hearts of
Slieve-dhu and Slieve-bawn. Tom Murdock fled at full gallop; and the
hearts of the policemen fell as they heard the clattering of his
horse's feet dying away in quadruple regularity through the mountain

Jamesy Doyle, who was light of foot and without shoe or stocking,
rushed forward, saying, "Sergeant, I'll follow him to the end of the
pass, {114} an' see what road he'll take." And he sped onward like a

"Come, Maher," said the sergeant, "we'll pursue, however hopeless.
Cotter, let you stop with the prisoner we have and the Young woman;
and let Donovan stop with the wounded man, and stop the blood if he

Sergeant Driscol and Maher then started at the top of their speed, in
the track of Jamesy Doyle, in full pursuit.

There were many turns and twists in the pass between the mountains. It
was like a dozen large letter S's strung together.

Driscol stopped for a moment to listen. Jamesy was beyond their ken,
round one or two of the turns, and they could not hear the horse
galloping now.

"All's lost," said the sergeant; "he's clean gone. Let us hasten on
until we meet the boy; perhaps he knows which road he took."

Jamesy had been stooping now and then, and peering into the coming
lights to keep well in view the man whom he pursued. Ay, there he was,
sure enough; he saw him, almost plainly, galloping at the top of his
speed.  Suddenly he' heard a crash, and horse and rider rolled upon
the ground.

"He's down, thank God!" cried Jamesy, still rushing forward with some
hope, and peering into the distance. Presently he saw the horse trot
on with his head and tail in the air, without his rider, while a dark
mass lay in the centre of the road.

"You couldn't have betther luck, you bloodthirsty ruffian, you!" said
Jamesy, who thought that it was heaven's lightning that, in justice,
had struck down Tom Murdock; and he maintained the same opinion ever
afterward. At present, however, he had not time to philosophize upon
the thought, but rushed on.

Soon he came to the dark mass upon the road. It was Tom Murdock who
lay there stunned and insensible, but not seriously hurt by the fall.
There was nothing of heaven's lightning in the matter at all. It was
the common come-down of a stumbling horse upon a bad mountain road;
but the result was the same.

Jamesy was proceeding to thank God again, and to tie his legs, when
Tom came to.

Jamesy was sorry the man's _thrance_ did not last a little longer,
that he might have tied him, legs and arms. With his own handkerchief
and suspenders. But he was late now, and not quite sure that Tom
Murdock would not murder him also, and "make off afoot."

Here Jamesy thought he heard the hurried step of the police coming
round the last turn toward him, and as Tom was struggling to his feet,
a bright thought struck him. He "whipt" out a penknife he had in his
pocket, and, before Tom had sufficiently recovered to know what he was
about, he had cut his suspenders, and given the waist-band of his
trousers a _slip_ of the knife, opening it more than a foot down the

Tom had now sufficiently recovered to understand what had happened,
and to know the strait he was in. He had a short time before seen a
man named Wolff play Richard III. in a barn in C.O.S.; and if he did
not roar lustily, "A horse, a horse! my kingdom for a horse!" he
thought it. But his horse was nearly half a mile away, where a green
spot upon the roadside tempted him to delay a little his journey home.

Tom was not yet aware of the approach of the police. He made a
desperate swipe of his whip, which he still held in his hand, at the
boy, and sprung to his feet. But Jamesy avoided the blow by a side
jump, and kept roaring, "Police, police!" at the top of his voice. Tom
now found that he had been outwitted by this young boy. He was so
hampered by his loose trousers about his heels that he could make no
run for it, and soon became the prisoner of Sergeant Driscol and his
companion. Well done, Jamesy!



Translated from Le Monde Catholique.


Frederick Hurter, the illustrious historian of Pope Innocent III.,
died on the 27th of August, 1865, in Gratz, Austria, in the
sevens-eighth year of his age. Of all the great Catholic characters
which we have lost during the past year, there were undoubtedly very
few who have shed a greater brilliancy on our era, and still our loss
has, comparatively, passed unnoticed. Germany has certainly paid some
homage to the memory of that great Christian; but outside that country
almost general silence has enshrouded his tomb. In France, for
example, not more than three or four religious newspapers have devoted
to him even a few lines, and these all derived from a common source,
and we should not be surprised if many of our own readers should now
learn for the first time, from this notice, the death of a man so
justly celebrated.

To what, then, have we to ascribe this forgetfulness or indifference?
Perhaps a simple comparison of dates will account for it. Hurter died,
as we have stated, in the latter part of August, and La Moricière in
the early part of the following month. It is therefore natural to
conjecture that the memory of the great historian was almost
forgotten, or for the time absorbed, in the midst of the extraordinary
manifestations and triumphal funeral ceremonies which have honored the
remains of the immortal vanquished of Castelfidardo. It must be
admitted, however, that such was not just; it would have been better
to allow to each his legitimate share of respect, and, without
derogating from the glory of La Moricière, render also to Hurter the
honor to which he was so justly entitled. Beside, their names were
destined to be associated, for both have fought under the same flag,
although in a different manner. Both have been the champions of the
Papal See, one with his brave sword and the other with his not less
brave pen; and both have left magnificent footprints in the religious
annals of the nineteenth century.

Another explanation of this apparent neglect, more natural and perhaps
more truthful, might be found in the character of Frederick Hurter
itself, and in that of his last writings. A long time previous to his
death he had achieved the zenith of his fame; the latter part of his
long life being devoted to learned studies of undoubted merit and
immense advantage, but which have not had the same general attraction
as his earlier productions, particularly with the French people. We
freely acknowledge that this fact does but little credit to the
Catholic mind of France, but it is nevertheless undeniable. A kind of
comparative obscurity has covered with us the latter portion of
Hurter's life, and this, in our opinion, is the principal reason that
the news of his death has not created a deeper sensation in this

In order to repair, as far as it lies in our power, this injustice
which the Catholics of Germany might well consider unfair or
ungrateful, we would like to render, in these few pages, at least a
feeble homage to the illustrious dead. We desire to gather together a
few of the glorious remembrances which are associated with his name,
and, above all, to point out that insatiable love of truth and justice
which {116} was the distinguishing feature of his character and which
seems to have pervaded his whole being under all circumstances and at
all times.

Frederick Emmanuel Hurter was born of Protestant parents on the 19th
of May, 1787, in Schaffhausen, Switzerland. His father was prefect of
Lugano; his mother remarkable for her intellect as well as for her
decision of character, having sprung from the noble family of the
Zieglers. When scarcely six years old, the child was deeply moved at
hearing an account of the execution of Louis the Sixteenth, and before
he had attained the age of twelve years he had conceived such a
distaste for the excesses of the revolutionary spirit then prevailing
that it seems never to have forsaken him. At this early age he was an
eager student of the "History of the Seven Years' War," and declared
himself in favor of Maria Theresa and against the King of Prussia. Two
years afterward a discussion having arisen between himself, his
school-fellows, and his teacher, on the relative merits of Pompey and
Caesar, he promptly and energetically took the part of the former,
believing that in the character of the latter was to be seen the
personification of the revolutionary spirit. These were the first
germs of that admirable sense of right which distinguished him on all
occasions. There could even then be foreseen in that child the future
man destined at some day to be the defender of the most august power
in the world.

From his youth upward, and doubtless from the same feeling of being
right, he applied himself with marked attention to ascertain the true
history of that most misrepresented epoch, the middle ages, its
monastic institutions, and its great pontiffs. Of the latter St.
Gregory VII. seemed to have most attracted him, and his youthful mind
seems to have delighted in comparing him with the great men of ancient

Having finished his preliminary studies in his native town, Hurter
studied in the different classes of theology at the University of
Göttingen, whence he obtained his diploma, and, having been first
appointed pastor of an obscure village, was soon removed to

In 1824 he was appointed chancellor of the consistory; but neither his
theological studies nor the duties of his office as pastor, a calling
he had embraced through deference for his father rather than from
personal inclination, diverted him from the object of his early
predilections. Thus, while at Göttingen he found leisure to write a
"History of Theodoric, King of the Ostrogoths." It was his first essay
as historian, being at the time only twenty years old.

Later he wrote a book on the following subject, proposed by the
National Institute of France: "The Civil State during the Government
of the Goths, and the Fundamental Principles of the Legislation of
Theodoric and his Successors." But this work remained among his
manuscripts unpublished. It was at Schaffhausen that he resumed his
favorite studies on the middle ages, and completed them. His great
attraction was not, as might be expected, Gregory VII., but Innocent
III., probably on account of a collection of letters written by that
great pontiff, published by Baluze, and which he had formerly bought
at public sale at Göttingen. He certainly had not then the remotest
idea that that book would at some future day form the foundation of
his fame, and the means of a radical change in his Christian and
social life. He commenced his book on Innocent III. in 1818, but it
was not until 1833 that the first volume appeared. The second was
published the year following. In 1835 he became president of the
consistory, an office which placed him at the head of the clergy of
his district, and which he resigned after fulfilling its duties for
six years. He published the third volume of his "History of Pope
Innocent" in the meantime, and in {117} 1842 the fourth and last
volume was given to the press.

This "History" was not only a great literary success, it was more. It
produced a decided revolution in historical science. The effect of it
in Switzerland, Germany, and in fact the whole of Europe, was immense.
The extraordinary part enacted by that great Pope was seen for the
first time in its proper light. By the irresistible logic of facts,
Hurler demonstrated how the august institutions of the papacy
accomplished its mission with a success which, up to his time, had
never been conjectured. Every one became convinced that it was the
papacy alone that had mastered and tempered the overwhelming forces of
the half-civilized nations of Europe, in order to more eternal and
spiritual ends. "Since then," says Hurter himself, in his preface to
the third German edition of his first volume, page 21, "a great number
of inveterate errors were corrected, many traditional prejudices
dissipated, many doubts removed; certain minds drew light therefrom,
others found a guide in it, and others attained _conviction_ from its
pages. Comparing the present with the past, people became more
circumspect in their judgments and less inconsistent in their
conclusions, and at last an answer was found to the famous question of
the Roman governor, "What is truth?" (_Quid est veritas?_) "Truth is
what is based on the indisputable proofs of history and agrees with
the nature of all things." Sebastian Brunner, a distinguished German
writer, after reading the "History of Innocent III.," gave the
following opinion of its author: "I hold Mr. Hurter to be the greatest
of historians; no one previous to him embraces a whole century in so
admirable a picture. Hurter is the apostolic historian of the
nineteenth century." This apostleship of Frederick Hurter was the more
efficient, being exercised by a Protestant, and, what was more, by the
president of a consistory. And beside, who would not yield to the
testimony of a man whose loyalty and integrity were above all
suspicion, and who had made it the rule of his life to observe the
most rigid impartiality in all his own views; to seek nothing but the
truth, and to honor virtue and merit wherever met, without excepting
those who differed from him, so as to neglect nothing in the
accomplishment of his task in the most perfect possible manner? His
indeed were admirable qualities, particularly when we consider how
history was written in those times by writers looked upon as models
and masters. But let us not enlarge on this topic; the "History of
Innocent" is found in every library; let us rather show how that book
earned for its author a reward far greater than mere worldly

His literary success, and, what was more, the undeniable services he
had rendered to the Catholic cause, could not but excite the jealousy
and dislike of his fellow Protestants. His "Excursion to Vienna and
Presburg," which was published soon after he visited Austria, in 1839,
excited their anger to the highest degree. Blinded by their passions,
they resolved to put him on trial, so as to find him guilty and so
depose him. In his "Exposé of the Motives of his Conversion" he states
that they put him the unfair question, "Are you a Protestant at
heart?" "This question," he continues, "had no relation whatever with
the alleged facts bearing on my public office, but only with my
'History of Innocent III.' and with a visit to Vienna. I refused to
answer, because they wanted rather to discover what I disbelieved than
what I believed." This refusal excited a violent storm of indignation
against him. After trying many times to avert it, and after suffering
the most unworthy attacks with patience and fortitude, he seized his
pen and fulminated his defense under the following title, "President
Hurter and his Pretended Colleagues."

More painful trials still awaited him. Two of his daughters, one
immediately after the other, became afflicted with {118} a malady
which was soon to deprive him of them, and, while prayers for their
recovery were being offered up in all the Catholic convents of
Switzerland, his puritanical opponents exhibited the most uncharitable
joy, thrusting the dagger of grief still further into a parent's
heart. A less energetic character would doubtless have succumbed to
such cruel wounds, but Hurter remained true to the maxim of the poet:

  "Justum et tenacem propositi virum
  Non civium ardor, prava jubentium,
  Non vultus instantis _tyranni_
     Mente quatit solida. . ."

"The race of those tyrants is not yet extinct," he somewhere says. "I
find still men who desire every one to bow before them, and that
everything they do against those who dare discard such a miserable
servitude should be commended."   [Footnote 21] Hurter did better than
to imitate the ancient philosopher; he accepted his trials with truly
Christian resignation, perceiving in them the call of God to newer and
higher duties. "I discovered in them," he writes, "the means of my
salvation and my sanctification. I look upon the storm which has burst
over me as a signal on the road I have to follow. At the same time I
received the deep conviction that no peace was to be expected with
such people. My choice was therefore made. I threw off titles,
offices, and incomes, and went back to private life because I was
disgusted with a sect which, through rationalism, upset all Christian
dogmas, and, through pietism, tramples morals under foot."   [Footnote
22] What hearty frankness, what Noble feelings, and what a true sense
of justice!

  [Footnote 21: Third ed., 1st vol. (Pref. P. V.)]

  [Footnote 22: "Life of Fr. Hurter," by A. de Saint Cheron, p. 120.
  Some of the details of this article are extracted from this work, as
  well as from an article published in "Le Catholique" of Mayence, of
  September, 1865.]

Justice he demanded as well for others as for himself; therefore he
did not fear to defend the Catholic cause in his books. In his work on
the "Convents of Argovia and their Accusers" (1841), and on the
"Persecutions of the Catholic Church in Switzerland" (1843), he
denounces the tyranny of his Protestant compatriots in unmeasured
terms. For this reason, also, he went to Paris in 1843 to plead,
although in vain, the cause of the Catholics in Switzerland.

Having, as we have seen, resigned his position, he had ample leisure
to devote himself to the more profound study of the Catholic doctrine,
the dogmas of which he had already inwardly admitted. The "Symbolism"
of Moehler he found of great utility, and the "Exposition of the Holy
Mass," by Innocent III., served greatly to strengthen his religious

Hurter, however, was not precipitate. He desired that in taking so
important a step conviction should be preceded by mature deliberation.
About this time he writes: "He would certainly be mistaken who should
think that I entered the _interior_ of the Catholic Church because I
was solely led away by its external forms. I was neither a wanderer
nor hair-brained. Undoubtedly the exterior impressed me; but I was
not, however, therefore relieved from examining its fundamental
principles with due care, or from studying the interior with proper
caution. I entered it first through curiosity, a mere visitor, as it
were, and I examined everything that I saw like one who, wanting to
purchase a house, first looks closely at every part of it before
closing the bargain. In that way I think I acquired, on many points,
truer and more complete ideas than the frequenters of the house, and
those who have spent their lives in it. I have too long postponed my
free decision not to have earned the right to be able to decide
whether the house suits me or not, or if any changes be required."

It is interesting to see, in his "Exposition of Motives," the
narration of all the doubts under which he labored previous to making
a final decision; how his mind gradually approached to a knowledge of
the truth as he progressed in his investigation; how a thousand
external circumstances, designed by Providence, powerfully {119}
contributed to shake his will, and finally how his conversion was less
his own work than the effect of that divine favor solicited by
Catholic charity, of which he speaks so feelingly in his "Geburt und

The struggle was at last over. On the 16th of June, the feast of St.
Francis Regis, he formally made his abjuration before Cardinal Ostini,
formerly nuncio in Switzerland, at the Roman college, and five days
afterward, on the feast of St. Louis de Gonzaga, he received the
blessed sacrament in the presence of an immense congregation of the
faithful. The prophetic words of Gregory XVI. were then confirmed:
"_Spero che lei sera mio figlio_" (I hope that one day you will be my
son). The church and her head numbered one child more. God had thus
rewarded by his grace the perfect sincerity which the humble penitent
had ever made the rule of his life. We may also be allowed to believe
that the sweet protection of the Mother of God had efficaciously
operated in his favor, for even while a Protestant he had many times
pleaded her cause with his brethren.

The news of his conversion created quite different feelings. If the
great Catholic family rejoiced, and with unanimous voice thanked God
for having favorably heard their prayers, Protestantism felt wounded
to the very heart. The reason is easily understood. The edifying
example of humility exhibited by a man like Hurter was necessary to
win over a great number of souls until then irresolute and wavering,
as some planets attract their satellites in space.

As to him, full of gratitude toward God, his soul replete with light
and peace, his head high and serene, he went back to his native town
to resume his literary labors in retirement, as well as to undergo a
series of new persecutions, the last consecration of the Christian. "I
am not so narrow-minded," he wrote some time afterward, "that I did
not expect wicked judgments, base calumnies, and every kind of insult.
Facts have, however, far exceeded my anticipations, and I must confess
that I did not think those men capable of going so far in their
wickedness." Finally it became impossible for Hurter to remain longer
at Schaffhausen, and, beside, a new and better career was soon opened
for him. He received from Vienna an invitation to become the
historiographer of the empire. He accepted the appointment and entered
upon the fulfilment of its duties. Safe from the interruptions caused
by the troubles of 1848, he soon after accepted the position, of privy
councillor and the patent of nobility which were tendered him.

The last portion of his life was devoted to the practice of Christian
virtues and to the completion of his great work on Ferdinand II. To
this book he devoted twenty years' arduous labor, and was fortunate
enough to complete it one year previous to his death.

In commencing this work Hurter collected all his powerful faculties,
intending to display in its composition all that remarkable mental
energy with which he had been gifted by nature. With incredible
patience he examined one after another thousands of documents of all
kinds long buried in the archives of the empire, and most of which
were utterly unknown even to the learned. He could not understand to
be history that which was not supported by undeniable documents. _Quod
non est in actis, non est in mundo_, was his maxim--a maxim, alas!
which is too often neglected by the generality of our modern
historians. Nothing excelled his perseverance, I might almost say his
rapture, when he desired to throw light on an obscure fact, to fill a
hiatus, or to discover any historical truth. Never, perhaps, were
scruples of accuracy, and at the same time independence of thought and
courage in expression, carried to greater limits. Let us add, that
when composing the "History of Ferdinand II." he was filled with a
strong sympathy for his subject, and {120} in his admiration for that
great man he could, like Tacitus, console himself with the sight of
like grievances, and say with the Roman historian: _Ego hoc quoque
laboris praemium petam, ut me a conspectu malorum, quae nostra tot per
annos vidit aetas, tantisper, aum prisca illa tota mente repeto,
avertam, omnis expers curae quae scribentis animum, etsi non flectere
a vero, sollicitum tamen efficere possit._

This work of Hurter's consists of eleven volumes. The first seven
comprise the history of events from the reign of Archduke Charles,
father of Ferdinand II., to the coronation of the latter prince; the
remaining four being exclusively devoted to the reign of Ferdinand. In
this comprehensive review of the events of that epoch the illustrious
author has shown, by the light of true history, the great emperor and
all the principal personages by whom he was surrounded, or in any way
connected; particularly portraying the Archduke Charles, the
Archduchess Maria, that splendid model of a Christian mother, Gustavus
Adolphus of Sweden, Tilly, and Wallenstein. Hurter studied the
character of the latter with particular zeal, first in his sketch of
the "Material to be used for the History of Wallenstein" (1855), and
then in the more elaborate monography, "The last Four Years of
Wallenstein" (1862), and finally in the "History of Ferdinand" itself.
He arrives at the conclusion that the Duke of Friedland had really
been guilty of treason, and that his tragic end is in no way to be
attributed to Ferdinand. At the same time he does full justice to the
great qualities of Wallenstein, acknowledging in him great capacity
for organization, wonderful activity, and almost regal liberality; nor
does he hesitate to class him among not only the greatest men of his
age, but of all time.

But, as may be well understood, his great central figure was
Ferdinand, whom he considers a most admirable and accomplished type of
all the virtues surrounding royalty, notwithstanding his memory has
been burthened with such foul calumnies by Protestant historians and
their copyists. To relieve his name from these unjust aspersions was a
task worthy of the genius of the historian of Innocent III. Having
shown in the life of that pontiff the true embodiment of the Christian
principles of the supreme priesthood, should he not also point out a
temporal prince as the personification of genuine Catholic royalty?

We would desire to reproduce here the incomparable portrait of
Ferdinand as it has been drawn by Hurter in his last volume, but,
unfortunately, the limits of this article do not permit it. What
compensates us, in some measure, for being able to give only so feeble
an idea of that great work is, that we hope soon to see the _studies_
undertaken to speak of it more fully. We hope also that a competent
translator will be soon found to give to France that work which, with
the "History of Innocent III.," will immortalize the name of Hurter.

Yes, the great historian shall live in his writings, in which he has
shown a soul so strong, so firm, so just, so humble, and yet so proud;
so earnestly devoted to truth and so deeply adverse to falsehood,
meanness, and hypocrisy. He will live in those countless works of
charity of which he was the ever efficient author. He will live in the
remembrance of so many hearts he has edified by his pious example,
strengthened by his advice, and brought back to the true path by his
admonitions. He will live, also, in the perpetual and grateful regard
of a company, always so dear to him, to which he has given one of his
sons, and whose motto he was proud to quote on the frontispiece of his
great work. _Ad majorem Dei gloriam_.

We will end this sketch by repeating the words which an apostolic
missionary, now a cardinal, once applied to the great historian; they
cannot be {121} better or more happily chosen to sum up his whole
life. Twenty years ago, after being a witness to his conversion, the
Abbé de Bonnechose, writing from Rome, says of him: "_Justum deduxit
Dominus per vias rectas et ostendit illi regnum Dei, et dedit illi
scientiam sanctorum; honestavit illum in laboribus et complevit
labores illius_" (Sap. x.) Yes, Hurter's mind was right, and God led
him by the hand. He has shown him his kingdom on earth, the church of
Christ, and the chair of Peter, where his authority sits enthroned,
where he speaks and governs in the person of his vicar. It was he who
endowed him with a knowledge of the science and philosophy of his
doctrine and of the divine mysteries of the faith, and inspired in him
those noble ideas the end and aim of which ought always to be the
worship and exaltation of the true church, and the defence of the
pontificate when calumniated. He has blessed the labors which have
been conducted with such success, filling them with spirit and energy,
to the end that they may bear the fruits of immortality! _Honestavit
illum in laboribus et complevit labores illius._





  To seek relief from doubt in doubt,
    From woe in woe, from sin in sin--
  Is but to drive a tiger out,
    And let a hungry wolf come in.

  Who helps a knave in knavery.
  But aids an ape to climb a tree!
  On an ape's head a crown you fling;
  Say--Will that make the ape a king?

  Know you why the lark's sweet lay
    Man's divinest nature reaches?
  He is up at break of day
    Learning all that nature teaches.

  The record of past history brings
  Wisdom of sages, saints, and kings;
  The more we read those reverend pages
  The more we honor bygone ages!

  Whate'er befit--whate'er befal.
  One general law commandeth all:
  There's no confusion in the springs
  That move all sublunary things.
  All harmony is heaven's vast plan--
  All discord is the work of man!


From The Sixpenny Magazine.


There has lately issued from the press a work under the title which
heads our article, and which is amusing and instructive in the highest
degree. Were it not written by a man whose ability and character are
pledges for his veracity, we should rank it with Harrison Ainsworth's
efforts, and designate it as an almost impossible romance. It has, as
we think, appeared at a very opportune and timely juncture, and, in
our opinion, Mr. Fitzpatrick is entitled to great praise for the
talent, industry, and research evidenced in his volume.

Francis Higgins, the hero of Mr. Fitzpatrick's remarkable biographical
sketch, and familiarly known by the title of "The Sham Squire," was
born nobody exactly knows where, and reared nobody knows how. He
commenced his career, however, in stirring times, and when great
events were in their parturition, during which the history of Ireland
presents a series of panoramic images--a mixture of light and
shadow--instances of devoted fidelity and abounding rascality--
groupings of mistaken enthusiasm, selfish venality, and the most
abhorrent domestic treason--such as we in vain look for in the annals
of any other country or any other age. It is supposed that Higgins was
born in a Dublin cellar, and while yet of tender years became
successively "errand-boy, shoeblack, and waiter in a
public-house"--improving trades for one of so ripe a spirit, but which
he soon left, directed by a vaulting ambition, in order to become a
writing-clerk in an attorney's office. While in this position, he
commenced practice on his own account, by rejecting popery as
unfashionable and impolitic, and by forging a series of legal
documents purporting to show to all "inquiring friends" that he was a
man of property and a government official. He had an object in this,
as he was by this time to appear in a new character, as the lover of
Miss Mary Anne Archer, who possessed a tolerable fortune and a foolish
old father. Miss Archer happened to be a Roman Catholic, and was
strong in her faith; but this was only a trifle to Higgins, who again
forsook the new creed for the old, and proved thereby, like Richard,
"a thriving wooer." They were married, and the Archer _père_ did at
last what he ought to have done at first, ferreted out the real
antecedents of his precious son-in-law, and discovered that he had a
very clever fellow to deal with; while his daughter, finding, after a
short time, that her husband was "by no means a desirable one," fled
back to her bamboozled parent, who straightway indicted the pretender.
Higgins was found guilty and imprisoned for a year, and it was during
Judge Robinson's charge to the jury that he fastened the name of the
"Sham Squire" on the prisoner, a sobriquet which stuck to him
persistently during the remainder of his life, and proved a greater
infliction to his vanity than an apparently heavier penalty would have
been. This was in 1767. "Poor Mary Anne" died of a broken heart, and
her parents survived her for only a short lime; while the widower, in
order to make his prison life endurable, paid his addresses to the
daughter of the gaoler and eventually married her, as her father was
pretty well to do in the world, the situation being a {123}
money-making one, as the order of that day was, as proved before the
Irish House of Commons, that "persons were unlawfully kept in prison
and loaded with irons, although not duly committed by a magistrate,
until they had complied with the most exorbitant demands." When the
Sham's term of a year's imprisonment ended, he had life to begin anew,
and for some years we find him exercising many vocations, such as
"setter" for excise officers, billiard-marker, hosier, etc. For an
assault as a "setter," he was again tried and again convicted; but
nothing daunted, as his old webs were broken, he proceeded in the
construction of new. In 1775, we not only find him "a hosier," but
president of the Guild of Hosiers; and in 1780 his services were
engaged by Mr. David Gibbal, conductor of the "Freeman's Journal,"
then, as now, one of the most popular and well-conducted papers in
Ireland. But from the period of the Sham Squire's connection with it,
it seems to have degenerated, as in April, 1784, the journals of the
Irish House of Commons show an "order" that "Francis Higgins, one of
the conductors of the 'Freeman's Journal,' do attend this house
to-morrow morning." He did so, and escaped with a reproof. Having
gained some knowledge of law in the solicitor's office, we now find
him anxious to become an attorney, which end he accomplished by the
aid and influence of his friend and patron John Scott, afterward
chief-justice, and elevated to the peerage as Lord Clonmel, rather for
his political talents than his professional ones. From 1784 to 1787
Higgins also acted as deputy coroner for Dublin. By a series of
manoeuvres he became the sole proprietor of the "Freeman's Journal,"
and became at once what is called in Ireland "a castle hack." Both as
attorney and editor, the Sham Squire was now a man of importance, and
many called in on him. Shrewd, sharp, and clever, with a glib tongue
and a facile pen, no business was either too difficult or too dirty
for him. He was made a justice of the peace by Lord Carhampton, who,
as Colonel Luttrell, was designated by Grattan as "a clever bravo,
ready to give an insult, and perhaps capable of bearing one;" in fact,
the last allusion was deserved, as Luttrell had been called "vile and
infamous" by Scott without resenting it. Lord Carhampton became
commander-in-chief in Ireland, and during the outbreak of '98 was a
merciless foe to the rebels who fell into his hands. Higgins, by this
time, had become a great man, and lived in St. Stephen's Green, in
magnificent style, keeping his coach and entertaining the nobility. He
was a loyalist of the rosiest hue, and thought no mission too
derogatory by which he might show his zeal. He attended divine service
regularly, and that over, proceeded to "Crane Lane," in order to count
over and receive his share of the gains in a gambling house of which
he was principal proprietor, and which his influence with the police
magistrates prevented the suppression of--then to his editorial
duties, which were to uphold the measures of government and its
officials, and to lampoon, cajole, or threaten all who dared to oppose

It was in the disastrous period of '98, however, that the Sham
Squire's most sterling qualities came into active requisition, as
evidenced by the following extract of a letter written by the
Secretary Cooke to Lord Cornwallis, then lord lieutenant of Ireland.
"Francis Higgins," he writes, "proprietor of the 'Freeman's Journal,'
was the person who procured for me all the intelligence respecting
Lord Edward Fitzgerald, and got--to set him, and has given me
otherwise much information--£300;" meaning thereby that his
excellency should sanction that annual amount for "secret service,"
out of a sum of £15,000, specially laid aside for that purpose. Beside
this, however, a lump sum of £1000 was given to Higgins on the 20th of
June, 1798, for the betrayal of his friend; and, independent of this,
a confederate of his named Francis Magan, a barrister, {124} and a
close ally of Lord Edward, and who positively "set" the unfortunate
nobleman at Higgins's instigation, received £600 and a pension of £200
per annum for the worthy deed. Probably the most startling of all
these revelations of domestic treachery was the conduct of Leonard
McNally, barrister at law, and selected "for his ability, truth, zeal,
and sterling honesty," as Curran's assistant in defending the
prisoners implicated in the rebellion. This fellow seems to have
outsoared even Higgins and Magan in his duplicity, since not alone did
he keep government duly informed of the movements of the suspected,
but when on their trial he exhibited the greatest activity in
suggesting points for their defence, seconding his celebrated leader
in his unwearied endeavors to save them, although he had previously
made known to the law officers what course the accused men's counsel
meant to take for the day, so that Curran and his legal friends were
puzzled and surprised at having their best-concocted measures
anticipated and baffled, although not a man of them ever thought of
looking to "honest Mac" as the cause. For this and other services
McNally received some thousands, and was gratified, in addition, with
a pension of £300 per annum. Singularly enough, the terrible secrets
of Magan and McNally were well kept until long after their deaths, and
until the publication of the "Cornwallis Papers" enabled inquirers to
strike on the true vein. Both these men are said to have been
corrupted by the Sham Squire, who seems to have been the
Mephistopheles of his time; but a still more notorious "informer,"
because an open one, was Reynolds--Tom Reynolds--who was promised a
pension of £2000 a year and a seat in parliament for his services, but
did not receive quite so much. In 1798, however, he received £5000 and
a pension of £1000 a year; and as his demands were always importunate,
it is known that during the remainder of his life he extracted £45,740
from his employers. Reynolds went abroad and died there, as Ireland
would hardly have been for him either a safe or a pleasant residence;
but Magan and McNally lived at home for many a goodly year, and were
looked upon as honest men and sterling patriots to the last. Higgins
did not long survive his victims; he died suddenly, in 1802, worth
£20,000, a greater part of which, strange to say, he left for
charitable purposes!

In reviewing thus the history of this Irish Jonathan Wild and his
detestable comrogues, our object must, we hope, be evident. Their
lives and actions are instructive in many ways, and never promised to
be more so than now. What happened then may happen again; treason will
be dogged by traitors to the end. Fear and avarice are omnipotent
counsellors, and, when coupled with talent and ingenuity, marvellous
indeed are the misery they can cause and the wide-spread devastation
that travels in their track. That a needy and unscrupulous vagabond
like Higgins should hunt his dearest friends to the scaffold is not to
be wondered at; but that men of position and education like Reynolds,
McNally, and Magan should join in the chase, and for years after look
honest men in the face, evinces a hardihood of disposition and a
callosity of conscience which, as a lesson, is instructive, and, as an
utter disregard of remorseful feeling, appears all but impossible. No
doubt such miscreants excuse their crimes on a plea of loyalty, and
the plea would be all-sufficient had they not stipulated for the
price, and had they not exulted in receiving it. There is something
especially abhorrent to our natures in those wretches who voluntarily
plunge into the ranks of anarchy and disaffection at one time, and
then, when cowardice or cupidity overcomes them, overleap all the
boundaries of honor and faith, and trade on the blood or suffering of
the unfortunate men who placed their liberties or lives in their


In the notes which Mr. Fitzpatrick has appended to his biography of
the "Sham Squire" as "addenda" we have some well-authenticated and
racy revelations of many of the singular Irish characters who
flourished during the last thirty or forty years of the last century,
and in the first few years of the beginning of this. Ireland appears
to have been the "paradise of adventurers" in that day, as the times
appear to have been out of joint, and the habits and general _morale_
of the upper and middle ranks were to the last degree loose and
irregular. As the manners and modes of action of a people are in a
considerable degree fashioned and influenced by the example set them
by those who are placed in authority over them, it is not too much to
assert that a great deal of the lax morality, unscrupulous spirit, and
general demoralization were produced by some of the occupants of the
vice-regal throne, and their "courts," the character and course of
life of whom are painted by our author in anything but a seductive
way. Brilliancy, show, pleasure, wit, and extravagance were the order
of the day; lords-lieutenant were either dissipated _roués_, or
incompetent imbeciles, and in either case they were sure to be coerced
or cajoled by a mercenary tribe of political adventurers, who directed
their actions and influenced their minds. We at once see by the
wholesale corruption practised to bring about the Union, how utterly
depraved must have been the men who openly or covertly prostituted
themselves, when it was in contemplation; and never was political
profligacy more open and more daring in its violation of honor,
probity, and principle than in the abject submission of the Irish
parliament, and its unhesitating anxiety to sell themselves, souls and
bodies, to those who tempted them, and who had studied them far too
accurately not to be sure of their prey. Amongst those who consented
to accept the remuneration thus profusely offered them the lawyers
bore a very prominent part; in fact, government could hardly have
succeeded without their aid; of these, Fitzgibbon, afterward Lord
Clare and chancellor, was the most forward and efficient. There was
never a man better adapted for the work he had to do. Bold, active,
astute, and unscrupulous, he could be all things to all men; those
whom he could not cajole, he frightened; equally ready with the pen,
the pistol, and the tongue, he was neither to be daunted nor silenced;
terrible in his vengeance, no windings of his victims could escape
him; and extravagant in his generosity (when the public purse had to
bear the blunt), his jackals and partisans felt that their reward was
sure, and therefore never hesitated to comply with his most exact
demands. Few men had a larger number of followers, therefore, and no
man ever made a more unscrupulous use of them. He had nothing of the
recusant about him, however, and first and last he was consistent to
his party and to the Protestant creed which he had adopted in early
life, for he had been born and partly reared in the Roman Catholic
faith. In his personal demeanor he was a lion-hearted man; when hissed
in the streets by the populace he calmly produced his pistols; and
once, on hearing that a political meeting against the Union was being
held, he rushed into the middle of the assembled mass, commanded the
high-sheriff to quit the chair, and so closed the meeting. On the
bench he was equally fearless, and when recommended to beware of
treachery, his answer was, "They dare not; I have made them as tame as
cats." "If I live," he said, "to see the Union completed, to my latest
hour I shall feel an honorable pride in reflecting on the share I had
in contributing to effect it." He did live to see it, and to take his
seat in the British parliament; but matters were altogether altered
there. In his maiden effort he was rebuked by Lord Suffolk, called to
order by the lord chancellor, while the Duke of Bedford indignantly
snubbed him by {126} exclaiming, "We would not bear such insults from
our _equals_, and shall we, my lords, tolerate them at the hands of
mushroom nobility?" while, to cap the climax, Pitt, after hearing him,
turned to Wilberforce, and said loud enough to be heard by Lord Clare,
"Good G--d! did you ever, in all your life, listen to so
thorough-paced a scoundrel as that!" Disappointed and despairing, he
returned to Ireland, and died of a broken heart, while almost the last
words he uttered to a friend were, "Only to think of it! I that had
all Ireland at my disposal cannot now procure the nomination of a
single gauger!"

John Scott, afterward Lord Chief-Justice Clonmel, was another
prominent actor in those busy times. His birth was lowly, but his
talents were considerable; he was light and flippant rather than
profound, and he felt to the last a terrible mortification that his
claims had been postponed to those of Lord Clare. He had neither the
grasp of mind, nor the unhesitating manner of the chancellor, however;
he was apt to surround himself with companions, like the "Sham
Squire," for instance, who might be pleasant but were by no means
reputable. Beside, his character for probity was distrusted; his first
uprise in life was his wholesale appropriation of the property of a
Catholic friend which he held in trust, as Catholics, at that time,
could not retain property in their hands, and which he refused to
disgorge. He was both venal and vindictive, and but too often
prostituted his authority in pursuit of his passions. On one occasion,
however, he was signally discomfited. A man of the name of Magee, who
owned and edited the "Evening Post," had frequently come under the
lash, and was treated with no mercy. Magee's vengeance took a curious
form. Lord Clonmel was an ardent lover of horticulture, and had spent
many thousand pounds in making his suburban villa a "model." Magee
knew this, and as the chief demesne was skirted by an open common from
which a thick hedge alone separated it, the journalist proclaimed a
rural _fête_, on an enormous scale, to be held on the vacant ground,
and to which the whole Dublin population, gentle and simple, were
invited. Meats and liquors were given to an unlimited extent, and, in
the evening, when the "roughs" were primed with whiskey, several pigs
(shaved and with their tails well soaped) were let out as part of the
amusement of the day. By preconcert, the affrighted animals were
driven against Lord Clonmel's inclosure, which they speedily
over-leaped, followed by the mob. Trees, shrubs, flowers, vases, and
statues were in a wonderfully short time demolished in the "fun,"
while, to make the matter still more deplorable, the owner of the
property thus wantonly devoted to revenge stood on the steps of his
own hall-door, and with alternate fits of imprecation and entreaty
besought the spoilers to desist, but in vain. Toward the close of his
life, Lord Clonmel became a hypochondriac, and, supposing himself to
be a tea-pot, hardly ventured to stir abroad lest he should be broken.
On one occasion, his great forensic antagonist, Curran, was told that
Clonmel was going to die at last, and was asked if he believed it. "I
believe," was the reply, "that he is scoundrel enough to live or die
_just as it meets his convenience_." Shortly before his death he said
to Lord Cloncurry, "My dear Val, I have been a fortunate man, or what
the world calls so; I am chief-justice and an earl; but were I to
begin life again, I would rather be a chimney-sweeper, than consent to
be connected with the Irish government."

Another "celebrity" was John Taler, "bully, butcher, and buffoon," who
was afterward a peer and a judge. He was a bravo in the house and a
despot on the bench. He jested with the wretched he condemned, and
seemed never so happy as when {127} the scaffold was before his eyes.
He was ignorant but ferocious, and when he could not conquer an
opponent he would browbeat him.

"Give me a long day, my lord," said a culprit, whom he had just

"I am sorry to say I can't oblige you, my friend," replied Lord
Norbury, smiling; "but I promise you a strong rope, which I suppose
will answer your purpose as well."

When he died, and was about to be lowered into the grave himself, the
tackle was rather short.

"Tare-an-agers, boys, don't spare the _rope_ on his lordship; don't
you know he was always fond of it?" said one of the standers-by.

"I never saw a human face that so closely resembles that of a
bull-dog!" remarked one barrister to another in court.

"Let him get a grip of your throat, and you will find the resemblance
still closer," was the reply.

These and a hundred others, their equals, instruments, and
subordinates, may be supposed to represent the Irish "turnspit"
element; it must be acknowledged, however, that in contradistinction
to them, there were sounding examples of men of a different and far
superior class, such as the Leinsters, Charlemonts, Plunketts,
Currans, Ponsonbys, and so forth, who would have adorned any country,
and who certainly contributed to relieve their own from the almost
intolerable odium which the wholesale venal profligacy of a large
number had brought upon it.


From Once a Week.



  King Robert on his death-bed lay, wasted in every limb,
  The priests had left, Black Douglas now alone was watching him;
  The earl had wept to hear those words, "When I am gone to doom,
  Take thou my heart and bear it straight unto the Holy Tomb."


  Douglas shed bitter tears of grief--he loved the buried man.
  He bade farewell to home and wife, to brother and to clan;
  And soon the Bruce's heart embalm'd, in silver casket lock'd,
  Within a galley, white with sails, upon the blue waves rock'd.


  In Spain they rested, there the king besought the Scottish earl
  To drive the Saracens from Spain, his galley sails to furl;
  It was the brave knight's eagerness to quell the Paynim brood.
  That made him then forget the oath he'd sworn upon the rood.


  That was his sin; good angels frown'd upon him as he went
  With vizor down and spear in rest, lips closed, and black brow bent:
  Upon the turbans, fierce he spurr'd, the charger he bestrode
  Was splash'd with blood, the robes and flags he trampled on the road.



  The Moors came fast with cymbal clash and tossing javelin,
  Ten thousand horsemen, at the least, on Castille closing in;
  Quick as the deer's foot snaps the ice, the Douglas thundered through,
  And struck with sword and smote with axe among the heathen crew.


  The horse-tail banners beaten down, the mounted archers fled--
  There came full many an Arab curse from faces smear'd with red,
  The vizor fell, a Scottish spear had struck him on the breast;
  Many a Moslem's frighten'd horse was bleeding head and chest.


  But suddenly the caitiffs turn'd and gathered like a net,
  In closed the tossing sabres fast, and they were crimson wet,
  Steel jarr'd on steel--the hammers smote on helmet and on sword,
  But Douglas never ceased to charge upon that heathen horde.


  Till all at once his eager eye discerned amid the fight
  St. Clair of Roslyn, Bruce's friend, a brave and trusty knight.
  Beset with Moors who hew'd at him with sabres dripping blood--
  Twas in a rice-field where he stood close to an orange wood.


  Then to the rescue of St. Clair Black Douglas spurred amain,
  The Moslems circled him around, and shouting charged again;
  Then took he from his neck the heart, and as the case he threw,
  "Pass first in fight," he cried aloud, "as thou wert wont to do."


  They found him ere the sun had set upon that fatal day,
  His body was above the case, that closely guarded lay.
  His swarthy face was grim in death, his sable hair was stain'd
  With the life-blood of a felon Moor, whom he had struck and brain*d.


  Sir Simon Lockhart, knight of Lee, bore home the silver case.
  To shrine it in a stately grave and in a holy place,
  The Douglas deep in Spanish ground they left in royal tomb.
  To wait in hope and patient trust the trumpet of the doom.




  [Footnote 23: "Personal Reminiscences of the Life and Times of
  Gardiner Spring, Pastor of the Brick Presbyterian Church in the City
  of New York." 2 vols. 12mo. New York: Charles Scribner & Company.]

Few persons who have lived much in New York during the last quarter of
a century are not familiar with the dignified, resolute, yet kindly
countenance of the pastor of the Brick Presbyterian church. Fewer
still are ignorant of his reputation as a leading and representative
man in his denomination; a keen polemic; a great promoter of
missionary, tract, and Bible societies; and, we may add, a very
determined enemy of the Pope of Rome and all his aiders and abettors.
For more than fifty-five years he has preached to the same
congregation which gave him a call when he was first licensed as a
minister. During his career thirteen Presidents of the United States,
from Washington to Lincoln, have died; three Kings of England have
been laid in their graves; the horrors of the Reign of Terror, the
execution of Louis XVI., the rise and fall of the first Napoleon, the
shifting scenes of the Restoration, the Orleans rule, the second
Republic and the second Empire, have hurried each other across the
stage of French history. He has long passed the scriptural term of the
life of man; and now, at the almost patriarchal age of eighty-one, he
gives us a collection of reminiscences of what he has seen and done
during this protracted and eventful career.

It would be natural to suppose that such a book by such a man must be
full of interest. As one of the recognized leaders of a rich and
influential religious denomination, and one of the oldest and most
respectable citizens of the first city of America, how many historical
characters must he have met! to how many important events must he have
been a witness! But any one who takes up these volumes in the hope of
obtaining through them a clearer view of persons and times gone by,
will be disappointed. They are interesting, it is true, but not, we
will venture to say, in the way their author meant them to be. They
cause us to wonder that the doctor should have seen so much and
remembered so little. Yet as a picture of the life of a representative
Presbyterian preacher and a complete exposure of the utter emptiness
of the Presbyterian religion, these garrulous and random
"Reminiscences" are the most entertaining pages we have read for many
a month. We propose to cull for our readers a few of the most
interesting passages.

Dr. Spring was born in Newburyport, Massachusetts, Feb. 24, 1785. His
father was a minister, of whom the son says that "he would not shave
his face on the Lord's day, nor allow his wife to sew a button on her
son's vest; and on one occasion, when his nephew, the late Adolphus
Spring, Esq., arrived in haste on a Saturday evening with the message
that his father was on his bed of death, he would not mount his horse
for the journey of seventy miles until the Sabbath sun had gone down."
Though young Gardiner used to wonder, when a boy, why he was not
allowed to participate in the customary sports of children, he seems
to have preserved a warm affection for both his parents, of whom he
speaks in a loving and reverential tone which we cannot too carefully
respect. The thought that most affected him on their death was {130}
"_that he had lost their prayers._" Gardiner was sent to Yale College
at the age of fifteen, and during "a remarkable outpouring of the
Spirit" upon that rather unregenerate institution, in the year 1803,
he became, for a season, "hopefully pious." He had been uneasy for
some time about the state of his soul, and one afternoon he resolved
to pray, several hours, if necessary, until his sins were forgiven.
"There," he says, "in the south entry of the old college, back side,
middle room, third story, I wrestled with God as I had never wrestled
before." The result of this spiritual struggle we do not profess to
understand. He says that he rose from his knees without any hope that
he had found mercy, yet feeling considerably relieved. For several
weeks he went about, peaceful and happy, when, unluckily, the Fourth
of July came, with its speeches and fireworks, and his "religious
hopes and impressions all vanished as a morning cloud, and as the
early dew." It was five or six years before they came back again.

When he graduated his father came to hear him speak, and at the close
of the exercises gave him his blessing and told him to shift for
himself. So, there he was, twenty years old, with four dollars in his
pocket and a profession yet to be acquired. He borrowed two hundred
and fifty dollars from a generous friend, obtained a situation as
precentor in a church, opened a singing school, and applied himself
zealously to the study of law. Before long he married a young lady as
poor as himself, and went with her in 1806 to Bermuda, where he taught
school for some time very successfully; but rumors of war between this
country and Great Britain drove him back to the United States, and in
his twenty-fourth year he entered upon the practice of the law at New

In the meanwhile those uneasy feelings of the soul, which he seems
unable to analyze (though we warrant a good confessor would quickly
have solved his perplexities) had not left him at peace. He writes to
his father from Bermuda upon the state of his interior man:

  "I should wish to go to heaven, because I should be pleased, with
  its employment. Were all my sins mortified and I rendered perfectly
  holy, I think I should the happy. . . . . Sometimes I can say, Lord,
  I believe; help thou mine unbelief. .... I am avaricious; and in the
  present state of my family, make money my god. I strain honesty _as
  far as I can_ to gain a little."

This was certainly not a satisfactory condition of things. The lust
for mammon seems strong enough, but the aspirations for heaven might
well have been rather more ardent. He goes to church and sings and
weeps, and the minister and elders crowd around him to see what is the
matter. He goes to prayer-meeting at last in New Haven, and there the
conversion--such as it is--is effected: "As the exercises closed and
the crowded worshippers rose to sing the doxology, I felt that I could
'praise God from whom all blessings flow.' Praise! praise! It was
delightful to praise him! On the 24th of April following, I united
with the visible church under Mr. Stuart's pastorate, and began to be
an active Christian."

We must say that this seems to be a very simple and easy process of
getting out of the power of the devil. Conversion, according to Dr.
Spring's idea, is simply an emotion of the mind, a spasm of sentiment.
It includes neither satisfaction for the past, nor the performance of
any definite religious duty in the present or the future. Any one who
can excite himself into the belief that he is regenerate, or tickle
his mind into the pleasant state indicated by the man who, when asked,
"How it felt to get religion?" replied that "it was just like having
warm water poured down your back"--any such one, we say, may rest
assured of his eternal safety. Dr. Spring is no more exacting with
other candidates for conversion than he was with himself. To a sick
man who inquires "what he shall do?" he answers: "Believe on the Lord
Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved."


"But will you not tell me _how_ I shall go to him?"

"Yes, I can tell you; you must not go in your own strength; for your
strength is weakness. You must not go in your own righteousness, for
you have none. You must feel your need of Christ, and see that he is
just the Saviour adapted to your wants. You must adore, and love, and
trust him. . . . . Commit to him your entire salvation, and in all
holy 'obedience live devoted to his service.'" Now in all this there
is just one practical suggestion, namely, to "live devoted to God's
service"--and that the man could not follow because he was dying. Let
our readers contrast Dr. Spring's death-bed ministrations with what a
Catholic priest would have said and done in similar circumstances. The
priest would have given definite instruction and divine sacraments;
the preacher has nothing better to offer than a few commonplace
generalities from his last Sunday's sermon.

But we must return to the reverend doctor's biography. Close upon the
heels of his conversion came the resolution to be a minister. The
pecuniary difficulties in the way of this change of profession were
soon obviated by the generosity of a rich widow of Salem. There was
another obstacle, however, of a more serious nature. This was Mrs.
Spring. She was "not a professed Christian." She was "a worldly
woman." She sought the honors of the world. She did not want to be a
minister's wife. The doctor had a great respect for her. He was afraid
to tell her of his resolution. We must let him describe in his own
words how he got out of the difficulty:

  "I then began a course of conduct which I have ever since pursued,
  and that was, in all cases where my own duty was plain, and my
  resolution formed, quietly to carry my resolution into effect, and
  meet the storm afterward. I did so in the present instance, though
  there was no other storm than a plentiful shower of tears. I said
  nothing to my wife; nothing to any one except Mr. Evarts. I sent my
  wife on a visit to my only sister, the wife of the Hon. Bezaleel
  Taft, at Uxbridge, the native place of my father, where I engaged in
  a few weeks to meet her, and make a further visit to Newburyport.
  She had no suspicion of my views, and left me with the confident
  expectation that she would return to New Haven.

  "In the meantime, after she left me, I was busily employed in
  arranging my affairs for my removal to Andover. I announced my
  purpose to the church at the next prayer-meeting, and received a
  fresh impulse from their prayers and benedictions. Mr. Evarts took
  my office and my business, and closed up my unsettled accounts with
  his accustomed accuracy, and my ledger now records them. Mr. Smith,
  my old teacher, laughed at me; Judge Daggett was silent. Judge
  Rossiter said to me, 'Mr. Spring, the pulpit is your place; you were
  formed for the pulpit rather than the bar.' My business in New Haven
  was closed; my debts paid; my household furniture, small as it was,
  was carefully stowed away; my law library, worth about four hundred
  dollars, was disposed of, and I was on my way to Uxbridge,
  Newburyport, Salem, and Andover.

  "When I reached Uxbridge, and was once more in the bosom of my
  little family, I felt that the trial had come. I could not at once
  disclose my plans to my wife, and was saved that painful interview
  by the suspicions of Mr. Taft, who told her that he believed I was
  going to be a clergyman! She laughed at him; but she saw a change in
  my deportment, and began to suspect it herself. I told her all. She
  went to her chamber and wept for a long time. But she came down,
  subdued indeed, but placid as a lamb, and simply said, 'It is all
  over now; I am ready.' Oh, how kindly has God watched over me! It
  seems as though the promise was fulfilled, 'Return unto thy country
  and to thy kindred, and I will deal well with thee.' Some day or two
  before we left Uxbridge, Mr. Taft said to me, 'Brother Spring, I
  have a case before Justice Adams this morning; you are still a
  lawyer, and I want you to go and argue it with me.' The thought
  struck me pleasantly, and I resolved to go; but instead of assisting
  him, without his knowledge I engaged myself to what I thought the
  weaker party; and my last effort at the bar was in battling with my
  sister's husband, and in the place of my father's nativity."


After eight months devoted to the study of theology at the Andover
seminary, Mr. Spring was licensed to preach and received a call from
the Brick church in New York. As a preliminary to his ordination, it
was necessary for him to preach a trial sermon before the presbytery,
and to submit to an examination as to his orthodoxy. In this latter
test he did not give unqualified satisfaction, nevertheless they
passed him, and he was duly ordained to the pastorship. As a salve, we
suppose, for their consciences, the presbytery deputed the Rev. Dr.
Milledollar, one of their number, to talk with the young minister, and
try to reason him out of certain heterodox opinions which he
entertained upon the subject of human ability. The result of the
interview was that, in Dr. Milledollar's judgment, "the best way of
curing a man of such views was to dip his head in cold water."

It was but a dismal religion of which he now became the minister.
Tears, gloom, discomfort, and brokenness of heart were the
characteristics of the spiritual life, and peace of mind was an
alarming symptom of the dominion of the devil. "Newark is again highly
favored," writes the minister to his parents: "there are not less than
five hundred persons _very solemn_." "My people appear solemn; they
were so at the lecture on Thursday evening." "I preached on Monday to
a very solemn audience at my own house." "The state of things in the
congregation, notwithstanding the war, is looking up. Our public
meetings and our social gatherings are more full and more solemn." He
visits Paris, and there passes an evening with a small party of his
countrymen: "We could not refrain from weeping during the whole time
we were together." The quantity of tears shed in the course of the
book is positively appalling. Of course there is nothing that remotely
resembles the gift of tears with which Almighty God sometimes rewards
and consoles his saints. It is merely a perpetual gush of mawkish
sentimentality, and we defy anybody to read these "Reminiscences"
without having before him an image of the whole Brick church with
chronic redness of the eyes. A member of the congregation went to the
doctor once with a request that he would baptize a child. He was not
one of the weepers, or, as Dr. Spring expresses it, "not a religious
man." The opportunity was too good to be lost. The doctor labored with
him, preached at him, probably wept at him, tried to impress him with
the solemnity and privilege of the transaction, did not baptize his
child, but finally prayed with him and urged him to come again. The
result of the exhortation is a good commentary upon the whole system
of sentimental spasmodic religion: "He went away," says Dr. Spring,
"and being requested by his wife to have another interview with me,
replied, 'No; _you will not catch me there again_.'" We suppose that
the child was not baptized; but that, according to Dr. Spring, and in
spite of the Bible, makes very little difference. It was his rule "to
baptize only those children, one of whose parents was a professed
Christian"--that is to say, a member of the church; and except in one
instance he has never varied from this strict practice. "That," he
says, "was in the case of a sick and dying grandchild, whose father
was a man of prayer, but not a communicant, and I myself professed to
stand _in loco parentis_, I now look upon the whole transaction as

Dr. Spring has done a great deal of theological fighting in his day;
but his foes have been chiefly those of his own household. Now and
then he has carried the war into foreign countries, as at the time of
the famous School Question in New York, when he had a tilt with Bishop
Hughes before the Common Council, and got decidedly the worst of it;
but for the most part he has devoted himself to intestine feuds. The
controversy between Hopkinsians {133} and Calvinists in the
Presbyterian denomination; the disputes in the American Bible Society;
the schism in the Young Men's Missionary Society of New York; the
effort to create a division in the American Home Missionary Society;
the controversies about the New Haven school of theology and the
exscinding acts of the General Assembly;--these and many other
religious quarrels took up a great deal of the doctor's time, and he
still writes about them with no little acrimony and personal feeling.
We subjoin a few extracts:

  "The wrath of the Philadelphia Synod is praising the Lord. We shall
  have a battle in the spring, and lay a heavy hand upon that report.
  I shall not hesitate to take my life in my hand if Providence allows
  me to go to the Assembly."--_vol. i., p._70.

  "The Rev. Ezra Stiles Ely had published his celebrated work,
  entitled 'The Contrast,' the object of which is to show the points
  of difference between the views of Hopkinsian and Calvinistic
  theology. It was addressed to prejudice and ignorance, and was aimed
  at the youthful pastor of the Brick church."--_Vol. i., p._ 129.

  "I find my heart strangely _suspicious_. Sometimes I am resolved to
  withdraw from the Missionary and Education cause, because I foresee
  they will be scenes of contention. But then, again, I know they are
  exposed to evils, and the church is exposed to evils, through the
  mismanagement of these excellent institutions, which perhaps I may
  prevent."--_Vol ii., p_. 78.

We doubt whether Dr. Spring's clerical brethren like the following
passage; but anyhow, there is a great deal of truth in it:

  "There have been spurious revivals in my day, and the means of
  promoting them are the index of their character. In such seasons of
  excitement, great dependence is placed on the way and means of
  _getting them up_, and little of the impression [sic] that not a
  soul will be converted unless it be accomplished by the power of
  God. Whatever the words of the leaders may profess, their conduct
  proclaims, 'Mine own arm hath done this!' There is a familiarity, a
  boldness, an irreverence in their prayers, which ill becomes worms
  of the dust in approaching him before whom angels veil their faces.
  A pious and poor woman, in coming out from a religious service thus
  conducted, once said, 'I cannot think what it is that makes our
  ministers _swear_ so in their prayers.' They count their converts,
  and when they survey their work, there is a triumph, a self-reliant
  exultation over it, which looks like the triumph of the pagan
  monarch, when he exclaimed, 'Is not this great Babylon which I have
  built!' And hence it is that so many of the subjects of such a work,
  after the excitement is over, find that their own hearts have
  deceived them, that they are no longer affected by solemn preaching
  and solemn prayers, that _their past emotions were nothing more than
  the operations of nature, and that when these natural causes have
  exhausted their power there is no religion left."--Vol. i., p_. 219.

Dr. Spring gives a curious illustration of the length to which
excitement sometimes carries the poor victims of the revivalists, in
the case of a Mrs. Pierson, "around whose lifeless body her husband
assembled a company of _believers_, with the assurance that if they
prayed in faith, she would be restored to life. Their feelings were
greatly excited, their impressions of their success peculiar and
strong. They prayed and prayed again, and prayed _in faith_, but they
were disappointed," vol. i., p. 229.

He is rather free sometimes in his criticisms upon his brother
ministers. He listens to a sermon from the Rev. Mr. Finney, a noted
revivalist, and says that there was nothing exceptionable in it
"except a vulgarity that indicated a want of culture, and a coarseness
unbecoming the Christian pulpit." He hears a Mr. Broadway preach at
sea, and thus records his impressions: "I must say he is a _John Bull_
of a preacher. What a pity that men who need to be taught what are the
first principles of the oracles of God, should undertake to teach
others!" We dare say Dr. Spring's judgment of both these gentlemen was
sound; but we see no propriety in printing it.

He made several voyages to Europe, and travelled through France,
Germany, and Great Britain. Respecting the state of Protestantism in
France, he makes some significant admissions:

  "Protestantism in France is not what I have been in the habit of
  considering it. {134} I knew it was in a measure corrupt, but not to
  the extent in which I actually find it. I do not think that the
  Romanists, as a body, have much confidence in the Roman religion.
  But the mischief is that when thinking men throw off the bonds of
  Romanism, _they relapse into infidelity_. . . . .
  True religion in France _finds its most bitter and unwearied enemies
  in Protestants themselves_. The Protestants of this country are high
  Arians, if not absolute Socinians. There are now [1835] three
  hundred and fifty-eight Protestant pastors in France, beside their
  few vacant churches. _But there are comparatively few among them all
  who love and obey the truth."--Vol, ii., pp._ 260, 361.

The pages devoted to his European tours are remarkable
exemplifications of the truth of the old adage, that _coelum, non
animum, mutant qui trans mare currunt_. Wherever he goes, his breadth
of vision seems bounded by his own pulpit. The venerable cathedrals of
Europe, rich with the noblest memories, and the great historic places
haunted by the grandest associations of the past, fill him with no
thoughts more elevated than those awakened by the Brick church. He
sees everything distorted through the medium of his own inveterate
prejudices. If he visits a religious shrine, he can think of nothing
but the abominations of the scarlet woman of Babylon. If he sees a
convent, he tells us a cock-and-bull story about subterranean passages
paved with the bones of infants. If he witnesses some grand and
imposing ceremonial, he throws up his eyes, rushes out of the church,
and, while he shakes the dust off his feet, groans over the wickedness
of the Romish priests and their blasphemous mummeries, farcical shows,
and hypocritical disguises. One Sunday, while at Paris, he went with
the well-known missionary. Dr. Jonas King, and some other American
friends, to visit a hill called Mont Calvaire, near the city, to which
numbers of pilgrims were then resorting. They filled their pockets
with tracts, which they distributed, right and left, among the
thousands that were going up and down the mountain. They even
interrupted kneeling worshippers at their prayers to give them tracts.
These valuable gifts were received with avidity, for, as the narrator
elsewhere explains, our respectable parsons were mistaken for Catholic
missionaries. A few days afterward they made another excursion of the
same sort to Mont Calvaire. We give the conclusion of the adventure in
the words of Dr. King, from whose journal Dr. Spring copies it:

  "Mr. and Mrs. Wilder, and Miss Bertau, and Mr. Storrow's children,
  had gone to Mount Calvary to distribute tracts and Testaments. Dr.
  Spring and myself, having filled our pockets, and hats, and hands,
  with tracts and Testaments, set off with the hope to find them. Just
  as we began to ascend the mountain, we met them coming at a
  distance. On meeting them, they informed us that they had been
  stopped by the Commissary of the Police, and that a gendarme, by
  order of the missionaries (Rom. C. M.), had taken away their tracts
  and Testaments, and prohibited them in the name of the law to
  distribute any more on Mount Calvary. Mr. W. advised us not to
  proceed with the intention of distributing those which we had. We
  however, went, giving to every one we met, till we came in sight of
  the _gendarmes_, when we ceased giving, but occasionally let some
  fall from our pockets, which the wind, which was very high,
  scattered in all directions, and were gathered up by the crowd. At
  length we arrived at the top of the mountain, took our stand on the
  highest elevation near the cross, and there, in our own language,
  offered up, each of us, a prayer to the God of heaven for direction,
  and to have mercy on those tens of thousands that we saw around us,
  bowing before graven images. _I then felt in some degree
  strengthened to go on, and, taking a tract from my pocket, presented
  it to a lady who stood near me, and who appeared to be a lady of
  some distinction._ She received it with thanks, and I was not
  noticed by the _gendarmes_. Dr. S. let some fall from his pocket,
  and we made our way down to one of the stations. There he laid some
  on the charity-box, while I stood before him, to hide what he did.
  We then went to another station, and I gave ten or twelve to a lady,
  whom I charged to distribute them."

The heroism of these Presbyterian missionaries, who go up and down
hill, dropping divine truth from their coat-tails, reminds us of a
crazy old lady {135}so in New York, whose will was lately contested
before our courts. She had peculiar ideas of her own on the subject of
politics and the war, and used to inscribe her thoughts on great paper
kites, and give them to little boys to fly in the Central Park, in the
belief that the words would somehow or another be disseminated through
the city. Imagine St. Francis Xavier setting sail for the Indies with
his hat, and pockets, and hands full of tracts, scattering them
broad-cast along the inhospitable shores, or trusting them to the
breezes, like those charitable Buddhists Father Huc tells of, who go
up a high mountain on windy days, and throw into the air little paper
horses, which being blown away are, as they believe, miraculously
changed into real horses for the benefit of belated travellers.
Suppose Father Matthew, instead of preaching a crusade against
drunkenness, had contented himself with sneaking into shibeens and
taverns, and, behind the friendly shelter of a companion's back, had
deposited little bundles of temperance tracts on the top of every
barrel of whiskey, as if he expected them to explode like a torpedo,
and fill the air with virtue. Or what would Dr. Spring think if some
Sunday, in the midst of his prayer, two or three Catholic priests
should march into the Brick church and distribute Challoner's
Catechisms up and down the aisles, making the "solemn" Presbyterians
get up from their knees to receive them? It would not be a bit more
outrageous than the doctor's behavior during the mission on Mont

American travellers in Europe, especially of the fanatical sort, are
but too apt to disgrace themselves and their country by their conduct
in sacred places. Here is another extract from Dr. Spring's book which
no respectable American can read without blushing. The incident
occurred in the famous cathedral of Rouen, built by William the
Conqueror, and reckoned the finest specimen of Gothic architecture in

  "A little circumstance occurred here that was somewhat amusing. [!]
  Mr. Van Rensallear, in order to procure some little relic of the
  place, instead of gathering some flowers, broke off the _nose_ of
  one of the marble saints! He hoped to escape the detection of the
  guide, but unfortunately, on leaving the cathedral, we had to pass
  the mutilated statue, and were charged with the sacrilege. It was a
  lady saint whose sanctity our gallantry had thus violated, and we
  had to meet the most terrific volleys of abuse. A few glittering
  coins, however, obtained absolution for us, but neither entreaty nor
  cash could obtain the _nose_."

That must have been a funny scene one Sunday in crossing the ocean,
when the doctor and his wife, and the rest of the passengers, held
service under difficulties:

  "We assembled for praise and prayer. Susan was quite sea-sick, yet
  she came on deck. The day was cold, and she sat with _a hot potato
  in each hand to keep her warm_."

This is certainly the oddest preparation for approaching the throne of
grace that we ever heard of.

Mrs. Spring is a prominent figure all through the book, giving her
reverend husband advice and comfort, and helping him in the work of
the ministry, especially with regard to the women of the flock. He
laments in his introductory chapter that the death of his "beloved
Mrs. Spring must leave a vacuum in these pages which nothing can
fill." In the second volume he gives a long and detailed account of
her sufferings in child-bed when she "became the mother of a lovely
daughter." When she died in 1860, he wrote in his diary as follows:

  "I have been her husband and she my wife for four-and-fifty years;
  our attachment has been mutual, and strong and sweet to the end. I
  had no friend on earth in whom I had such reliance; no counsellor so
  wise; no comforter so precious. For the last thirty years we have
  rarely differed in opinion; when we did, I generally found she was
  right and I was was wrong; and when I persevered in my {136}
  judgment she knew how to yield her wishes to mine, and would
  sometimes say with a smile, 'God has set the man above the woman.
  You are _king_, my husband; but I am the queen!' In all my ministry,
  in sickness and in health, at home and abroad, by night and by day,
  I never knew her own convenience, comfort, or pleasure take the
  place of my duty to the people of my charge. . . . . I bless God
  that I had such a wife--that I had her at all, and that I had her so
  long. . . . My darling wife, I give you joy: but what shall I do
  without you?"

This last question is soon answered in an unexpected manner. Only
eight pages further on, Dr. Spring, aged eighty, records the following

  "_April 13th,_ 1865.--My sweet wife was too valuable a woman ever to
  be forgotten. The preceding sketch furnishes but the outline of her
  excellences, which I have presented more at large at the close of
  the sermon commemorative of one who was my first love. I never
  thought I could love another. But I was advanced beyond my
  threescore years and ten, partially blind, and needed a helper
  fitted to my age and condition; no one needs such a helper more than
  a man in my advanced years. I sought, and God gave me another wife.
  A few days only more than a year after the death of Mrs. Spring, on
  the 14th of August, 1861, I was married to Abba Grosvenor Williams,
  the only surviving child of the late Elisha Williams, Esq., a
  distinguished member of the bar. She is the heiress of a large
  Property, and retains it in her own hands. She is intent on her duty
  as a wife, watchful of my wants, takes good care of me, is an
  excellent housekeeper, and instead of adding to the expenses of my
  household, shares them with her husband."--Vol. ii., pp. 91, 92.

With this extract, Dr. Spring may be left to the charity of our
readers. We have said nothing of the vanity which allows him freely to
quote the commendations of his friends on his efforts in the pulpit
and his publications through the press; because, inconsistent as it
may be with a very elevated piety, it is a weakness that might be
pardoned in such an old man. But we cannot help remarking how on every
page he gives evidence of the utter baselessness of the thing he calls
religion; the unsubstantial, unsatisfying character of those human
emotions which he perpetually mistakes for the operations of the Holy
Ghost; and the strangely unreal, unsanctified nature of the fit of
mental perturbation which he denotes conversion and labors so hard to
produce. The conclusion to which every unprejudiced person must come,
on closing the volumes, is that Dr. Spring has lived in vain.




_Arabian Laughing Plant_.--In Palgrave's "Central and Eastern Arabia"
some particulars are given in regard to a carious narcotic plant. Its
seeds, in which the active principal seems chiefly to reside, when
pounded and administered in a small dose, produce effects much like
those ascribed to Sir Humphrey Davy's laughing gas; the patient
dances, sings, and performs a thousand extravagances, till after an
hour of great excitement to himself and amusement to the bystanders,
he falls asleep, and on awaking has lost all memory of what he did or
said while under the influence of the drug. To put a pinch of this
powder into the coffee of some unexpecting individual is not an
uncommon joke, nor is it said that it was ever followed by serious
consequences, though an over quantity might perhaps be dangerous. The
author tried it on two individuals, but in proportions if not
absolutely homoeopathic, still sufficiently minute to keep on the safe
side, and witnessed its operation, laughable enough but very harmless.
The plant that hears these berries hardly attains in Kaseem the height
of six inches above the ground, but in Oman were seen bushes of it
three or four feet in growth, and wide-spreading. The stems are woody,
and of a yellow tinge when barked; the leaf of a dark green color, and
pinnated with about twenty leaflets on either side; the stalks smooth
and shining; the flowers are yellow, and grow in tufts, the anthers
numerous, the fruit is a capsule, stuffed with greenish padding, in
which lie imbedded two or three black seeds, in size and shape much
like French beans; their taste sweetish, but with a peculiar opiate
flavor; the smell heavy and almost sickly.

_The Congelation of Animals_.--It is generally supposed that certain
animals cannot be frozen without the production of fatal results, and
that others can tolerate any degree of congelation. Both these views
have been shown to be incorrect in a paper read before the French
Academy, by M. Pouchet. The writer arrives at the following
conclusions: (1.) The first effect produced by the application of cold
is contraction of the capillary blood-vessels. This may be observed
with the microscope. The vessels become so reduced in calibre that the
blood-globules are unable to enter them. (2.) The second effect is the
alteration in form and structure of the blood-globules themselves.
These alterations are of three kinds: (_a_) the nucleus bursts from
the surrounding envelope; (_b_) the nucleus undergoes alteration of
form; (_c_) the borders of the globule become crenated, and assume a
deeper color than usual. (3.) When an animal is completely frozen, and
when, consequently, its blood-globules have become disorganized, it is
dead--nothing can then re-animate it. (4.) When the congelation is
partial, those organs which have been completely frozen become
gangrenous and are destroyed. (5.) If the partial congelation takes
place to a very slight extent, there are not many altered globules
sent into the general circulation; and hence life is not compromised.
(6.) If, on the contrary, it is extensive, the quantity of altered
globules is so great that the animal perishes. (7.) On this account an
animal which is partially frozen may live a long time if the
congelation is maintained, the altered globules not entering into the
general circulation; but, on the contrary, it dies if heat be suddenly
applied, owing to the blood becoming charged with altered globules.
(8.) In all cases of fatal congelation the animal dies from
decomposition or alteration of the blood-globules, and not from
stupefaction of the nervous system.

_Ordnance and Targets_.--The Admiralty having erected a new target,
representing a portion of the side of the _Hercules_, experiments were
made at Shoeburyness which proved that a thickness of armor casing had
been attained which afforded perfect security against even the largest
guns recently constructed. The target has a facing of {138} 9-inch
armor-plates, and contains altogether eleven inches thickness of iron.
Against this three 12-ton shunt guns were fired, at a distance of only
200 yards, with charges varying from 45 lbs. to 60 lbs. of powder. One
steel shot, of 300 lbs. weight, 10-1/2 inches in diameter, fired with
60 lbs. of powder, at a velocity of 1,450 feet per second, barely
broke through the armor, without injuring the backing. Sir William
Armstrong has expressed his conviction, in the _Times_, that the
600-pounder gun will be unable to penetrate this target, and that it
will, in fact, require a gun carrying 120 lbs. of powder and steel
shot to pierce this massive shield. Mr. W. C. Unwin has pointed out,
in a letter to the _Engineer_, that for similar guns with shot of
similar form, and charges in a constant ratio to the weight of the
shot, the velocity is nearly constant. Then, assuming the resistance
of the plates to be as the squares of their thicknesses, it follows
that when the diameter of the shot increases, as well as the thickness
of the armor, the maximum thickness perforated will (by theory) vary
as the cube root of the weight of the shot, or, in other words, as the
calibre of the gun; and the weight of the shot necessary to penetrate
different thicknesses of armor will be as the cubes of those
thicknesses. The ratio deduced from the Shoeburyness experiments is
somewhat less than this, being as the 2.5 power and the 5.2 power
respectively. Practical formula deduced from experiments are given,
which agree with Sir William Armstrong's conclusion, and prove that a
gun which can effectively burn a charge of at least 100 lbs. of powder
will be required to effectually penetrate the side of the _Hercules_.

_The Moa's Egg_.--Since our last issue a splendid specimen of the egg
of the Dinornis has been exhibited in this country, put up to auction,
and "bought in" by the proprietors for £125. Some interesting details
concerning the history of gigantic birds' eggs have been supplied by a
contemporary, and we quote them for our readers: In 1854, M. Geoffroy
de St. Hilaire exhibited to the French Academy some eggs of the
Epyornis, a bird which formerly lived in Madagascar. The larger of
these was 12.1 inches long, and 11.8 inches wide; the smaller one was
slightly less than this. The Museum d'Histoire Naturelle at Paris also
contains two eggs, both of which are larger than the one recently put
up for sale, the longer axis of which measures 10 inches, and the
shorter 7 inches. In the discussion which followed the reading of M.
de St. Hilaire's paper, M. Valenciennes stated it was quite impossible
to judge of the size of a bird by the size of its egg, and gave
several instances in point. Mr. Strickland, in some "Notices of the
Dodo and its Kindred," published in the "Annals of Natural History"
for November, 1849, says that in the previous year a Mr. Dumarele, a
highly respectable French merchant at Bourbon, saw at Port Leven,
Madagascar, an enormous egg, which held "_thirteen wine quart bottles
of fluid_." The natives stated that the egg was found in the jungle,
and "observed that such eggs were _very, very rarely_ met with." Mr.
Strickland appears to doubt this, but there seems no reason to do so.
Allowing a pint and a half to each of the so-called "quarts," the egg
would hold 19-1/2 pints. Now, the larger egg exhibited by St. Hilaire
held 17-1/2 pints, as he himself proved. The difference is not so very
great. A word or two about the nests of such gigantic birds. Captain
Cook found, on an island near the north-east coast of New Holland, a
nest "of a most enormous size. It was built with sticks upon the
ground, and was no less than six-and-twenty feet in circumference, and
two feet eight inches high." (Kerr's "Collection of Voyages and
Travels," xiii. 318.) Captain Flinders found two similar nests on the
south coasts of New Holland, in King George's Bay. In his "Voyage,
etc.," London, 1818, he says: "They were built upon the ground, from
which they rose above two feet, and were of vast circumference and
great interior capacity; the branches of trees and other matter of
which each nest was composed being enough to fill a cart."--_The

_The Birds of Siberia_.--In an important treatise, published under the
patronage of the Imperial Geographical Society of St. Petersburg, and
which is the second of a series intended to be issued on Siberian
zoology, the author, Herr Radde, not only records the species, but
gives an account of the period of the migration of Siberian birds. He
{139} gives a list of 368 species, which he refers to the following
orders: Rapaces, 36; Scansores, 19; Oscines, 140; Gallinaceae, 18;
Grallatores, 74; and Natatores, 81. Concerning the migration of
birds, Herr Radde confirms the result arrived at by Von Middendorf in
his learned memoir, "Die Isepiptesen Russlands;" the most important of
them being, (1) that the high table-land of Asia and the bordering
ranges of the Altai, Sajan, and Dauria retard the arrival of the
migratory birds; (2) eastward of the upper Lena, toward the east
coast of Siberia, a considerable retardation of migrants is again
noticeable; and (8) the times of arrival at the northern edge of the
Mongolian high steppes are altogether earlier than those of the same
species on the Amoor.

_Plants within Plants_.--In one of the recent numbers of the "Comptes
Rendus," N. Trécul gives an account of some curious observations,
showing that plants sometimes are formed within the cells of existing
ones. He considers that the organic matter of certain vegetable cells
can, when undergoing putrefaction, transform itself into new species,
which differ entirely from the species in which they are produced. In
the bark of the elder, and in plants of the potato and stone-crop
order, he found vesicles full of small tetrahedral bodies containing
starchy matter, and he has seen them gradually transformed into minute
plants by the elongation of one of their angles.

_The Extract of Meat_.--Baron Liebig, who has favored us with some
admirable samples of this excellent preparation, has also forwarded to
us a letter in which he very clearly explains what is the exact
nutritive value of the _extractum carnis_: "The meat," says the baron,
"as it comes from the butcher, contains two different series of
compounds. The first consists of the so-called albuminous principles
(albumen, fibrin) and of glue-forming membrane. Of these, fibrin and
albumen have a high nutritive power, although not if taken by
themselves. The second series consists of crystallizable substances,
viz., creatin, creatinin, sarcin, which are exclusively to be found in
meat; further, of non-crystallizable organic principles and salts
(phosphate and chloride of potassium), which are not to be found
elsewhere. All of these together are called the extractives of meat.
To the second series of substances beef-tea owes its flavor and
efficacy, the same being the case with the _extractum carnis_, which
is, in fact, nothing but solid beef-tea--that is, beef-tea from which
the water has been evaporated. Beside the substances already
mentioned, meat contains, as a non-essential constituent, a varying
amount of fat. Now neither fibrin nor albumen is to be found in the
_extractum carnis_ which bears my name, and gelatine (glue) and fat
are purposely excluded from it. In the preparation of the extract the
albuminous principles are left in the residue. This residue, by the
separation of all soluble principles, which are taken up in the
extract, loses its nutritive power, and cannot be made _an article of
trade_ in any palatable form. Were it possible to furnish the market
at a reasonable price with a preparation of meat containing both the
albuminous and extractive principles, such a preparation would have to
be preferred to the _extractum carnis_, for it would contain all the
nutritive constituents of the meat. But there is, I think, no prospect
of this being realized." These remarks show very clearly the actual
value of the extract. It is, in fact, concentrated beef-tea; but it is
neither the equivalent of flesh on the one hand, nor an imperfectly
nutritive substance on the other. It is, nevertheless, a most valuable
preparation, and now commands an extensive sale in these countries and
abroad; and it is, furthermore, the only valuable form in which the
carcases of South American cattle (heretofore thrown away as
valueless) can be utilized.--_Popular Science Review_.




D.D., First Archbishop of New York.
With Extracts from his Private Correspondence. By John R.
G. Hassard. Pp. 519. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1866.

Mr. Hassard is one of our most promising writers. He contributed
several excellent articles to "Appleton's Cyclopaedia," edited "The
Catholic World" with judgment and good taste for several months at its
first establishment, and since that time has occupied the position of
editor of the Chicago "Republican." This is his first literary essay
of serious magnitude, and a more delicate or difficult task could not
well have been confided to his hands. He has fulfilled it with care,
thoroughness, and impartiality. The style in which it is written is
remarkably correct and scholarly, and exhibits a thorough acquaintance
with the English language as well as a pure and discriminating taste
in the choice of words. It is a kind of style which attracts no
attention to itself or to the author, but is simply a medium through
which the subject-matter of the work is presented to the reader's
mind; and this, in our view, is no small merit. The subject-matter
itself is prepared and arranged in a methodical, accurate, and
complete manner, which leaves nothing in that regard to be desired.
The work belongs to that class of historical compositions which
chronicle particular events and incidents, relate facts and
occurrences as they happened, and leave them, for the most part, to
make their own impression. The author has endeavored to take
photographs of his illustrious subject, and of the scenes of his
private and public life, but not to paint a picture or his character
and his times. Those who are already familiar with the scenes, the
persons, and the circumstances brought into view in connection with
the personal history of the archbishop, and who were personally
acquainted with himself, could ask for no more than is furnished in
this biography. We have thought, however, in reading it, that other
readers would miss that filling up and those illuminating touches from
the author's pen which would make the history as vivid and real to
their minds as it is made to our own by memory. A graphic and complete
view of the history of the Catholic Church, so far as Archbishop
Hughes was a principal actor in it, and of the results of his labors
in the priesthood and episcopate, is necessary to a just estimate of
his ecclesiastical career, is still a _desideratum_. In saying this,
we do not intend to find fault with Mr. Hassard for not supplying it.
He has accomplished the task which he undertook in a competent manner,
and produced a work of sterling merit and lasting value. We could wish
that the biographies of several other distinguished prelates, of the
same period, might be written with the same minuteness and fidelity,
and, above all others, those of Bishop England and Archbishop Kenrick.
Very few men could endure the ordeal of passing through the hands of a
biographer so coldly impartial as Mr. Hassard. But those who are able
to pass through it, and who still appear to be great men, and to have
lived a life of great public service, may be certain that their
genuine, intrinsic worth will be recognized after their death, and not
be thought to be the coinage of an interested advocate, or the
furbished counterfeit whose glitter disappears in the crucible.
Moreover, the reader of history will be satisfied that he gets at the
reality of things, and the writer of history that he has authentic
data and materials on which to base his judgments of men and events.
No doubt this species of history would disclose many defects and
weaknesses, many human infirmities and errors, in the individuals who
figure in it, and lay bare much that is unsightly and repulsive in the
state of things as described. This is true of all ecclesiastical
history. Truth dissipates many romantic and poetic illusions of the
imagination, which loves to picture to itself an ideal state of
perfection and ideal heroes far different from the real world and real
men. Nevertheless, it manifests more clearly the heroic and divine
element really existing and working in the world and in men, and
manifesting itself especially in the Catholic Church. {141} We
believe, therefore, that the divinity of the Catholic religion would
only be more clearly exhibited, the more thoroughly its history in the
United States was brought to light. We believe, also, that the
character and works of its valiant and loyal champions will be the
more fully vindicated the more dispassionately and impartially they
are tried and judged.

A calm consideration of the condition of Catholicity, thirty-five or
forty years ago in this country, in contrast with its present state,
will enable us to judge of the work accomplished by the men who have
been the principal agents in bringing about the change. Let us reflect
for a moment what a difference it would have made in the history of
the Catholic religion here, if some eight or ten of the principal
Catholic champions had not lived; and we may then estimate the power
and influence they have exerted. Leaving aside the numerical and
material extension of the Catholic Church under the administration of
its prelates and the clergy of the second order, we look at the change
in public sentiment alone, and the vindication of the Catholic cause
by argument at the bar of common reason, where it has gained a signal
argumentative triumph over Protestantism and prejudice, through the
ability and courage of its advocates and the soundness of their cause.
The principal men among the first champions of the Catholic faith who
began this warfare were, in the Atlantic states, Dr. Cheverus, Dr.
England, Dr. Hughes, and Dr. Power. We speak from an intimate and
perfect knowledge of the common Protestant sentiment on this matter,
and with a distinct remembrance of the dread which these last three
names, and the veneration which the first of them, inspired. Every one
who knows what the almost universal sentiment of the Protestant
community respecting the Catholic religion and its hierarchy was, is
well aware that it was a sentiment of intense abhorrence mingled with
fear. It was looked upon as a system of preternatural wickedness and
might, and yet, by a strange inconsistency, as a system of utter folly
and absurdity, which no reasonable and conscientious man could
intelligently and honestly embrace. The priesthood were regarded as a
species of human demons, and those among them who possessed
extraordinary ability, were believe to have a diabolical power to make
the worse appear the better reason and the devil an angel of light.
Those whose sanctity was so evident that it broke down all prejudice,
as Bishop Cheverus, were supposed not to be initiated into the
mysteries of the Catholic religion, but to be at heart really
Protestants, blinded to the errors of their system by education, and
duped by their more cunning associates, like "Father Clement" in the
well-known tale of that name. The Catholic clergy were shunned and
ostracised, looked on as outlaws and public enemies, worthy of no
courtesy and no mercy. Their religion was regarded as unworthy of a
hearing, a thing to be scouted and denounced, trampled upon like a
noxious serpent and crushed, _if possible_. _Contempt_ would be the
proper word to express the common estimation of it, if there had not
been too much fear and hatred to make contempt possible. Its
antagonists wished and tried to despise it and its advocates, but
could not. Every sort of calumny and vituperation was showered upon
them by the preachers, the lecturers, and the writers for the press
who made Catholicity their theme. Some, perhaps many, honorable
exceptions, which were always multiplying with time, must be
understood, particularly in Boston, Baltimore, and Charleston. John
Hughes, the poor Irish lad, who had knelt behind the hay-rick on his
father's farm to pray to God and the Blessed Virgin to make him a
priest, who had come to this country with no implement to clear his
way to greatness but the pick and shovel which he manfully grasped,
was one of those who were chosen to lead the van in the assault
against this rampart of prejudice. That he vanquished his proud and
scornful antagonists is an undoubted fact. Beginning his studies, as a
favor reluctantly conceded to him on account of his importunity, at a
later period than usual, with a grammar in one hand and a spade in the
other, he was first a priest, faithful to his duty among many
faithless, courageous and enterprising among many who were timid,
strong among many weak, staunch and unflinching in a time of schism,
scandal, and disaster, and bold enough not only to lay new foundations
for the church of Philadelphia, which others have since built upon,
while the old ones were half crumbled, and to repress mutiny and
disorder in the ranks of his own people, but to {142} attack,
single-handed, the enemies who were exulting over the discord and
feebleness which they thought foreboded the disruption of the Catholic
body. This, too, almost without encouragement, and with no hearty
support from those who were older and more thoroughly trained and
equipped in the service than himself. He became the coadjutor and
successor of the very man who had refused his first application to be
allowed to purchase the privilege of studying under him, by his daily
labor. He died the metropolitan of a province embracing all New York,
New Jersey, and New England, and including eight suffragan bishoprics
with more than a million of Catholics; confessedly the most
conspicuous man among his fellow-bishops in the view of Catholics and
Protestants alike, one of the most trusted and honored of his compeers
at the See of Rome, well known throughout Catholic Christendom, a
confidential adviser and a powerful supporter of the United States
government, a recognized illustrious citizen of the American republic
as well as one of the ornaments of his native country, with all the
signs and tributes of universal honor and respect at his funeral
obsequies which are accorded to distinguished personal character or
official station. Let the most severe and impartial critic apply his
mind to separate, in this distinguished and useful career, the
personal and individual force impelling the man through it, from the
concurrence of Divine Providence, the aid of favorable circumstances
and high position, the supernatural power of the character with which
he was marked, and of the system which he administered, and the
strength and volume of the current of events on which he was borne,
and, if we mistake not, he will find something strong enough to stand
all his tests. An ordinary man might have worked his way into the
priesthood, fulfilled its duties with zeal and success, attained the
episcopal and metropolitan dignity, won respect by his administration,
and left a flourishing diocese to his successor. But an ordinary man
could never have gained the power and influence possessed by
Archbishop Hughes. Our early and original impressions of his
remarkable power of intellect and will have been strengthened and
fixed by reading his biography, and the greatness of the influence
which he exerted in behalf of the Catholic religion is, to our mind,
established beyond a doubt. His chivalrous and valiant combat with
John Breckinridge, at Philadelphia, was a victory not only decisive
but full of results. We know, from a distinct remembrance of the
opinions expressed at the time, that Mr. Breckinridge was generally
thought, by Protestants, to have been discomfited. We have heard him
speak himself of the affair with the tone of one who had exposed
himself to a dangerous encounter with an enemy superior to himself,
for the public good, and barely escaped with his life. We remember
taking up the book containing the controversy, from a sentiment of
curiosity to know what plausible argument could possibly be offered
for the Catholic religion, and undergoing, in the perusal, a
revolution of opinion, which rendered a return to the old state of
mind inherited from a Puritan education impossible. This we believe is
but an instance exemplifying the general effect of the controversy
upon candid and thinking minds, not hopelessly enslaved to prejudice.
We remember hearing him preach in the full vigor of his intellectual
and physical manhood, in the cathedral of New York, soon after his
consecration, and the impression of his whole attitude, countenance,
manner of delivery, and cast of thought is still vivid and _unique_.
Those who have seen the archbishop only during the last fifteen years,
have seen a breaking-down, enfeebled, almost worn-out man, incapable
of steady, vigorous exertion, and oppressed by a weight of care and
responsibility which was too great for him. To judge of his ability
fairly it is necessary to have seen and heard him in his prime, before
ill-health had sapped his vigor. And to appreciate the best and most
genial qualities and dispositions of the man, it is necessary to have
met him in familiar, unrestrained intercourse, apart from any official
relation and away from his diocese--or, at least, in those times when
all official anxieties and cares of government were put aside and his
mind relaxed in purely friendly conversation. That he was a great man,
a true Christian prelate, and accomplished a great work in the service
of the church, of his native countrymen, and of the country of his
adoption, is, we believe, the just verdict of the most competent
judges and of the public at large upon the facts of his life. He will
not be forgotten, for his life and acts are too closely {143}
interwoven with public history and his influence has been too marked
to make that possible. We trust that those who enjoy the blessings of
a securely and peacefully established Catholic Church will not be
disposed to forget the men who, in more troubled times, have won by
their valor the heritage upon which we have entered. The record of
their lives and labors is of great value, and this one, in particular,
is worthy of the perusal of every Catholic and every American, and has
in it a kind of romantic charm and dramatic grouping which does not
belong to the life of one who has been more confined to the seclusion
of study or the ordinary pastoral routine.

We regret the mention made of Dr. Forbes's defection, and the
publicity which is again given to painful matters which had become
buried in oblivion. It appears to us that, as Dr. Forbes has not
publicly assailed either the church or the late archbishop, it was
unnecessary to allude to him in any way, and it would have been more
generous to have suppressed the remarks made in the archbishop's
private correspondence. The mechanical execution of the work is in
good style, and we recommend it to our readers as necessary to every
Catholic library.

By Noah Webster, LL.D. Thoroughly Revised and Greatly Enlarged and
Improved, by Chauncey A. Goodrich, D.D., Late Professor of Rhetoric
and Oratory, and also Professor of the Pastoral Charge in Yale
College, and Noah Porter, D.D., Clark Professor of Moral Philosophy
and Metaphysics in Yale College. Royal quarto, pp. 1840. Springfield,
Mass.: G. & C. Meiriam. 1866.

There have been published, within the last twenty-five years, several
editions of "Webster's Dictionary," but the present one, the title of
which is given above, seems to be the crowning effort of dictionary
making. It surpasses all other editions of the same work both in its
typography, its illustrations--some 3,000 in number--and its
philological completeness. "Webster's Dictionary" has always been of
high authority in this country, and is now held in great repute in
England, where it is accepted by several writers as the best authority
in defining the English language. The present edition is a most
beautiful one, and contains all the modern words which custom has
engrafted upon our language. It also contains, in its pronouncing
table of Scripture proper names, a supplementary list of the names
found in the Douay Bible, but not in King James's version. In fact,
care has been taken to make this edition as free as possible from
partisan and theological differences in regard to the definitions of
certain words which heretofore got a peculiarly Protestant twitch when
being defined. The publishers deserve great praise for the manner in
which they have done their portion of the work; it is a credit and an
honor to the American press.

A Series of Essays. By Henry T. Tuckerman. 12mo., pp. 377. New York:
Hurd & Houghton. 1866.

Mr. H. T. Tuckerman is a man of letters, and we thought he would not
be likely to put his name to anything discreditable to an enlightened
author; but, to judge from many things in the above production, we
think he has missed his vocation, and would find more appropriate
employment as a contributor to the publications of the American Tract
Society, or the magazine put forth, monthly, by the "Foreign and
Christian Union." Else, why is every pope "shrewd," every priest an
"incarnation of fiery zeal?" why "the lonely existence and the subtle
eye of the Catholic?" why "the medical Jesuit, who, like his religious
prototype, operates through the female branches, and thus controls the
heads of families, regulating their domestic arrangements, etc.?" why
"Bloody Mary" and "Rom_ish?_" why is "superstition the usual trait of
Romanists?" and this: "One may pace the chaste aisles of the
Madeleine, and feel his devotion stirred, perhaps, by the dark
catafalque awaiting the dead in the centre of the spacious floor; and
then what to him is the doctrine of transubstantiation?" (!) We are
truly sorry to see these indications of a spirit with which we think
the author will find very little sympathy outside the clique of
benighted readers of the publications above quoted.


By C. J. Vaughan, D.D., Vicar of Doncaster. 18mo., pp. 269. Alexander
Strahan, London and New York. 1865.

This beautiful little volume contains twelve sermons, or rather
religious essays, written in a pleasing style, but altogether too
lengthy and too exhaustive in character. We have no doubt but that the
author is a good preacher, and if these essays were ever preached by
him as sermons, they were listened to with pleasure. But in their
present shape, enlarged, systematized, and--shall we say--almost too
carefully prepared for the press, they are a little tiresome. One
feels in reading them how much the naturalness, as well as the
elegance of diction, is marred by the vague evangelical phraseology,
"coming to Christ," "laying hold on Christ," etc., which occurs so
constantly in these pages. The author, being a Low Evangelical
Churchman, gives us, of course, "justification by faith" and the
Calvinistic view of the Fall. Yet, in the latter half of the volume he
seems to speak more like one who imagines that man has something to do
for his own justification, and takes a higher and nobler view of
humanity. We give the following passage from the last sermon, entitled
"Cast out and found," as a good specimen of what we should call
practical preaching. "When Jesus found him, he said unto him. Dost
thou believe on the Son of God? 'Thou!' The word is emphatic in the
original, 'Thou--believest thou?' We are glad to escape into the
crowd, and shelter ourselves behind a church's confession. But a day
is coming, in which nothing but an individual faith will carry with it
either strength or comfort. It will be idle to say in a moment of keen
personal distress, such as probably lies before us in life and
certainly in death and in judgment, 'Every one believes--all around
us believe--the world itself believes in the Son of God:' there is no
strength and no help there: the very object of Christ's finding thee
and speaking to thee is to bring the question home, 'Dost _thou_
believe?' A trying, a fearful moment, when Christ, face to face with
man's soul, proposes that question! Perhaps that moment has not yet
come to you. You have been fighting it off. You do not wish to come to
these close quarters with it. The world does not press you with it.
The world is willing enough that you should answer it in the general;
and even if you ever say, 'I believe in Jesus Christ his only Son our
Lord,' it shall be in a chorus of voices, almost robbing the
individual of personality, and making 'I' sound like 'we.' But if ever
your religion is to be a real thing, if ever it is to enable you to do
battle with a sin, or to face a mortal risk, if ever it is to be a
religion for the hour of death, or for the day of judgment, you must
have had that question put to you by yourself, and you must have
answered it from the heart in one way. Then you will be a real
Christian, not before!"

The book is elegantly got up in the style and care for which the
publisher is noted.


From P. O'Shea, 27 Barclay street. New York:
Nos. 18, 19, and 20 of Darras' History of the Church.

From P. Donahoe, Boston: The Peep o' Day; or,
John Doe, and the Last Baron of Crana. By
the O'Hara Family. 12mo., pp. 204 and 243.

From Hon. Wm. H. Seward. Secretary of State,
Washington, his speech on the "Restoration
of the Union," delivered in New York, Feb. 22, 1866.

From Peter F. Cunningham, Philadelphia: The Life of Blessed John
Berchmans, of the Society of Jesus. Translated from the French. With
an Appendix, giving an account of the Miracles after Death which have
been approved by the Holy See. From the Italian of Father Boreo, S.J.
1 vol. 12mo., pp. 358.

From John Murphy & Co., Baltimore: The Apostleship of Prayer. A Holy
League of Christian Hearts united with the Heart of Jesus, to obtain
the Triumph of the Church and the Salvation of Souls. Preceded by a
Brief of the Sovereign Pontiff Plus IX., the approbation of several
Archbishops and Bishops and Superiors of Religious Congregations. By
the Rev. H. Ramiero, of the Society of Jesus. Translated from the
latest French Edition, and Revised by a Father of the Society. With
the approbation of the Most Rev. Archbishop Spalding. 12mo., pp. 393.

From Kelly & Piet, Baltimore: Life in the Cloister; or, Faithful and
True. By the author of "The World and Cloister." 12mo., pp. 224.



VOL. III., NO. 14--MAY, 1866.




We wish to state distinctly and openly, at the outset of this work,
that the solution given of the problems therein discussed is a
solution derived from the Catholic faith. Its sole object will be to
make an exposition of the doctrines of the Catholic faith bearing on
these problems. By an exposition, is not meant a mere expansion or
paraphrase of the articles of the Creed, but such a statement as shall
include an exhibition of their positive, objective truth, or
conformity to the real order of being and existence; and of their
reasonableness or analogy to the special part of that universal order
lying within the reach of rational knowledge. In doing this we choose
what appears to us the best and simplest method. It differs, however,
in certain respects, from the one most in vogue, and therefore
requires a few preliminary words of explanation.

The usual method is, to proceed as far as possible in the analysis of
the religious truths provable by reason, to introduce afterward the
evidences of revealed religion, and finally to proceed to an
exposition of revealed doctrines. We have no wish to decry the many
valuable works constructed on this plan, but simply to vindicate the
propriety of following another, which is better suited to our special
purpose. We conceive it not to be necessary to follow the first method
in explaining the faith of a Christian mind, because the Christian
mind itself does not actually attain to faith by this method. We do
not proceed by a course of reasoning through natural theology and
evidences of revelation to our Christian belief. We begin by
submitting to instruction, and receiving all it imparts at once,
without preliminaries. The Christian child begins by saying "Credo in
Unum Deum." This is the first article of his faith. It is proposed to
him, by an authority which he reveres as divine, as the first and
principal {146} article of a series of revealed truths. If that act is
right and rational, it can be justified on rational grounds. It can be
shown to be in conformity to the real order. If it is in conformity to
the real order, it is in conformity also to the logical order. The
exposition of the real order of things is the exposition of truth, and
is, therefore, sound philosophy. A child who has attained the full use
of his reason and received competent instruction, either has, or has
not, a faith; not merely objectively certain, but subjectively also,
as certain and as capable of being rationally accounted for, though
not by his own reflection, as that of a theologian. If he has this
subjective certitude, a simple explication of the creditive act in his
mind will show the nature and ground of it in the clearest manner. If
he has not, children and simple persons who are children in science,
_i.e._, the majority of mankind, are incapable of faith--a conclusion
which oversets theology.

We have now indirectly made known what our own method will be; namely,
to present the credible object in contact or relation with the
creditive subject, as it really is when the child makes the first
complete act of faith. Instead of inviting the reader to begin at the
viewing point of a sceptic or atheist, and reason gradually up from
certain postulates of natural reason, through natural theology, to the
Catholic faith, we invite him to begin at once at the viewing point of
a Catholic believer, and endeavor to get the view which one brought up
in the church takes of divine truth. We do not mean to ask him to take
anything for granted. We will endeavor to show the internal coherence
of Catholic doctrine, and its correspondence with the primitive
judgments of reason. We cannot pretend to exhibit systematically the
evidence sustaining each portion of this vast system. It would only be
doing over again a work already admirably done. We must suppose it to
be known or within the reach of the knowledge of our readers, and in
varying degrees admitted by different classes of them, contenting
ourselves with indicating rather than completing the line of argument
on special topics.

The Catholic reader will see in this exposition of the Catholic idea
only that which he already believes, stated perhaps in such a way as
to aid his intellectual conception of it. The Protestant reader,
accordingly as he believes less or more of the Catholic Creed, will
see in it less or more to accept without argument, together with much
which he does not accept, but which is proposed to his consideration
as necessary to complete the Christian idea. The unbeliever will find
an affirmation of the necessary truths of pure reason, together with
an attempt to show the legitimate union between the primitive ideal
formula and the revealed or Christian formula, binding them into one
synthesis, philosophically coherent and complete.



Let us begin with a child, or a simple, uneducated adult, who is in a
state of perpetual childhood as regards scientific knowledge. Let us
take him as a creditive subject or Christian believer, with the
credible object or Catholic faith in contact with his reason from its
earliest dawn. Before proceeding formally to analyze his creditive
act, we will illustrate it by a supposed case.

Let us suppose that, when our Lord Jesus Christ was upon earth, he
went to visit a pagan in order to instruct him in the truths of
religion. We will suppose him to be intelligent, upright, and sincere,
with as much knowledge of religious truth as was ordinarily attainable
through the heathen tradition. Let us suppose him to receive the
instructions of Christ with faith, to be baptized, and to remain ever
after a firm and undoubting {147} believer in the Christian doctrine.
Now by what process does he attain a rational certitude of the truth
of the revelation made by the lips of Christ?

In the first place, the human wisdom and virtue of our Lord are
intelligible to him by the human nature common to both, and in
proportion to his own personal wisdom and goodness. Having in himself,
by virtue of his human nature, the essential type of human goodness,
he is able to recognize the excellence of one in whom it is carried to
its highest possible perfection. The human perfection visible in Jesus
Christ predisposes him to believe his testimony. The testimony that
Jesus Christ bears of himself is that he is the Son of God. This
declaration includes two propositions. The chief term of the first
proposition is "God." The chief term of the second proposition is
"Jesus Christ." The first term includes all that can be understood by
the light of reason concerning the Creator and his creative act. The
second term includes all that can be apprehended by the light of faith
concerning the interior relations of God, the incarnation of the Son,
or Word, the entire supernatural order included in it, and the entire
doctrine revealed by Christ. The idea expressed by the first term is
already in the mind of the pagan, as the first and constitutive
principle of his reason. His reflective consciousness of this idea and
his ability to make a correct and complete explication of its contents
are very imperfect. But when the distinct affirmation and explication
of the idea of God are made to him by one who possesses a perfect
knowledge of God, he has an immediate and certain perception of the
truth of the conception thus acquired by his intelligence. God has
already affirmed himself to his reason, and Christ, in affirming God
to his intellect, has only repeated and manifested by sensible images,
and in distinct, unerring language, this original affirmation.

It is otherwise with the affirmation which Christ makes respecting the
second term. God does not affirm to his reason by the creative act the
internal relations of Father and Son, completed by the third, or Holy
Spirit, and therefore, although it is a necessary truth, and in itself
intelligible as such, it is not intelligible as a necessary truth to
his intellect. The incarnation, redemption, and other mysteries
affirmed to him by Christ, are not in themselves necessary truths, but
only necessary on the supposition that they have been decreed by God.
The certitude of belief in all this second order of truths rests,
therefore, entirely on the veracity of God, authenticating the
affirmation of his own divine mission made by Jesus Christ. We must,
therefore, suppose that this affirmation is made to the mind of the
pagan with such clear and unmistakable evidence of the fact that the
veracity of God is pledged to its truth, that it would be irrational
to doubt it. Catholic doctrine also requires us to suppose that Christ
imparts to him a supernatural grace, as the principle of a divine
faith and a divine life based upon it. The nature and effect of this
grace must be left for future consideration.

These truths received on the faith of the testimony of the Son of God
by the pagan are not, however, entirely unintelligible to his natural
reason. We can suppose our Lord removing his difficulties and
misapprehensions, showing him that these truths do not contradict
reason, but harmonize with it as far as it goes, and pointing out to
him certain analogies in the natural order which render them partially
apprehensible by his intellect. Thus, while his mind cannot penetrate
into the substance of these mysteries, or grasp the intrinsic reason
of them after the mode of natural knowledge, it can nevertheless see
them indirectly, as reflected in the natural order, and by
resemblance, and rests its undoubting belief of them on the revelation
made by Jesus Christ, attested by the veracity of God.


In this supposed case, the pagan has the Son of God actually before
his eyes, and with his own ears can hear his words. This is the
credible object. He is made inwardly certain that he is the Son of God
by convincing evidence and the illustration of divine grace. This is
the creditive subject, in contact with the credible object. It
exemplifies the process by which God has instructed the human race
from the beginning, a process carried on in the most perfect and
successful manner in the instance we are about to examine of a child
brought up in the Catholic Church.

The mind of the child has no prejudices and no imperfect conceptions
derived from a perverted and defective instruction to be rectified.
Its soul is in the normal and natural condition. The grace of faith is
imparted to it in baptism, so that the rational faculties unfold under
its elevating and strengthening influence with a full capacity to
elicit the creditive act as soon as they are brought in contact with
the credible object. This credible object, in the case of the child,
as in that of the pagan, is Christ revealing himself and the Father.
He reveals himself, however, not by his visible form to the eye, or
his audible word to the ear, but by his mystical body the church,
which is a continuation and amplification of his incarnation. The
church is visible and audible to the child as soon as his faculties
begin to open. At first this is only in an imperfect way, as Jesus
Christ was at first only known in an imperfect way to the pagan above
described. As he merely knew Christ at first as a man, and in a purely
human way, so the child receives the instruction of his parents,
teachers, and pastors, in whom the church is represented, in regard to
the truths of faith, just as he does in regard to common matters. He
begins with a human faith, founded in the trusting instincts of
nature, which incline the young to believe and obey their superiors.
As soon as his reason is capable of understanding the instruction
given him, he is able to discover the strong probability of its truth.
He sees this dimly at first, but more and more clearly as his mind
unfolds, and the conception of the Catholic Church comes before it
more distinctly. Some will admit that even a probability furnishes a
sufficient motive for eliciting an act of perfect faith. This is the
doctrine of Cardinal de Lugo, and it has been more recently propounded
by that extremely acute and brilliant writer, Dr. John Henry Newman.
[Footnote 24]

  [Footnote 24: Since the above was written the author has seen reason
  to suspect that he misunderstood Dr. Newman. The point will be more
  fully discussed hereafter.]

According to their theory, the undoubting firmness of the act of faith
is caused by an imperate act of the will determining the intellect to
adhere firmly to the doctrine proposed, as revealed by God. There are
many, however, who will not be satisfied with this, and we acknowledge
that we are of the number. It appears to us that the mind must have
indubitable certitude that God has revealed the truth in order to a
perfect act of faith. Therefore we believe that the mind of the child
proceeds from the first apprehension of the probability that God has
revealed the doctrines of faith to a certitude of the fact, and that,
until it reaches that point, its faith is a human faith, or an
inchoate faith, merely. The ground and nature of that certitude will
be discussed hereafter. In the meantime, it is sufficient to remark
that the child or other ignorant person apprehends the very same
ground of certitude in faith with the mature and educated adult, only
more implicitly and obscurely, and with less power to reflect on his
own acts. Just as the child has the same certainty of facts in the
natural order with an adult, so it has the same certainty of facts in
the supernatural order. When we have once established the proper
ground of human faith in testimony in general, and of the certitude of
our rational judgments, we have no need of a particular application to
the case of {149} children. It is plain enough that, so soon as their
rational powers are sufficiently developed, they must act according to
this universal law. So in regard to faith. When we have established in
general its constitutive principles, it is plain that the mind of the
child, just as soon as it is capable of eliciting an act of faith,
must do it according to these principles.

The length of lime, and the number of preparatory acts requisite,
before the mind of a child is fully capable of eliciting a perfect act
of faith, cannot be accurately determined, and may vary indefinitely.
It may require years, months, or only a few weeks, days, or hours.
Whenever it does elicit this perfect act, the intelligible basis of
the creditive act may be expressed by the formula, _Christus creat
ecclesiam_,   [Footnote 25] In the church, which is the work of Christ
and his medium or instrument for manifesting himself, the person and
the doctrine of Christ are disclosed. In the first term of the
formula, _Christus_, is included another proposition, viz., _Christus
est Filius Dei_.   [Footnote 26] Finally, in the last term of the
second proposition is included a third, _Deus est creator mundi_.
[Footnote 27] The whole may be combined into one formula, which is
only the first one explicated, _Christus, Filius Dei, qui est creator
mundi, creat ecclesiam._[Footnote 28]

  [Footnote 25:  Christ creates the Church.]

  [Footnote 26: Christ Is the Son of God.]

  [Footnote 27:  God is the creator of the world.]

  [Footnote 28: Christ, the Son of God, who is the creator of the
  world, creates the Church.]

In this formula we have the synthesis of reason and faith, of
philosophy and theology, of nature and grace. It is the formula of the
natural and supernatural worlds, or rather of the natural universe,
elevated into a supernatural order and directed to a supernatural end.
In the order of instruction, _Ecclesia_ comes first, as the medium of
teaching correct conceptions concerning God, Christ, and the relations
in which they stand toward the human race. These conceptions may be
communicated in positive instruction in any order that is convenient.
When they are arranged in their proper logical relation, the first in
order is _Deus creat mundum_, including all our rational knowledge
concerning God. The second is _Christus est Filius Dei_, which
discloses God in a relation above our natural cognition, revealing
himself in his Son, as the supernatural author and the term of final
beatitude. Lastly comes _Christus creat ecclesiam_, in which the
church, at first simply a medium for communicating the conceptions of
God and Christ, is reflexively considered and explained, embracing all
the means and institutions ordained by Christ for the instruction and
sanctification of the human race, in order to the attainment of its
final end. In the conception of God the Creator, we have the natural
or intelligible order and the rational basis of revelation. In the
conception of the Son, or Word, we have the super-intelligible order
in its connection with the intelligible, in which alone we can
apprehend it. God reveals himself and his purposes by his Word, and we
believe on the sole ground of his veracity. The remaining conceptions
are but the complement of the second.

All this is expressed in the Apostles' Creed. In the first place, by
its very nature, it is a symbol of instruction, presupposing a
teacher. The same is expressed in the first word, "Credo," explicitly
declaring the credence given to a message sent from God. The first
article is a confession of God the Father, followed by the confession
of the Son and the Holy Ghost. After this comes "Sanctam Ecclesiam
Catholicam," with the other articles depending on it, and lastly the
ultimate term of all the relations of God to man, expressed in the
words "Vitam aeternam."

Having described the actual attitude of the mind toward the Creed at
the time when its reasoning faculty is developed, and the method by
which {150} instruction in religious doctrines is communicated to it,
we will go over these doctrines in detail, in order to explain and
verify them singly and as a whole. The doctrine first in order is that
which relates to God, and this will accordingly be first treated of,
in the ensuing number.


From The Dublin University Magazine



  [Footnote 29: Authorities.--Acta Sanctoram: Butler's Lives of the
  Saints; Gregory's Dialogues; Mabillon Acta Sanct.; Ord; Benedicti;
  Zeigelbauer's Hist. Rei Liter.; Fosbrooke and Dugdale.]

As Glastonbury Abbey was one of the chief ornaments of the Benedictine
Order; as that order was one of the greatest influences, next to
Christianity itself, ever brought to bear upon humanity; as the
founder of that order and sole compiler of the rule upon which it was
based must have been a legislator, a leader, a great, wise, and good
man, such as the world seldom sees, one who, unaided, without example
or precedent, compiled a code which has ruled millions of beings and
made them a motive-power in the history of humanity; as the work done
by that order has left traces in every country in Europe--lives and
acts now in the literature, arts, sciences, and social life of nearly
every civilized community--it becomes imperatively necessary that we
should at this point investigate these three matters--the man, the
rule, and the work:--the man, St. Benedict, from whose brain issued
the idea of monastic organization; the rule by which it was worked,
which contains a system of legislation as comprehensive as the
gradually compiled laws of centuries of growth; and the work done by
those who were subject to its power, followed out its spirit, lived
under its influence, and carried it into every country where the
gospel was preached.

Far away in olden times, at the close of the fifth century, when the
gorgeous splendor of the Roman day was waning and the shades of that
long, dark night of the middle ages were closing in upon the earth;
just at that period when, as if impelled by some instinct or led by
some mysterious hand, there came pouring down from the wilds of
Scandinavia hordes of ferocious barbarians who threatened, as they
rolled on like a dark flood, to obliterate all traces of civilization
in Europe--when the martial spirit of the Roman was rapidly
degenerating into the venal valor of the mercenary--when the western
empire had fallen, after being the tragic theatre of scenes to which
there is no parallel in the history of mankind--when men, aghast at
human crime and writhing under the persecutions of those whom history
has branded as the "Scourge of God," sought in vain for some shelter
against their kind--when human nature, after that struggle between
refined corruption and barbarian ruthlessness, lay awaiting the night
of troubles which was to fall upon it as a long penance for human
crime--just at this critical period in the world's history appeared
the man who was destined to rescue from the general destruction of
Roman life the elements of a future civilization; to provide an asylum
to which art might flee with her choicest treasures, where science
might labor in safety, where {151} learning might perpetuate and
multiplied its stores, where the oracles of religion might rest
secure, and where man might retire from the woe and wickedness of a
world given up to destruction, live out his life in quiet, and make
his peace with his God.

That man was St. Benedict, who was born of noble parents about the
year 480, at Norcia, a town in the Duchy of Spoleto; his father's name
was Eutropius, his grandfather's Justinian. Although the glory of Rome
was on the decline, her schools were still crowded with young
disciples of all nations, and to Rome the future saint was sent to
study literature and science. The poets of this declining age have
left behind them a graphic picture of the profligacy and dissipation
of Roman life---the nobles had given themselves up to voluptuous and
enervating pleasures, the martial spirit which had once found vent in
deeds with whose fame the world has ever since rung, had degenerated
into the softer bravery which dares the milder dangers of a love
intrigue, or into the tipsy valor loudest in the midnight brawl. The
sons of those heroes who in their youth had gone out into the world,
subdued kingdoms, and had been drawn by captive monarchs through the
streets of Rome in triumph, now squandered the wealth and disgraced
the name of their fathers over the dice-box and the drinking cup.
Roman society was corrupt to its core, the leaders were sinking into
the imbecility of licentiousness, the people were following their
steps with that impetuosity so characteristic of a demoralized
populace, whilst far up in the rude, bleak North the barbarian, with
the keen instinct of the wild beast, sat watching from his lonely
wilds the tottering towers of Roman glory--the decaying energies of
the emasculated giant--until the moment came when he sallied forth and
with one hardy blow shattered the mighty fabric and laid the victors
of the world in abject slavery at his feet. Into this society came the
youthful Benedict, with all the fresh innocence of rustic purity, and
a soul already yearning after the great mysteries of religion;
admitted into the wild revelry of student life, that prototype of
modern Bohemianism, he was at once disgusted with the general
profligacy around him. The instincts of his youthful purity sickened
at the fetid life of Rome, but in his case time, instead of
reconciling him to the ways of his fellows, and transforming, as it so
often does, the trembling horror of natural innocence into the wild
intrepidity of reckless license, only strengthened his disgust for
what he saw, and the timid, thoughtful, pensive student shrank from
the noisy revelry, and sought shelter among his books.

About this time, too, the idea of penitential seclusion was prevalent
in the West, stimulated by the writings and opinions of St. Augustine
and St. Jerome. It has been suggested that the doctrine of asceticism
was founded upon the words of Christ, "If any man will come after me,
let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me."  [Footnote
30] St. Gregory himself dwells with peculiar emphasis upon this
passage, which he expounds thus, "Let us listen to what he said in
this passage--let him who will follow me deny himself; in another
place it is said that we should forego our possessions; here it is
said that we should deny _ourselves_, and perhaps it is not laborious
to a man to relinquish his possessions, but it is very laborious to
relinquish _himself_. For it is a light thing to abandon what one has,
but a much greater thing to abandon what _one is_."   [Footnote 31]
Fired by the notion of self-mortification imparted to these words of
Christ by their own material interpretation, these men forsook the
world and retired to caves, rocks, forests, anywhere out of sight of
{152} their fellow-mortals--lived on bitter herbs and putrid water,
exposed themselves to the inclemency of the winter and the burning
heats of summer.

  [Footnote 30: Matt. xvi. 24.]

  [Footnote 31: St. Greg. Hom, 32 in Evangel.]

Such was the rise and working of asceticism, which brought out so many
anchorites and hermits. Few things in the history of human suffering
can parallel the lives of these men.

As regards conventual life, that is, the assemblage of those who
ministered in the church under one roof, sharing all things in common,
that may be traced back to the apostles and their disciples, who were
constrained to live in this way, and, therefore, we find that wherever
they established a church, there they also established a sort of
college, or common residence, for the priests of that church. This is
evident from the epistles of Ignatius, nearly all, of which conclude
with a salutation addressed to this congregation of disciples,
dwelling together, and styled a "collegium." His epistle to the Church
at Antioch concludes thus, "I salute the sacred College of Presbyters"
(Saluto Sanctum Presbyterorum Collegium). The Epistle ad Philippenses,
"Saluto S. Episcopum et sacrum Presbyterorum Collegium"--so also the
epistles to the Philadelphians, the Church at Smyrna, to the
Ephesians, and to the Trallians.

But when St. Benedict was sent as a lad to Rome, the inclination
toward the severer form of ascetic life, that of anchorites and
hermits, had received an impulse by the works of the great fathers of
the church, already alluded to; and the pensive student, buried in
these more congenial studies, became imbued with their spirit, and was
soon fired with a romantic longing for a hermit life. At the tender
age of fifteen, unable to endure any longer the dissonance between his
desires and his surroundings, he flood from Rome, and took refuge in a
wild, cavernous spot in the neighboring country. As he left the city
he was followed by a faithful nurse, Cyrilla by name, who had brought
him up from childhood, had tended him in his sojourn at Rome, and now,
though lamenting his mental derangement, as she regarded it, resolved
not to leave her youthful charge to himself, but to watch over him and
wait upon him in his chosen seclusion. For some time this life went
on, St. Benedict becoming more and more attached to his hermitage, and
the nurse, despairing of any change, begged his food from day to day,
prepared it for him, and watched over him with a mother's tenderness.
A change then came over the young enthusiast, and he began to feel
uneasy under her loving care. It was not the true hermit life, not the
realization of that grand idea of solitude with which his soul was
filled; and under the impulse of this new emotion he secretly fled
from the protection of his foster-mother, and, without leaving behind
him the slightest clue to his pursuit, hid himself among the rocks of
Subiaco, or, as it was then called, Sublaqueum, about forty miles
distant from Rome. At this spot, which was a range of bleak, rocky
mountains with a river and lake below in the valley, he fell in with
one Romanus, a monk, who gave him a monastic dress, with a hair shirt,
led him to a part on the mountains where there was a deep, narrow
cavern, into which the sun never penetrated, and here the young
anchorite took up his abode, subsisting upon bread and water, or the
scanty provisions which Romanus could spare him from his own frugal
repasts; these provisions the monk used to let down to him by a rope,
ringing a bell first to call his attention. For three years he pursued
this life, unknown to his friends, and cut off from all communication
with the world; but neither the darkness of his cavern nor the
scantiness of his fare could preserve him from troubles. He was
assailed by many sore temptations.

One day that solitude was disturbed by the appearance of a man in the
{153} garb of a priest, who approached his cave and began to address
him; but Benedict would hold no conversation with the stranger until
they had prayed together, after which they discoursed for a long time
upon sacred subjects, when the priest told him of the cause of his
coming. The day happened to be Easter Sunday, and as the priest was
preparing his dinner, he heard a voice saying, "You are preparing a
banquet for yourself, whilst my servant Benedict is starving;" that he
thereupon set out upon his journey, found the anchorite's cave, and
then producing the dinner, begged St. Benedict to share it with him,
after which they parted. A number of shepherds, too, saw him near his
cave, and as he was dressed in goat-skins, took him at first for some
strange animal; but when they found he was a hermit, they paid their
respects to him humbly, brought him food, and implored his blessing in

The fame of the recluse of Subiaco spread itself abroad from that time
through the neighboring country; many left the world and followed his
example; the peasantry brought their sick to him to be healed,
emulated each other in their contributions to his personal
necessities, and undertook long journeys simply to gaze upon his
countenance and receive his benediction. Not far from his cave were
gathered together in a sort of association a number of hermits, and
when the fame of this youthful saint reached them they sent a
deputation to ask him to come among them and take up his position as
their superior. It appears that this brotherhood had become rather lax
in discipline, and, knowing this, St. Benedict at first refused, but
subsequently, either from some presentiment of his future destiny, or
actuated simply by the hope of reforming them, he consented, left his
lonely cell, and took up his abode with them as their head.

In a very short time, however, the hermits began to tire of his
discipline and to envy him for his superior godliness. An event then
occurred which forms the second cognizance by which the figure of St.
Benedict may be recognized in the fine arts. Endeavors had been made
to induce him to relax his discipline, but to no purpose; therefore
they resolved upon getting rid of him, and on a certain day, when the
saint called out for some wine to refresh himself after a long
journey, one of the brethren offered him a poisoned goblet. St.
Benedict took the wine, and, as was his custom before eating or
drinking anything, blessed it, when the glass suddenly fell from his
hands and broke in pieces. This incident is immortalized in
stained-glass windows, in paintings, and frescoes, where the saint is
either made to carry a broken goblet, or it is to be seen lying at his
feet. Disgusted with their obstinacy he left them, voluntarily
returned to his cavern at Subiaco, and dwelt there alone. But the
fates conspired against his solitude, and a change came gradually over
the scene. Numbers were drawn toward the spot by the fame of his
sanctity, and by-and-bye huts sprang up around him; the desert was no
longer a desert, but a colony waiting only to be organized to form a
strong community. Yielding at length to repeated entreaties, he
divided this scattered settlement into twelve establishments, with
twelve monks and a superior in each, and the monasteries were soon
after recognized, talked about, and proved a sufficient attraction to
draw men from all quarters, even from the riotous gaieties of
declining Rome.

We will mention one or two incidents related of St. Benedict, which
claim attention, more especially as being the key to the artistic
mysteries of Benedictine pictures. It was one of the customs in this
early Benedictine community for the brethren not to leave the church
immediately after the divine office was concluded, but to remain for
some time in silent mental prayer. One of the brethren, however, took
no delight in this holy {154} exercise, and to the scandal of the
whole community used to walk coolly out of the church as soon as the
psalmody was over. The superior remonstrated, threatened, but to no
purpose; the unruly brother persisted in his conduct. St. Benedict was
appealed to, and when he heard the circumstances of the case, said he
would see the brother himself. Accordingly, he attended the church,
and at the conclusion of the divine office, not only saw the brother
walk out, but saw also what was invisible to every one else--a _black
boy_ leading him by the hand. The saint then struck at the phantom
with his staff, and from that time the monk was no longer troubled,
but remained after the service with the rest.

St. Gregory also relates an incident to the effect that one day as a
Gothic monk was engaged on the border of the lake cutting down
thistles, he let the iron part of his sickle, which was loose, fall
into the water. St. Maur, one of Benedict's disciples--of whom we
shall presently speak--happened to be standing by, and, taking the
wooden handle from the man, he held it to the water, when the iron
swam to it in miraculous obedience.

As we have said, the monasteries grew daily in number of members and
reputation; people came from far and near, some belonging to the
highest classes, and left their children at the monastery to be
trained up under St. Benedict's protection. Amongst this number, in
the year 522, came two wealthy Roman senators, Equitius and Tertullus,
bringing with them their sons, Maurus, then twelve years of age, and
Placidus, only five. They begged earnestly that St. Benedict would
take charge of them, which he did, treated them as if they had been
his own sons, and ultimately they became monks under his rule, lived
with him all his life, and after his death became the first
missionaries of his order in foreign countries, where Placidus won the
crown of martyrdom. Again, St. Benedict nearly fell a victim to
jealousy. A priest named Florentius, envying his fame, endeavored to
poison him with a loaf of bread, but failed. Benedict once more left
his charge in disgust; but Florentius, being killed by the sudden fall
of a gallery, Maurus sent a messenger after him to beg him to return,
which he did, and not only wept over the fate of his fallen enemy, but
imposed a severe penance upon Maurus for testifying joy at the
judgment which had befallen him. The incident of the poisoned loaf is
the third artistic badge by which St. Benedict is to be known in art,
being generally painted as a loaf with a serpent coiled round it.
These artistic attributes form a very important feature in monastic
painting, and in some instances become the only guide to the
recognition him the subject. St. Benedict is sometimes represented
with all these accompaniments--the broken goblet, the loaf with the
serpent, and in the background the figure rolling in the briers. St.
Bernard, who wrote much and powerfully against heresy, is represented
with the accompanying incident in the background of demons chained to
a rock, or being led away captive, to indicate his triumphs over
heretics for the faith. Demons placed at the feet indicate Satan and
the world overcome. Great preachers generally carry the crucifix, or,
if a renowned missionary, the standard and cross. Martyrs carry the
palm. A king who has resigned his dignity and entered a monastery has
a crown lying at his feet. A book held in the hand represents the
gospel, unless it be accompanied by pen and ink-horn, when it implies
that the subject was an author, as in the case of Anselm, who is
represented as holding in his hands his work on the incarnation, with
the title inscribed, "_Cur Deus Homo_," or it may relate to an
incident in the life, as the blood-stained book, which St. Boniface
holds, entitled "De Bono Mortis," a work he was devotedly fond of,
always {155} carried about with him, and which was found after his
murder in the folds of his dress stained with his blood. But the
highest honor was the stigmata or wounds of Christ impressed upon the
hands, feet, and side. This artistic pre-eminence is accorded to St.
Francis, the founder of the order which bears his name, and to St.
Catharine, of Siena. A whole world of history lies wrapped up in these
artistic symbols, as they appear in the marvellous paintings
illustrative of the hagiology of the monastic orders which are
cherished in half the picture galleries and sacred edifices of Europe,
and form as it were a living testimony and a splendid confirmation of
the written history and traditions of the church.

Although, at the period when we left St. Benedict reinstalled in his
office as superior, Christianity was rapidly being established in the
country, yet there were still lurking about in remote districts of
Italy the remains of her ancient paganism. Near the spot now called
Monte Cassino was a consecrated grove in which stood a temple
dedicated to Apollo. St. Benedict resolved upon clearing away this
relic of heathendom, and, fired with holy seal, went amongst the
people, preached the gospel of Christ to them, persuaded them at
length to break the statue of the god and pull down the altar; he then
burned the grove and built two chapels there--the one dedicated to St.
John the Baptist and the other to St. Martin. Higher up upon the
mountain he laid the foundation of his celebrated monastery, which
still bears his name, and here he not only gathered together a
powerful brotherhood, but elaborated that system which infused new
vigor into the monastic life, cleared it of its impurities,
established it upon a firm and healthy basis, and elevated it, as
regards his own order, into a mighty power, which was to exert an
influence over the destinies of humanity inferior only to that of
Christianity itself. St. Benedict, with the keen perception of genius,
saw in the monasticism of his time, crude as it was, the elements of a
great system. For five centuries it had existed and vainly endeavored
to develop itself into something like an institution, but the grand
idea had never yet been struck out--that idea which was to give it
permanence and strength. Hitherto the monk had retired from the world
to work out his own salvation, caring little about anything else,
subsisting on what the devotion of the wealthy offered him from
motives of charity; then, as time advanced, they acquired possessions
and wealth, which tended only to make them more idle and selfish. St.
Benedict detected in all this the signs of decay, and resolved on
revivifying its languishing existence by starting a new system, based
upon a rule of life more in accordance with the dictates of reason. He
was one of those who held as a belief that to live in this world a man
must do something--that life which consumes, but produces not, is a
morbid life, in fact, an impossible life, a life that must decay, and
therefore, imbued with the importance of this fact, he made labor,
continuous and daily labor, the great foundation of his rule. His vows
were like those of other institutions--poverty, chastity, and
obedience--but he added labor, and in that addition, as we shall
endeavor presently to show, lay the whole secret of the wondrous
success of the Benedictine Order. To every applicant for admission,
these conditions were read, and the following words added, which were
subsequently adopted as a formula: "This is the law under which thou
art to live and to strive for salvation; if thou canst observe it,
enter; if not, go in peace, thou art free." No sooner was his
monastery established than it was filled by men who, attracted by his
fame and the charm of the new mode of life, came and eagerly implored
permission to submit themselves to his rule. Maurus and Placidus, his
favorite disciples, still {156} remained with him, and the tenor of
his life flowed on evenly.

After Belisarius, the emperor's general, had been recalled, a number
of men totally incapacitated for their duties were sent in his place.
Totila, who had recently ascended the Gothic throne, at once invaded
and plundered Italy; and in the year 542, when on his triumphant
march, after defeating the Byzantine army, he was seized with a strong
desire to pay a visit to the renowned Abbot Benedict, who was known
amongst them as a great prophet. He therefore sent word to Monte
Cassino to announce his intended visit, to which St. Benedict replied
that he would be happy to receive him. On receiving the answer he
resolved to employ a stratagem to test the real prophetic powers of
the abbot, and accordingly, instead of going himself, he caused the
captain of the guard to dress himself in the imperial robes, and,
accompanied by three lords of the court and a numerous retinue, to
present himself to the abbot as the kingly visitor. However, as soon
as they entered into his presence, the abbot detected the fraud, and,
addressing the counterfeit king, bid him put off a dress which did not
belong to him. In the utmost alarm they all fled back to Totila and
related the result of their interview; the unbelieving Goth, now
thoroughly convinced, went in proper person to Monte Cassino, and, on
perceiving the abbot seated waiting to receive him, he was overcome
with terror, could go no further, and prostrated himself to the
ground.   [Footnote 32] St. Benedict bid him rise, but as he seemed
unable, assisted him himself. A long conversation ensued, during which
St. Benedict reproved him for his many acts of violence, and concluded
with this prophetic declaration: "You have done much evil, and
continue to do so; you will enter Rome; you will cross the sea; you
will reign nine years longer, but death will overtake you on the
tenth, when you will be arraigned before a just God to give an account
of your deeds." Totila trembled at this sentence, besought the prayers
of the abbot, and took his leave. The prediction was marvellously
fulfilled; in any case the interview wrought a change in the manner of
this Gothic warrior little short of miraculous, for from that time he
treated those whom he had conquered with gentleness. When he took
Rome, as St. Benedict had predicted he should, he forbade all carnage,
and insisted on protecting women from insult; stranger still, in the
year 552, only a little beyond the time allotted him by the
prediction, he fell in a battle which he fought against Narses, the
eunuch general of the Greco-Roman army. St. Benedict's sister,
Scholastica, who had become a nun, discovered the whereabouts of her
lost brother, came to Monte Cassino, took up her residence near him,
and founded a convent upon the principles of his rule. She was,
therefore, the first Benedictine nun, and is often represented in
paintings, prominent in that well-known group composed of herself, St.
Benedict, and the two disciples, Maurus and Placidus.

  [Footnote 32: "Quem cum a longe sedentem cerneret, non ausus
  accedero sese in terram dedit."--St. Greg. Dial., lib. ii., c. 14.]

It appears that her brother was in the habit of paying her a visit
every year, and upon one occasion stayed until late in the evening, so
late that Scholastica pressed him not to leave; but he persisting, she
offered a prayer that heaven might interpose and prevent his going,
when suddenly a tempest came on so fierce and furious that he was
compelled to remain until it was over, when he returned to his
monastery. Two days after this occurrence, as he was praying in his
cell, he beheld the soul of his beloved sister ascending to heaven in
the form of a dove, and the same day intelligence was brought him of
her death. This vision forms the subject of many of the pictures in
Benedictine nunneries. One short month after the decease of this
affectionate sister, St. {157} Benedict, through visiting and
attending to the sick and poor in his neighborhood, contracted a fever
which prostrated him; he immediately foretold his death, and ordered
the tomb in which his sister lay in the church to be opened. On the
sixth day of his illness he asked to be carried to it, where he
remained for some time in silent, prayerful contemplation; he then
begged to be removed to the steps of the high alter, where, having
received the holy viaticum, he suddenly stretched out his arms to
heaven and fell back dead. This event took place on Saturday, the 21st
March, 543, in the 63d year of his age. He was buried by the side of
his sister Scholastica, on the very spot, it is said, where he threw
down the altar of Apollo. In the seventh century, however, some of his
remains were dug up, brought to France, and placed in the Abbey of
Fleury, from which circumstance it took the name of St. Benoit, on the
Loire. After his death his disciples spread themselves abroad over the
continent and founded monasteries of his name and rule. Placidus
became a martyr, and was canonized; Maurus founded a monastery in
France, was also introduced to England, and from his canonized name,
St. Maurus, springs one of the oldest English names--St. Maur,
Seymaur, or Seymour.

Divesting this narrative of its legendary accompaniments, and judging
of St. Benedict, the man, by the subsequent success of his work, and
the influence of his genius upon the whole mechanism of European
monasticism, and even upon the destinies of a later civilization, we
are compelled to admit that he must have been a man whose intellect
and character were far in advance of his age. By instituting the vow
of labor, that peculiarity in his rule which we shall presently
examine more fully, he struck at the root of the evils attending the
monasticism of his times, an evil which would have ruined it as an
institution in the fifth century had he not interposed, and an evil
which in the sixteenth century alone caused its downfall in England.

Before proceeding to examine the rule upon which all the greatness of
the Benedictine order was based, it will be necessary to mention the
two, earliest mission efforts of the order. The first was conducted
under the immediate direction of St. Benedict himself, who in the year
534 sent Placidus, with two others, Gordian and Donatus, into Sicily,
to erect a monastery upon land which Tertullus, the father of
Placidus, had given to St. Benedict. Shortly after the death of the
saint, Innocent, bishop of Mans, in France, sent Flodegarde, his
archdeacon, and Hardegarde, his steward, to ask for the assistance of
some monks of St. Benedict's monastery, for the purpose of introducing
the order into France. St. Maurus was selected for the mission, and,
accompanied by Simplicius, Constantinian, Antony, and Faustus, he set
out from Monte Cassino, and arrived in France the latter end of the
year 543; but to their great consternation, upon reaching Orleans,
they were told that the Bishop of Mans was dead, and another hostile
to their intentions had succeeded him. They then bent their steps
toward Anjou, where they founded the monastery of Glanfeuil, from
whose cloisters issued the founders of nearly all the Benedictine
institutions in France. From these two centres radiated that mighty
influence which we shall now proceed to examine.

As we have in a former paper sketched the internal structure of the
monastery, we will before going further fill each compartment with its
proper officers, people the whole monastery with its subjects, and
then examine the law which kept them together.

The abbot was, of course, the head and ruler of the little kingdom,
and when that officer died the interval between his death and the
installation {158} of his successor was beautifully called the
"widowhood of the monastery." The appointment was considered to rest
with the king, though the Benedictine rule enjoined a previous
election by the monks and then the royal sanction. This election was
conducted in the chapter-house: the prior who acted as abbot daring
the time the mitre was vacant summoned the monks at a certain hour,
the license to elect was then read, the hymn of the Holy Ghost sung,
all who were present and had no vote were ordered to leave, the
license was repeated--three scrutators took the votes separately, and
the chanter declared the result--the monks then lifted up the elect on
their shoulders, and, chanting the _Te Deum_, carried him to the high
altar in the church, where he lay whilst certain prayers were said
over him; they then carried him to the vacant apartments of the late
abbot, which were thrown open, and where he remained in strict
seclusion until the formal and magnificent ceremony of installation
was gone through. In the meantime the aspect of the monastery was
changed, the signs of mourning were laid aside, the bells which had
been silent were once more heard, the poor were again admitted and
received relief, and preparations were at once commenced for the
installation. Outside also there was a commotion, for the peasantry,
and in fact all the neighborhood, joined in the rejoicings. The
immense resources of the refectory were taxed to their utmost, for the
installation of the lord abbot was a feast, and to it were invited all
the nobility and gentry in the neighborhood. On the day of the
ceremony the gate of the great church was thrown open to admit all who
were to witness the solemn ceremony, and, as soon as the bells had
ceased, the procession began to move from the cloisters, headed by the
prior, who was immediately followed by the priest of the divine
office, clad in their gorgeous ceremonial robes; then followed the
monks, in scapulary and cowled tunic, and last of all the lay brethren
and servants; the newly elect and two others who were to officiate in
his installation remained behind, as they were not to appear until
later. The prior then proceeded to say mass, and just before the
gospel was read there was a pause, during which the organ broke out
into strains of triumphant music, and the newly chosen abbot with his
companions were seen to enter the church, and walk slowly up the aisle
toward the altar. As they approached they were met by the prior (or
the bishop, if the abbey were in the jurisdiction of one), who then
read the solemn profession, to which the future abbot responded; the
prior and the elect then prostrated themselves before the high altar,
in which position they remained whilst litanies and prayers were
chanted; after the litany the prior arose, stood on the highest step
of the altar, and whilst all were kneeling in silence pronounced the
words of the benediction; then all arose, and the abbot received from
the hands of the prior the rule of the order and the pastoral staff, a
hymn was sung, and, after the gospel, the abbot communicated, and
retired with his two attendants, to appear again in the formal
ceremony of introduction. During his absence the procession was
re-formed by the chanter, and, at a given signal, proceeded down the
choir to meet the new abbot, who reappeared at the opposite end
bare-footed, in token of humility, and clad no longer in the simple
habit of a monk, but with the abbot's rich dalmatic, the ring on his
finger, and a glittering mitre of silver, ornamented with gold, on his
brow. As soon as he had entered he knelt for a few moments in prayer
upon a carpet, spread on the upper step of the choir; when he arose he
was formally introduced as the lord high abbot, led to his stall, and
seated there with the pastoral staff in his hand. The monks then
advanced, according to {159} seniority, and, kneeling before him, gave
him the kiss of peace, first upon the hand, and afterward, when
rising, upon the month. When this ceremony was over, amid the strains
of the organ and the uplifted voices of the choir, the newly
proclaimed arose, marched through the choir in full robes, and,
carrying the pastoral staff, entered the vestiary, and then proceeded
to divest himself of the emblems of his office. The service was
concluded, the abbot returned to his apartments, the monks to the
cloisters, the guests to prepare for the feast, and the widowhood of
the abbey was over. The sway of the abbot was unlimited--they were all
sworn to obey him implicitly, and he had it in his power to punish
delinquents with penances, excommunication, imprisonment, and in
extreme cases with corporal punishment--he ranked as a peer, was
styled "My Lord Abbot," and in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries
kept an equal state and lived as well as the king on the throne: some
of them had the power of conferring the honor of knighthood, and the
monarch himself could not enter the monastery without permission. The
next man in office to the abbot was the prior,  [Footnote 33] who, in
the absence of his superior, was invested with full powers; but on
other occasions his jurisdiction was limited--in some monasteries he
was assisted by sub-priors, in proportion to the size of the
institution and number of its inmates.

  [Footnote 33: Heads of priories were priors also, but they were
  equally subject to their respective abbeys.]

After the prior in rank came the precentor or chanter, an office only
given to a monk who had been brought up in the monastery from a child.
He had the supervision of the choral service, the writing out the
tables of divine service for the monks, the correction of mistakes in
chanting, which he led off from his place in the centre of the choir;
he distributed the robes at festivals, and arranged processions. The
cellarer was intrusted with the food, drink, etc., of the monastery,
also with the mazers or drinking cups of the monks, and all other
vessels used in the cellar, kitchen, and refectory; he had to attend
at the refectory table, and collect the spoons after dinner. The
treasurer had charge of the documents, deeds, and moneys belonging to
the monastery; he received the rents, paid all the wages and expenses,
and kept the accounts. The sacristan's duties were connected with the
church; he had to attend to the altar, to carry a lantern before the
priest, as he went from the altar to the lecturn, to cause the bell to
be rung; he took charge of all the sacred vessels in use, prepared the
host, the wine, and the altar bread. The almoner's duty was to provide
the monks with mats or hassocks for their feet in the church, also
matting in the chapter-house, cloisters, and dormitory stairs; he was
to attend to the poor, and distribute alms amongst them, and in the
winter warm clothes and shoes. After the monks had retired from the
refectory, it was his duty to go round and collect any drink left in
the mazers to be given away to the poor. The kitchener was filled by a
different monk every week in turn, and he had to arrange what food was
to be cooked, go round to the infirmary, visit the sick and provide
for them, and superintend the labors of his assistants. The infirmarer
had care of the sick; it was his office to administer to their wants,
to give them their meals, to sprinkle holy water on their beds every
night after the service of complin. A person was generally appointed
to this duty who, in case of emergency, was competent to receive the
confession of a sick man. The porter was generally a grave monk of
mature age; he had an assistant to keep the gate when he delivered
messages, or was compelled to leave his post. The chamberlain's
business was to look after the beds, bedding, and shaving room, to
attend to the dormitory windows, and to have the chambers swept, and
the straw of the beds changed once every year, and under his {160}
supervision was the tailory, where clothes, etc., were made and
repaired. There were other offices connected with the monastery, but
these were the principal, and next to these came the monks who formed
the convent with the lay brethren and novices. If a child were
dedicated to God by being sent to a monastery, his parents were
required to swear that he would receive no portion of fortune,
directly or indirectly; if a mature man presented himself, he was
required to abandon all his possessions, either to his family or to
the monastery itself, and then to enter as a novitiate. In order to
make this as trying as possible, the Benedictine rule enjoined that no
attention should be at first paid to an applicant, that the door
should not be even opened to him for four or five days, to test his
perseverance. If he continued to knock, then he was to be admitted to
the guests' house, and after more delay to the novitiate, where he was
submitted to instruction and examination. Two months were allowed for
this test, and if satisfactory, the applicant had the rule read to
him, which reading was concluded with the words used by St. Benedict
himself, and already quoted: "This is the law under which thou art to
live, and to strive for salvation. If thou canst observe it, enter; if
not, go in peace, thou art free." The novitiate lasted one year, and
during this time the rule was read and the question put thrice. If at
the end of that time the novice remained firm, he was introduced to
the community in the church, made a declaration of his vows in
writing, placed it on the altar, threw himself at the feet of the
brethren, and from that moment was a monk. The rule which swayed this
mass of life, wherever it existed, in a Benedictine monastery, and
indirectly the monasteries of other orders, which are only
modifications of the Benedictine system, was sketched out by that
solitary hermit of Subiaco. It consists of seventy-three chapters,
which contain a code of laws regulating the duties between the abbot
and his monks, the mode conducting the divine services, the
administration of penalties and discipline, the duties of monks to
each other, and the internal economy of the monastery, the duties of
the institution toward the world outside, the distribution of charity,
the kindly reception of strangers, the laws to regulate the actions of
those who were compelled to be absent or to travel; in fine,
everything which could pertain to the administration of an institution
composed of an infinite variety of characters subjected to one
absolute ruler. It has elicited the admiration of the learned and good
of all subsequent ages. It begins with the simple sentence: "Listen, O
son, to the precepts of the master! Do not fear to receive the counsel
of a good father, and to fulfil it fully, that thy laborious obedience
may lead thee back to him from whom disobedience and weakness have
alienated thee. To thee, whoever thou art, who renouncest thine own
will to fight under the true King, the Lord Jesus Christ, and takest
in hand the valiant and glorious weapons of obedience, are my words at
this moment addressed." The first words, "Ausculta, O fili!" are often
to be seen inscribed on a book placed in the hands of St. Benedict, in
paintings and stained glass. The preamble contains the injunction of
the two leading principles of the rule; all the rest is detail,
marvellously thorough and comprehensive. These two grand principles
were obedience and labor--the former became absorbed in the latter,
for he speaks of that also as a species of labor--"Obedientiae
laborem;" but the latter was the genius, the master-spirit of the
whole code. There was to be labor, not only of contemplation, in the
shape of prayer, worship, and self-discipline, to nurture the soul,
but labor of action, vigorous, healthy, bodily labor, with the pen in
the scriptorium, with the spade in the fields, with the hatchet in the
forest, or with the trowel on the walls. Labor of some sort there must
be daily, but no idleness: that was branded as "the {161} enemy of the
soul"--"Otiositas inimica est animiae." It was enjoined with all the
earnestness of one thoroughly imbued with the spirit of the great
Master, who said, "Work whilst it is yet day, for the night cometh,
when no man shall work;" who would not allow the man he had restored
to come and remain with him--that is, to lead the life of religious
contemplation, but told him to "go home to thy friends, and tell them
how great things the Lord hath done for thee, and hath had compassion
on thee!" That is the life of religious activity. The error of the
early monasticism was the making it solely a life of contemplation.
Religious contemplation and religious activity must go together. In
the contemplation the Christian acquires strength, in the activity he
uses that strength for others; in the activity he is made to feel his
weakness and driven to seek for aid in contemplation and prayer.

But, beside being based upon divine authority and example, this
injunction of labor was formed upon a clear insight into and full
appreciation of one of the most subtle elements of our constitution.
It is this, that without labor no man can live; exist he may, but not
live. This is one of the great mysteries of life--its greatest
mystery; and its most emphatic lesson, which, if men would only learn,
it would be one great step toward happiness, or at least toward that
highest measure of happiness attainable below. If we can only realize
this fact in the profundity of its truth, we shall have at once the
key to half the miseries and anomalies which beset humanity. Passed
upon man, in the first instance, by the Almighty as a curse, yet it
carried in it the germ of a blessing; pronounced upon him as a
sentence of punishment, yet there lurked in the chastisement the
Father's love. Turn where we may, to the pages of bygone history or to
the unwritten page of everyday life, from the gilded saloons of the
noble to the hut of the peasant, we shall find this mysterious law
working out its results with the unerring precision of a fundamental
principle of nature. Where men obey that injunction of labor, no
matter what their station, there is in the act the element of
happiness, and wherever men avoid that injunction there is always the
shadow of the unfulfilled curse darkening their path. This is the
great clue to the balance of compensation between the rich and the
poor. The rich man has no urgent need to labor; his wealth provides
him with the means of escape from the injunction, and there is to be
found in that man's life, unless he, in some way, with his head or
with his hands, works out his measure of the universal task, a
dissonance and a discord, a something which, in spite of all his
wealth and all his luxury, corrupts and poisons his whole existence.
It is a truth which cannot be ignored--no man who has studied life
closely has failed to notice it, and no merely rich man lives who has
not felt it and would not confess to its truth, if the question were
pressed upon him. But in the case of the man who works, there is in
his daily life the element of happiness, cares flee before him, and
all the little caprices and longings of the imagination--those
gad-flies which torment the idle--are to him unknown. He fulfils the
measure of life; and whatever his condition, even if destitute in
worldly wealth, we may be assured that the poor man has great
compensations, and if he sat down with the rich man to count up
grievances would check off a less number than his wealthier brother.
Whatever his position, man should labor diligently; if poor he should
labor and he may become rich, and if rich he should labor still, that
all the evils attendant upon riches may disappear. Pure health steals
over the body, the mind becomes dear, and the little miseries of life,
the petty grievances, the fantastic wants, the morbid jealousies, the
wasting weariness, and the terrible sense of vacuity which haunt {162}
the life of one-half of the rich in the world, all flee before the
talisman of active labor; nor should we be discouraged by failure, for
it is better to fail in action than to do nothing. After all, what is
commonly called failure we shall find to be not altogether such if we
examine more closely. We set out upon some action or engagement, and
after infinite toil we miss the object of that action or engagement,
and they say we have failed; but there is consolation in this
incontrovertible fact, that although we may have missed the particular
object toward which our efforts have been directed, yet we have not
altogether failed. There are many collateral advantages attendant upon
exertion which may even be of greater importance than the attainment
of the immediate object of that exertion, so that it is quite possible
to fail wholly in achieving a certain object and yet make a glorious
success. Half the achievements of life are built up on failures, and
the greater the achievement, the greater evidence it is of persistent
combat with failure. The student devotes his days and nights to some
intellectual investigation, and though he may utterly fail in
attaining to the actual object of that search, yet he may be drawn
into some narrow diverging path in the wilderness of thought which may
lead him gradually away from his beaten track on to the broad open
light of discovery. The navigator goes out on the broad ocean in
search of unknown tracts of land, and though he may return, after long
and fruitless wanderings, yet in the voyages he has made he has
acquired experience, and may, perchance, have learned some fact or
thing which will prove the means of saving him in the hour of danger.
Those great luminaries of the intellectual firmament--men who devoted
their whole lives to investigate, search, study, and think for the
elevation and good of their fellows--have only succeeded after a long
discipline of failure, but by that discipline their powers have been
developed, their capacity of thought expanded, and the experience
gradually acquired which at length brought success. There is, then, no
total failure to honest exertion, for he who diligently labors must in
some way reap. It is a lesson often reiterated in apostolic teaching
that "whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth;" and the truth of that
lesson may be more fully appreciated by a closer contemplation of
life, more especially this phenomenon of life in which we see the
Father's love following close upon the heels of his chastisement. The
man who works lives, but he who works not lives but a dying and a
hopeless life.

That vow of labor infused new vitality into the monks, and instead of
living as they had hitherto done upon the charity of the public, they
soon began not only to support themselves, but to take the poor of
their neighborhood under their own especial protection. Whenever the
Benedictines resolved on building a monastery, they chose the most
barren, deserted spot they could find, often a piece of land long
regarded as useless, and therefore frequently given without a price,
then they set to work, cleared a space for their buildings, laid their
foundations deep in the earth, and by gradual but unceasing toil,
often with their own hands, alternating their labor with their
prayers, they reared up those stately abbeys which still defy the
ravages of age. In process of time the desert spot upon which they had
settled underwent a complete transformation--a little world populous
with busy life sprang up in its midst, and far and near in its
vicinity the briers were cleared away--the hard soil broken
up--gardens and fields laid out, and soon the land, cast aside by its
owners as useless, bore upon its fertile bosom flowers, fruit, corn,
in all the rich exuberance of heaven's blessing upon man's
toil--plenty and peace smiled upon the whole scene--its halls were
vocal with the voice of praise and the incense of charity arose {163}
to heaven from its altars. They came upon the scene poor and
friendless--they made themselves rich enough to become the guardians
of the poor and friendless; and the whole secret of their success, the
magic by which they worked these miracles, was none other than that
golden rule of labor instituted by the penetrating intellect of their
great founder; simple and only secret of all success in this world,
now and ever--work--absolute necessity to real life, and, united with
faith, one of the elements of salvation.

Before we advance to the consideration of the achievements of the
Benedictine order, we wish to call attention to a circumstance which
has seldom, if ever, been dwelt upon by historians, and which will
assist us in estimating the influence of monachism upon the embryo
civilization of Europe.

It is a remarkable fact that two great and renowned phases of life
existed in the world parallel to each other, and went out by natural
decay just at the same period: chivalry and monasticism. The latter
was of elder birth, but as in the reign of Henry VIII. England saw the
last of monasticism, so amid some laughter, mingled with a little
forced seriousness, did she see the man who was overturning that old
system vainly endeavoring to revive the worn-out paraphernalia of
chivalry. The jousts and tournaments of Henry's time were the sudden
flashing up of that once brilliant life, before its utter extinction.
Both had been great things in the world--both had done great things,
and both have left traces of their influence upon modern society and
modern refinement which have not yet been obliterated, and perhaps
never will be. It may then be interesting and instructive if we were
to endeavor to compare the value of each by the work it did in the
world. The origin of monasticism we have already traced; that of
chivalry requires a few comments. Those who go to novels and romances
for their history, have a notion that chivalry existed only in the
thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries, the periods chosen
for the incidents of those very highly colored romances which belong
to that order of writing. There is also a notion that it sprang out of
the Crusades, which, instead of being its origin, were rather the
result of the system itself. The real origin of chivalry may be fairly
traced to that period when the great empire of the West was broken up
and subdivided by the barbarians of the North. Upon the ruins of that
empire chivalry arose naturally. The feudal system was introduced,
each petty state had a certain number of vassals, commanded by
different chiefs, on whose estates they lived, and to whom they swore
fealty in return for their subsistence; these again looked up to the
king as head.

By-and-bye, as the new form of life fell into working order, it became
evident that these chiefs, with their vassals, were a power in
themselves, and by combination might interfere with, if not overthrow,
the authority of the king himself. Their continued quarrels amongst
themselves were the only protection the king had against them, but
gradually that ceased, and a time came when there was no occupation
for the superfluous valor of the country; retainers lay about
castleyards in all the mischief of idleness, drunken and clamorous;
the kings not yet firmly seated on their thrones looked about for some
current into which they might divert this dangerous spirit. The
condition of things in the states themselves was bad enough; the laws
were feebly administered; it was vain for injured innocence to appeal
against the violence of power; the sword was the only lawgiver, and
strength the only opinion. Women were violated with impunity, houses
burned, herds stolen, and even blood shed without any possibility of
redress for the injured. This state of things was the foundation of
chivalry. {164} Instinctively led, or insidiously directed to it,
strong men began to take upon themselves the honor of redressing
grievances, the injured woman found an armed liberator springing up in
her defence, captives were rescued by superior force, injuries
avenged, and the whole system--by the encouragement of the petty kings
who saw in this rising feeling a vent for the idle valor they so much
dreaded--soon consolidated itself, was embellished and made attractive
by the charm of gallantry, and the rewards accorded to the successful
by the fair ladies who graced the courts. Things went on well, and
that dangerous spirit which threatened to overturn royalty now became
its greatest ornament. In process of time it again outgrew its work,
and with all the advantages of organization and flatteries of success,
it once more became the tenor of the crowned heads of Europe. At this
crisis, however, an event occurred which, in all probability, though
it drained Europe of half her manhood, saved her from centuries of
bloodshed and anarchy; that event was the banishment of the Christians
and the taking of Jerusalem by the Saracens. Here was a grand field
for the display of chivalry. Priestly influence was brought to bear
upon the impetuous spirits of these chevaliers, religious fervor was
aroused, and the element of religious enthusiasm infused into the
whole organization; fair ladies bound the cross upon the breasts of
their champions, and bid them go and fight under the banners of the
Mother of God. The whole continent fired up under the preaching of
Peter the Hermit; all the rampant floating chivalry of Europe was
aroused, flocked to the standards of the church, and banded themselves
together in favor of this Holy War; whilst the Goth, the Vandal, and
the Lombard, sitting on their tottering thrones, encouraged by every
means in their power this diversion of the prowess they had so much
dreaded, and began to see in the troubles of Eastern Christianity a
fitting point upon which to concentrate the fighting material of
Europe out of their way until their own position was more thoroughly
consolidated. The Crusades, however, came to an end in time, and
Europe was once more deluged with bands of warriors who came trooping
home from Eastern climes changed with new ideas, new traditions, and
filled with martial ardor. But now the Goth, the Vandal, and the
Lombard had made their position secure, and the knights and chieftains
fell back naturally upon their old pursuit of chivalry, took up arms
once more in defence of the weak and injured against the strong and
oppressive. That valor which had fought foot to foot with the swarthy
Saracen, had braved the pestilence of Eastern climes and the horrors
of Eastern dungeons, soon enlisted itself in the more peaceable lists
of the joust and tournament, and went forth under the inspiration of a
mistress's love-knot to do that work which we material moderns consign
to the office of a magistrate and the arena of a quarter sessions.

It was in this later age of chivalry, when the religious element had
blended with it, and it was dignified with the traditions of religious
championship, that the deeds were supposed to be done which form the
subject of those wonderful romances;--that was more properly the
perfection of the institution; its origin lay, as we have seen, much
further back.

As regards the difference between the work and influence of chivalry
and monasticism, it is the same which always must exist between the
physical and the moral--the one was a material and the other was a
spiritual force. The orders of chivalry included all the physical
strength of the country, its active material; but the monastery
included all its spiritual power and thinking material. Chivalry was
the instrument by which mighty deeds were done, but the intellect
which guided, directed, and in {165} fact used that instrument was
developed and matured in the seclusion of the cloister. By the
adoption of a stringent code of honor as regards the plighted word,
and a gallant consideration toward the vanquished and weak, chivalry
did much toward the refinement of social intercommunication and
assuaging the atrocities of warfare. By the adoption, also, of a
gentle bearing and respectful demeanor toward the opposite sex, it
elevated woman from the obscurity in which she lay, and placed her in
a position where she could exercise her softening influence upon the
rude customs of a half-formed society; but we must not forget that the
gallantry of chivalry was, after all, but a glossing over with the
splendors of heroism the excrescences of a gross licentiousness--a
licentiousness which mounted to its crisis in the polished gallantry
of the court of Louis XIV. Monasticism did more for woman than
chivalry. It was all very well for _preux chevaliers_ to go out and
fight for the honor of a woman's name whom they had never seen; but we
find that when they were brought into contact with woman they behaved
with like ruthless violence to her whatever her station may have
been--no matter whether she was the pretty daughter of the herdsman,
or the wife of some neighboring baron, she was seized by violence,
carried off to some remote fortress, violated and abandoned.
Monasticism did something better, it provided her when she was no
longer safe, either in the house of her father or her husband, with an
impregnable shelter against the licentious pursuit of these _preux
chevaliers_; it gave her a position in the church equal to their own;
she might become the prioress or the lady abbess of her convent; she
was no longer the sport and victim of chivalrous licentiousness, but a
pure and spotless handmaiden of the Most High--a fellow-servant in the
church, where she was honored with equal position and rewarded with
equal dignities--a far better thing this than chivalry, which broke
skulls in honor of her name, whilst it openly violated the sanctity of
her person. It may be summed up in a sentence. Monasticism worked long
and silently at the foundation and superstructure of society, whilst
chivalry labored at its decoration.

When we mention the fact that the history of the mere literary
achievements of the Benedictine order fills four large quarto volumes,
printed in double columns, it will be readily understood how
impossible it is to give anything like an idea of its general work in
the world in the space of a short summary. That book, written by
Zeigelbauer, and called "Historia Rei Literariae Ordinis Sancti
Benedicti," contains a short biography of every monk belonging to that
order who had distinguished himself in the realms of literature,
science, and art. Then comes Don Johannes Mabillon with his ponderous
work, "Acta Sanctorum Ordinis Sancti Benedicti." These two authorities
gave a minute history of that marvellous institution, of whose glories
we can only offer a faint outline.

The Benedictines, after the death of their founder, steadily
prospered, and as they prospered, sent out missionaries to preach the
truth amongst the nations then plunged in the depths of paganism. It
has been estimated that they were the means of converting upwards of
thirty countries and provinces to the Christian faith. They were the
first to overturn the altars of the heathen deities in the north of
Europe; they carried the cross into Gaul, into Saxony and Belgium;
they placed that cross between the abject misery of serfdom and the
cruelty of feudal violation; between the beasts of burden and the
beasts of prey--they proclaimed the common kinship of humanity in
Christ the Elder Brother.

Strange to say, some of its most distinguished missionaries were
natives of our own country. It was a {166} Scottish monk, St. Ribanus,
who first preached the gospel in Franconia--it was an English monk,
St. Wilfred, who did the same in Friesland and Holland in the year
683, but with little success--it was an Englishman, St. Swibert, who
carried the cross to Saxony, and it was from the lips of another
Englishman, St. Ulfred, that Sweden first heard the gospel--it was an
Englishman and a Devonshire man, St. Boniface, who laid aside his
mitre, put on his monk's dress, converted Germany to the truth, and
then fell a victim to the fury of the heathen Frieslanders, who
slaughtered him in cold blood. Four Benedictine monks carried the
light of truth into Denmark, Sweden, and Gothland, sent there in the
ninth century by the Emperor Ludovicus Pius. Gascony, Hungary,
Lithuania, Russia, Pomerania, are all emblazoned on their banners as
victories won by them in the fight of faith; and it was to the
devotion of five martyr monks, who fell in the work, that Poland
traces the foundation of her church.

It is a remarkable fact in the history of Christianity, that in its
earliest stage--the first phase of its existence--its tendency was to
elevate peasants to the dignity of apostles, but in its second stage
it reversed its operations and brought kings from their thrones to the
seclusion of the cloister--humbled the great ones of the earth to the
dust of penitential humility. Up to the fourth century Christianity
was a terrible struggle against principalities and powers: then a time
came when principalities and powers humbled themselves at the foot of
that cross whose followers they had so cruelly persecuted. The
innumerable martyrdoms of the first four centuries of its career were
followed by a long succession of' royal humiliations, for, during the
sixth, seventh, eighth, and ninth centuries, in addition to what took
place as regards other orders, no less than ten emperors and twenty
kings resigned their crowns and became monks of the Benedictine order
alone. Amongst this band of great ones the most conspicuous are the
Emperors Anastasius, Theodosius, Michael, Theophilus, and Ludovicus
Pius. Amongst the kings are Sigismund of Burgundy, Cassimir of Poland,
Bamba of Spain, Childeric and Theodoric of France, Sigisbert of
Northumberland, Ina of the West Saxons, Veremunde of Castille, Pepin
of Italy, and Pipin of Acquitaine. Adding to these their subsequent
acquisitions, the Benedictines claim up to the 14th. century the honor
of enrolling amongst their number twenty emperors and forty-seven
kings: twenty sons of emperors and forty-eight sons of kings--amongst
whom were Drogus, Pipin, and Hugh, sons of Charlemagne; Lothair and
Carlomen, sons of Charles; and Fredericq, son of Louis III. of France.
As nuns of their order they have had no less than ten empresses and
fifty queens, including the Empresses Zoa Euphrosyne, St. Cunegunda,
Agnes, Augusta, and Constantina; the Queens Batilda of France, Elfreda
of Northumberland, Sexburga of Kent, Ethelberga of the West Saxons,
Ethelreda of Mercia, Ferasia of Toledo, Maud of England. In the year
1290 the Empress Elizabeth took the veil with her daughters Agnes,
queen of Hungary, and the Countess Cueba; also Anne, queen of Poland,
and Cecily, her daughter. In the wake of these crowned heads follow
more than one hundred princesses, daughters of kings and emperors.
Five Benedictine nuns have attained literary distinction--Rosinda, St.
Elizabeth, St. Hildegardis, whose works were approved of by the
Council of Treves, St. Hiltrudis, and St. Metilda.

For the space of 239 years 1 month and 26 days the Benedictines
governed the church in the shape of 48 popes chosen from their order,
most prominent among whom was Gregory the Great, through whose means
the rule was introduced into England. Four of these pontiffs came from
the original {167} monastery of Monte Cassino, and three of them
quitted the throne and resumed the monastic life--Constantine II.,
Christopher I., and Gregory XII. Two hundred cardinals had been monks
in their cloisters--they produced 7,000 archbishops, 15,000 bishops,
fifteen of whom took off their mitres, resumed their monks' frock, and
died in seclusion; 15,000 abbots; 4,000 saints. They established in
different countries altogether 87,000 monasteries, which sent out into
the world upwards of 15,700 monks, all of whom attained distinction as
authors of books or scientific inventors. Rabanus established the
first school in Germany. Alcuin founded the University of Paris, where
30,000 students were educated at one time, and whence issued, to the
honor of England, St. Thomas à Becket, Robert of Melun, Robert White,
made cardinal by Celestine II., Nicholas Broakspear, the only
Englishman ever made Pope, who filled the chair under the title of
Adrian IV., and John of Salisbury, whose writings give us the best
description of the learning both of the university and the times.
Theodore and Adrian, two Benedictine monks, revived the University of
Oxford, which Bede, another of the order, considerably advanced. It
was in the obscurity of a Benedictine monastery that the musical scale
or gamut--the very alphabet of the greatest refinement of modern
life--was invented, and Guido d'Arezzo, who wrested this secret from
the realms of sound, was the first to found a school of music.
Sylvester invented the organ, and Dionysius Exiguus perfected the
ecclesiastical computation.

England in the early periods of her history contributed upwards of a
hundred sons to this band of immortals, the most distinguished of whom
we will just enumerate--St. Cuthbert, bishop of Lindisfarne, whose
life Bede has written, and whose "Ordinationes" and "De Vita
Monastica" have reached to our times. St. Benedict Biscop, the founder
of the monasteries of St. Peter and St. Paul, at Wearmouth and Jarrow,
a nobleman by birth, and a man of extraordinary learning and ability,
to whom England owes the training of the father of her ecclesiastical
history, the Venerable Bede. St. Aldhelm, nephew of King Ina, St.
Wilfrid, St Brithwald, a monk of Glastonbury, elevated to the dignity
of Archbishop of Canterbury, which he held over thirty-seven years.
His works which have come down to us are a "Life of St. Egwin, bishop
of Worcester," and the "Origin of the Monastery of Evesham." Tatwin,
who succeeded him in the archbishopric. Bede the Venerable, who was
skilled in all the learning of the times, and; in addition to Latin
and Greek, was versed in Hebrew; he wrote an immense number of works,
many of which are lost, but the best known are the greater portion of
the "Saxon Chronicle," which was continued after his death as a
national record; and his "Ecclesiastical History," which gives to
England a more compendious and valuable account of her early church
than has fallen to the lot of any other nation. He was also one of the
earliest translators of the Scriptures, and oven on his death-bed
dictated to a scribe almost up to the final moment; when the last
struggle came upon him he had reached as far as the words, "But what
are they among so many," in the sixth chapter of St. John's Gospel,
and the ninth verse. St. Boniface, already alluded to as the apostle
of Germany, was a native of Devonshire. He was made Archbishop of
Mentz, but being possessed with an earnest longing to convert the
heathen Frieslanders, he retired from his archbishopric, and putting
on his monk's dress took with him no other treasure than a book he was
very fond of reading, called "De Bono Mortis," went amongst these
people, who cruelly beat him to death in the year 755; and the book
stained with his blood {168} was cherished as a sacred relic long
after. Alcuin, whom we have already mentioned as the founder of the
University of Paris, was a Yorkshireman, and was educated under Bede.
He lived to become the friend of Charlemagne, and next to his
venerable master was the greatest scholar and divine in Europe; he
died about the year 790. John Asser, a native of Pembrokeshire, is
another of these worthies. It is supposed that Alfred endowed Oxford
with professors, and settled stipends upon them, under his influence,
he being invited to the court of that monarch for his great learning.
He wrote a "Commentary" upon Boethius de Consolatione Philosophiae,
the "Life of King Alfred," and the "Annals of Great Britain." St.
Dunstan, a monk of Glastonbury, the best known of all these great
Englishmen, died Archbishop of Canterbury; but as we shall have much
to say of him hereafter we pass on to St. Ethelwold, his pupil, also a
monk at Glastonbury, distinguished for his learning and piety, for
which he was made abbot of the Monastery of Abingdon, where he died in
the year 984. Ingulphus, a native of London, was made Abbot of
Croyland, in Lincolnshire, in the year 1075. A history of the abbey
over which he presided has been attributed to him, but its
authenticity has been gravely disputed. Alfric, a noted grammarian.
Florence, of Worcester, was another great annalist, who in his
"Chronicon ex Chronici" brings the history down to the year 1119, that
in which he died; his book is chiefly valuable as a key to the "Saxon
Chronicle." William, the renowned monk of Malmesbury, the most elegant
of all the monastic Latinists, was born about the time of the Norman
Conquest. His history consists of two parts, the "Gesta Regum
Anglorum," in five books, including the period between the arrival of
the Saxons and the year 1120. The "Historia Novella," in three books,
brings it down to the year 1142. He ranks next to Bede as an historic
writer, most of the others being mere compilers and selectors from
extant chronicles. He also wrote a work on the history of the English
bishops, called "De Gestis Pontificum Anglorum," in which he speaks
out fearlessly and without sparing: also a treatise on the antiquity
of Glastonbury Abbey, "De Antiquitate Glastoniensis Ecclesiae;" his
style is most interesting, and he is supposed to have written
impartially, separating the improbable from the real, and gives us
what can readily be appreciated as a fair and real picture of the
state of things, more especially of the influence and policy of the
Norman court, and the opening of the struggle between the two races.
Eadmer was another contemporaneous celebrity with William of
Malmesbury; he was the author of a history of his own times, called
"Historia Novorum sive Sui Secula," which is spoken of very highly by
William of Malmesbury; it contains the reigns of William the Conqueror
and Rufus, and a portion of that of Henry I., embracing a period
extending from 1066 to 1122. Matthew Paris, another historian who
lived about the year 1259, closes our selection from the long list of
British worthies who were members of the Benedictine order.

When we reflect that all the other monastic systems, not only of the
past, but even of the present day, are but modifications of this same
rule, and that it emanated from the brain, and is the embodiment of
the genius of the solitary hermit of Monte Cassino, we are lost in
astonishment at the magnitude of the results which have sprung from so
simple an origin. That St. Benedict had any presentiment of the future
glory of his order, there is no sign in his rule or his life. He was a
great and good man, and he produced that comprehensive rule simply for
the guidance of his own immediate followers, without a thought beyond.
But it was blessed, {169} and grew and prospered mightily in the
world. He has been called the Moses of a favored people; and the
comparison is not inapt, for he lead his order on up to the very
borders of the promised country, and after his death, which, like that
of Moses, took place within sight of their goal, they fought their way
through the hostile wilds of barbarism, until those men who had
conquered the ancient civilizations of Europe lay at their feet, bound
in the fetters of spiritual subjection to the cross of Christ. The
wild races of Scandinavia came pouring down upon southern Europe in
one vast march of extermination, slaying and destroying as they
advanced, sending before them the terror of that doom which might be
seen in the desolation which lay behind them; but they fell,
vanquished by the power of the army of God, who sallied forth in turn
to reconquer the world, and fighting not with the weapons of fire and
sword, but, like Christian soldiers, girt about with truth, and having
on the breastplate of righteousness, they subdued these wild races,
who had crushed the conquerors of the earth, and rested not until they
had stormed the stronghold, and planted the cross triumphantly upon
the citadel of an ancient paganism. Time rolled on, and the gloom of a
long age of darkness fell upon a world whose glory lay buried under
Roman ruins. Science had gone, literature had vanished, art had flown,
and men groped about in vain in that dense darkness for one ray of
hope to cheer them in their sorrow. The castle of the powerful baron
rose gloomily above them, and with spacious moat, dense walls, and
battlemented towers, frowned ominously upon the world which lay abject
at its feet. In slavery men were born, and in slavery they lived. They
pandered to the licentiousness and violence of him who held their
lives in his hands, and fed them only to fight and fail at his
bidding. But far away from the castle there arose another building,
massive, solid, and strong, not frowning with battlemented towers, nor
isolated by broad moats; but with open gates, and a hearty welcome to
all comers, stood the monastery, where lay the hope of humanity, as in
a safe asylum. Behind its walls was the church, and clustered around
it the dwelling-places of those who had left the world, and devoted
their lives to the service of that church, and the salvation of their
souls. Far and near in its vicinity the land bore witness to assiduous
culture and diligent care, bearing on its fertile bosom the harvest
hope of those who had labored, which the heavens watered, the sun
smiled upon, and the winds played over, until the heart of man
rejoiced, and all nature was big with the promise of increase. This
was the refuge to which religion and art had fled. In the quiet
seclusion of its cloisters science labored at its problems and
perpetuated its results, uncheered by applause and stimulated only by
the pure love of the pursuit. Art toiled in the church, and whole
generations of busy fingers worked patiently at the decoration of the
temple of the Most High. The pale, thoughtful monk, upon whose brow
genius had set her mark, wandered into the calm retirement of the
library, threw back his cowl, buried himself in the study of
philosophy, history, or divinity, and transferred his thoughts to
vellum, which was to moulder and waste in darkness and obscurity, like
himself in his lonely monk's grave, and be read only when the spot
where he labored should be a heap of ruins, and his very name a
controversy amongst scholars.

We should never lose sight of this truth, that in this building, when
the world was given up to violence and darkness, was garnered up the
hope of humanity; and these men who dwelt there in contemplation and
obscurity were its faithful guardians--and this was more particularly
the case with that great order whose foundation we {170} have been
examining. The Benedictines were the depositaries of learning and the
arts; they gathered books together, and reproduced them in the silence
of their cells, and they preserved in this way not only the volumes of
sacred writ, but many of the works of classic lore. They started
Gothic architecture--that matchless union of nature with art--they
alone had the secrets of chemistry and medical science; they invented
many colors; they were the first architects, artists, glass-stainers,
carvers, and mosaic workers in mediaeval times. They were the original
illuminators of manuscripts, and the first transcribers of books; in
fine, they were the writers, thinkers, and workers of a dark age, who
wrote for no applause, thought with no encouragement, and worked for
no reward. Their power, too, waxed mighty; kings trembled before their
denunciations of tyranny, and in the hour of danger fled to their
altars for safety; and it was an English king who made a pilgrimage to
their shrines, and prostrate at the feet of five Benedictine monks,
bared his back, and submitted himself to be scourged as a penance to
his crimes.

Nearly fourteen hundred years have rolled by since the great man who
founded this noble order died; and he who in after years compiled the
"Saxon Chronicle" has recorded it in a simple sentence, which, amongst
the many records of that document, we may at least believe, and with
which we will conclude the chapter--"This year St. Benedict the Abbot,
father of all monks, went to heaven."


From The Month.



1. Some old men came to Abbot Antony, who, to try their spirits,
proposed to them a difficult passage of Scripture.

As each in turn did his best to explain it, Antony said: "You have not
hit it."

Till Abbot Joseph said: "I give it up."

Then cried Antony: "_He_ has hit it; for he owns he does not know it."

2. When the Abbot Arsenius was at the point of death, his brethren
noted that he wept. They said then: "Is it so? art thou too afraid, O

He answered: "It is so; and the fear that is now upon me has been with
me ever since I became a monk."

And so he went to sleep.

3. Abbot Pastor said: "We cannot keep out bad thoughts, as we cannot
stop the wind rushing through the door; but we can resist them when
they come."

4. Abbot Besarion said, when he was dying: "A monk ought to be all
eye, as the cherubim and seraphim."

5. They asked Abbot Macarius how they ought to pray.

The old man made answer: "No need to be voluble in prayer; but stretch
forth thy hands frequently, and say, 'Lord, as thou wilt, and as thou
knowest, have mercy on me.' And if war is coming on, say, 'Help!' And
he who himself knoweth what is expedient for thee, will show thee

6. On a festival, when the monks were at table, one cried out to the
servers, "_I_ eat nothing dressed, so bring me some salt."

Blessed Theodore made reply: "My brother, better were it to have even
secretly eaten flesh in thy cell than thus loudly to have refused it."

7. An old man said: "A monk's cell is that golden Babylonian furnace
in which the Three Children found the Son of God."







BY GEORGE H. MILES.   [Footnote 34]

  [Footnote 34: Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year
  1886, by Lawrence Kehoe, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court
  of the United States for the Southern District of New York.]




  Fronting the vine-clad Hermitage,--
  Its hoary turrets mossed with age,
  Its walls with flowers and grass o'ergrown,--
      A ruined Castle, throned so high
      Its battlements invade the sky,
  Looks down upon the rushing Rhone.
  From its tall summits you may see
  The sunward slopes of Côte Rotie
  With its red harvest's revelry;
  While eastward, midway to the Alpine snows,
  Soar the sad cloisters of the Grande Chartreuse.

  And here, 'tis said, to hide his shame,
  The thrice accursed Pilate came;
  And here the very rock is shown.
      Where, racked and riven with remorse,
      Mad with the memory of the Cross,
  He sprang and perished in the Rhone.
  'Tis said that certain of his race
  Made this tall peak their dwelling place.
  And built them there this castle keep
  To mark the spot of Pilate's leap.


  Full many the tale of terror told
      At eve, with changing cheek,
  By maiden fair and stripling bold,
  Of these dark keepers of the height
  And, most of all, of the Wizard Knight,
      The Knight of Pilate's Peak.
  His was a name of terror known
      And feared through all Provence;
  Men breathed it in an undertone.
      With quailing eye askance,
  Till the good Dauphin of Vienne,
      And Miolan's ancient Lord,
  One midnight stormed the robber den
      And gave them to the sword;
  All save the Wizard Knight, who rose
  In a flame-wreath from his dazzled foes;
  All save a child, with golden hair.
  Whom the Lord of Miolan deigned to spare
      In ruth to womanhood,
  And she, alas, is the maiden fair
      Who wept in the walnut wood.

  But who is he, with step of fate,
  Goes gloomily through the castle gate
       In me morning's virgin prime?
  Why scattereth he with frenzied hand
  The fierce flame of that burning brand,
      Chaunting an ancient rhyme?
  The eagle, scared from her blazing nest,
  Whirls with a scream round his sable crest.
  What muttereth he with demon smile.
  Shaking his mailed hand the while
      Toward the Chateau of La Sône,
  Where champing steed and bannered tent
  Gave token of goodly tournament,
      And the Golden Dolphin shone?
  "Woe to the last of the Dauphin's line,
  When the eagle shrieks and the red lights shine
      Bound the towers of Pilate's Peak!
  Burn, beacon, burn!"--and as he spoke
  From the ruined towers curled the pillared smoke,
  As the light flame leapt from the ancient oak
      And answered the eagle's shriek.
  Man and horse down the hillside sprang
  And a voice through the startled forest rang--
      "I ride, I ride to win my bride.
      Ho, Eblis! to thy servants side;
            Thou hast sworn no foe
            Shall lay me low
  Till the dead in arms against me ride."



  Deliciously, deliciously
      Cometh the dancing dawn,
  Christine, Christine comes with it,
      Leading in the morn.
          Beautiful pair!
      So cometh the fawn
          Before the deer.
  Christine is in her bower
      Beside the swift Isère
  Weaving a white flower
      With her dark brown hair.
      Never, O never,
          Wandering river.
      Though flowing for ever,
          E'er shalt thou mirror
      Maiden so fair!

  Hail to thee, hail to thee,
      Beautiful one;
  Maiden to match thee,
      On earth there is none.
  And there is none to tell
      How beautiful thou art:
  Though oft the first Rudel
      Has made the Princes start,
  When he has strung his harp and sung
      The Lily of Provence,
  Till the high halls have rung
      With clash of lifted lance
  Vowed to the young
      Christine of France.

      Ah, true that he might paint
  The blooming of thy cheek.
  The blue vein's tender streak
      On marble temple faint;
      Lips in whose repose
      Ruby weddeth rose.
      Lips that parted show
      Ambushed pearl below:
  Or he may catch the subtle glow
      Of smiles as rare as sweet,
  May whisper of the drifted snow
      Where throat and bosom meet.
  And of the dark brown braids that flow
      So grandly to thy feet.
      Ah, true that he may sing
      Thy wondrous mien.


  Stately as befits a queen,
  Yet light and lithe and all awing
      As becometh Queen of air
  Who glideth unstepping everywhere.
  And he might number e'en
      The charms that haunt the drapery--
  Charms that, ever changing, cluster
  Round thy milk-white mantle's lustre,--
      Maiden mantle that is part of thee.
      Maiden mantle that doth circle thee
          With the snows of virgin grace;
  Halo-like around thee wreathing,
  Spirit-like about thee breathing
          The glory of thy face.

  But these dark eyes, Christine?
      Peace, poet, peace,
      Cease, minstrel, cease!
  But these dear eyes, Christine?
      Mute, O mute
      Be voice and lute!
  O dear dark eyes that seem to dwell
  With holiest things invisible,
      Who may read your oracle?
  Earnest eyes that seem to rove
      Empyrean heights above,
  Yet aglow with human love.
      Who may speak your spell?
  Dear dark eyes that beam and bless,
  In whose luminous caress
  Nature weareth bridal dress,--
  Eyes of voiceless Prophetess,
      Your meanings who may tell!
          O there is none!
      Peace, poet, peace.
      Cease, minstrel, cease,
          For there is none!
  O eyes of fire without desire,
      O stars that lead the sun!
          But minstrel cease,
          Peace, poet, peace.
      Tame Troubadour be still;
          Voice and lute
          Alike be mute,
      It passeth all your skill!

      Sooth thou art fair,
      O ladye dear.
          Yet one may see
  The shadow of the east in thee;


          Tinting to a riper flush
          The faint vermilion of thy blush;
          Deepening in thy dark brown hair
          Till sunshine sleeps in starlight there.
  For she had scarce seen summers ten,
      When erst the Hermit's call
      Sent all true Knights from bower and hall
  Against the Saracen.
  Young, motherless, and passing fair,
  The Dauphin durst not leave her there,
      Within his castle lone,
  To kinsman's cold or casual care,
      Not such as were his own:
  And so the sweet Provençal maid
  Shared with her sire the first Crusade.
  And you may hear her oft,
  In accents strangely soft.
  Still singing of the rose's bloom
      In Sharon,--of the long sunset
      That gilds lamenting Olivet,
  Of eglantines that grace the gloom
      Of sad Gethsemane;
  And of a young Knight ever seen
  In evening walks along the green
      That fringes feeble Siloë.

  Young, beautiful, and passing fair--
  The ancient Dauphin's only heir,
      The fairest flower of France,--
  Knights by sea and Knights by land
  Came to claim the fair white hand,
      With sigh and suppliant lance;
          And many a shield
          Displayed afield
  The Lily of Provence.
      Ladye love of prince and bard
      Yet to one young Savoyard
          Swerveless faith she gave--
      To the young knight ever seen
      When moonlight wandered o'er the green
          That gleams o'er Siloë's wave.
  And he, blest boy, where lingers he?
      For the Dauphin hath given slow consent
      That, after a joyous tournament,
  The stately spousals shall be.

  Christine is in her bower
      That blooms by the swift Isère,
  Twining a white flower
      With her dark brown hair.


      The skies of Provence
      Are bright with her glance,
  And nature's matin organ floods
      The world with music from the myriad throats
      Of the winged Troubadours, whose joyous notes
  Brighten the rolling requiem of the woods.
      With melody, flowers, and light
          Hath the maiden come to play,
      As fragile, fair, and bright
          And lovelier than they?
      O no, she has come to her bower
          That blooms by the dark Isère
      For the bridegroom who named the first hour
          Of day-dawn to meet her there:
      But the bridal morn on the hills is born
          And the bridegroom is not here.
      Hie thee hither, Savoyard,
      On such an errand youth rides hard.
      Never knight so dutiful
      Maiden failed so beautiful:
          And she in such sweet need,
          And he so bold and true!--
  She will watch by the long green avenue
      Till it quakes to the tramp of his steed;
  Till it echoes the neigh of the gallant Grey
        Spurred to the top of his speed.

  In the dark, green, lonely avenue
      The Ladye her love-watch keepeth,
  Listening so close that she can hear
      The very dripping of the dew
          Stirred by the worm as it creepeth;
              Straining her ear
          For her lover's coming
              Till his steed seems near
          In the bee's far humming.
      She stands in the silent avenue,
          Her back to a cypress tree;
      O Savoyard once bold and true,
          Late bridegroom, where canst thou be?
      Hark! o'er the bridge that spans the river
          There cometh a clattering tread,
      Never was shaft from mortal quiver
          Ever so swiftly sped.
              Onward the sound,
              Bound after, bound,
          Leapeth along the tremulous ground.


  From the nodding forest darting.
  Leaves, like water, round them parting.
      Up the long green avenue,
      Horse and horseman buret in view.
  Marry, what ails the bridegroom gay
      That he strideth a coal black steed,
  Why cometh he not on the gallant Grey
      That never yet failed him at need?
  Gone is the white plume, that clouded his crest,
  And the love-scarf that lightly lay over his breast;
  Dark is his shield as the raven's wing
  To the funeral banquet hurrying.
  Came ever knight in such sad array
  On the merry morn of his bridal day?
  The Ladye trembles, and well she may;
  Saints, you would think him a fiend astray.
  A plunge, a pause, and, fast beside her.
  Stand the sable horse and rider.
  Alas, Christine, this shape of wrath
  In Palestine once crossed thy path;
  His arm around thy waist, I trow,
  To bear thee to his saddle-bow.
      But thy Savoyard was there.
  In time to save, tho' not to smite,
  For the demon fled into the night
      From Miolan's matchless heir.
  Alas, Christine, that lance lies low--
      Lies low on oaken bier!

  Low bent the Wizard, till his plume
  O'ershadowed her like falling doom:
  She feels the cold casque touch her ear,
  She hears the whisper, hollow, clear,--
  "From Acre's strand, from Holy Land,
  O'er mountain crag, through desert sand,
  By land, by sea, I come for thee.
  And mine ere sunset shalt thou be!
  Dost know me, girl?"
              The visor raises--
  God, 'tis the Knight of Pilate's Peak!
      As if in wildered dream she gazes,
  Gazing as one who strives to shriek.
  She cannot fly, or speak, or stir,
  For that face of horror glares, at her
      Like a phantom fresh from hell.
  She gave no answer, she made no moan;
  Mute as a statue overthrown.
  Her fair face cold as carved stone,
      Swooning the maiden fell.


  The sun has climbed the golden hills
  And danceth down with the mountain rills.
  Over the meadow the swift beams run
  Lifting the flowers, one by one,
  Sipping their chalices dry as they pass,
  And kissing the beads from the bending grass.
  The Dauphin's chateau, grand and grey,
  Glows merrily in the risen day;
  His castle that seemeth ancient as earth,
  Lights up like an old man in his mirth.
  Through the forest old, the sunbeams bold
      Their glittering revel keep,
  Till, in arrowy gold, on the chequered wold
      In glancing lines they sleep.
  And one sweet beam hath found its way
  To the violet bank where the Ladye lay.
  O radiant touch! perchance so shone
  The hand that woke the widow's son.

  She sighs, she stirs; the death-swoon breaks;
      Life slowly fires those pallid lips;
  And feebly, painfully, she wakes,
      Struggling through that dark eclipse.
  Breathing fresh of Alpine snows,
  Breathing sweets of summer rose.
  Murmuring songs of soft repose,
  The south wind on her bosom blows:
  But she heeds it not, she hears it not;
      Fast she sits with steady stare.
      The dew-drops heavy on her hair,
      Her fingers clasped in dumb despair,
          Frozen to the spot:
  While o'er her fierce and fixed as fate,
  The fiend on his spectral war-horse sate.
  A horrible smile through the visor broke,
  And, quoth he,
              "I but watched till my Ladye woke.
  Get thee a flagon of Shiraz wine,
  For the lips must be red that answer mine!"
  Cleaving the woods, like the wind he went.
  His face o'er his shoulder backward bent,
  Crying thrice--"We shall meet at the Tournament!"

      Clasping the cypress overhead,
      Christine rose from her fragrant bed.
      And a prayer to Mother Mary sped.
      Hold not those gleaming skies for her
      The same unfailing Comforter?
      And those two white winged cherubim,
      She once had seen, when Christmas hymn
          Chimed with the midnight mass,
      Scattering light through the chapel dim,
          Alive in me stained glass--


  What fiend could harm a hair of her.
  While those arching-wings took care of her?
  And our Ladye, Maid divine,
  Mother round whose marble shrine
  She wreathed the rose of Palestine
      So many sinless years,
  Will not heaven's maiden-mother Queen
      Regard her daughter's tears!
  Yes!--through the forest stepping slow,
  Tranquil mistress of her woe,
      Goeth the calm Christine;
  And but for yonder spot of snow
  Upon each temple, none may know
      How stem a storm hath been.
  For never dawned a brighter day,
  And the Ladye smileth on her way,
  Greeting the blue-eyed morn at play
      With earth in her spangled green.
          A single cloud
          Stole like a shroud
  Forth from the fading mists that hid
  The crest of each Alpine pyramid;
  Unmovingly it lingers over
  The mountain castle of her lover;
      While over Pilate's Peak
  Hangs the grey pall of the sullen smoke,
  Leaps the lithe flame of the ancient oak
      And the eagle soars with a shriek.
  Full well she knew the curse was near.
  But that heart of hers had done with fear.
  By St. Antoine, not steadier stands
      Mont Blanc's white head in winter's whirl
      Than that calm, fearless, smiling girl
  With her bare brow upturned and firmly folded hands.

      Back to her bower so fair
          Christine her way, is wending;
      Over the dark Isère
          Silently she's bending,
      Thus communing with the stream.
      As one who whispers in a dream:
      "Waters that at sunset ran
      Round the Mount of Miolan;
      Stream, that binds my love to me,
      Whisper where that lover be;
      Wavelets mine, what evil things
      Mingle with your murmurings;
      Tell me, ere ye glide away.
      Wherefore doth the bridegroom stay?
      Hath the fiend of Pilate's Peak
      Met him, stayed him, slain him--speak!


  Speak the worst a Bride may know,
  God hath armed my soul for woe;
  Touching heaven, the virgin snow
  Is firmer than the rock below.
  Lies my love upon his bier,
  Answer, answer, dark Isère!
  Hark, to the low voice of the river
  Singing '_Thy love is lost for ever!_'
  Weep with all thy icy fountains,
  "Weep, ye cold, uncaring mountains,
      I have not a tea!
  Stream, that parts my love from me,
  Bear this bridal rose with thee;
  Bear it to the happy hearted,
  Christine and all the flowers have parted!"

  They are coming from the castle,
      A bevy of bright-eyed girls,
  Some with their long locks braided,
      Some with loose golden curls.
  Merrily 'mid the meadows
      They win their wilful way;
  Winding through sun and shadow,
      Rivulets at play.
  Brows with white rosebuds blowing,
      Necks with white pearl entwined.
  Gowns whose white folds imprison
      Wafts of the wandering wind.
  The boughs of the charmèd woodland
     Sing to the vision sweet.
  The daisies that crouch in the clover
      Nod to their twinkling feet.
  They see Christine by the river,
      And, deeming the bridegroom near,
  They wave her a dewy rose-wreath
      Fresh plucked for her dark brown hair.
  Hand in hand tripping to meet her,
      Birdlike they carol their joy.
  Wedding soft Provençal numbers
      To a dulcet old strain of Savoy.



  Sister, standing at Love's golden gate.
          Life's second door--
      Fleet the maidentime is flying.
      Friendship fast in love is dying,
  Bridal fate doth separate
      Friends evermore.

  Pilgrim seeking with thy sandalled feet
          The land of bliss;
      Sire and sister tearless leaving,
      To thy beckoning palmer cleaving--
  Truant sweet, once more repeat
          Our parting kiss.

  Wanderer filling for enchanted isle
          Thy dimpling sail;
      Whither drifted, all uncaring.
      So with faithful helmsman faring,
  Stay and smile with us, awhile,
          Before the gale.

  Playmate, hark! for all that once was ours
          Soon rings the knell:
      Glade and thicket, glen and heather,
      Whisper sacredly together;
  Queen of ours, the very flowers
          Sigh forth farewell.

  Christine looked up, and smiling stood
  Among the choral sisterhood:
  But some who sprang to greet her, stayed
  Tiptoe, with the speech unsaid;
  And, each the other, none knew why.
  Questioned with quick, wondering eye.
  One by one, their smiles have flown.
  No lip is laughing but her own;
  And hers, the frozen smile that wears
  The glittering of unshed tears.
  "Ye nave sung for me, I will sing for ye,
      My sisters fond and fair."
  And she bent her head till the chaplet fell
      Adown in the deep Isère.


      Bring me no rose-wreath now:
  But come when sunset's first tears fall.
  When night-birds from the mountain call--
          Then bind my brow,

      Roses and lilies white--
  But tarry till the glow-worms trail
  Their gold-work o'er the spangled veil
          Of falling night


      Twine not your garland fair
  Till I have fallen fast asleep;
  Then to my silent pillow creep
          And leave it there--

      There in the chapel yard!--
  Come with twilight's earliest hush,
  Just as day's last purple flush
          Forsakes the sward.

      Stop where the white cross stands.
  You'll find me in my wedding suit,
  Lying motionless and mute,
          With folded hands.

      Tenderly to my side:
  The bridegroom's form you may not see
  In the dim eve, but he will be
          Fast by his bride.

      Soft with your chaplet move.
  And lightly lay it on my head:
  Be sure you wake not with rude tread
          My jealous love.

      Kiss me, then quick away;
  And leave us, in unwatched repose,
  With the lily and the rose
          Waiting for day!

  But hark! the cry of the clamorous horn
  Breaks the bright stillness of the morn.
  From moated wall, from festal hall
  The banners beckon, the bugles call,
  Already flames, in the lists unrolled
  O'er the Dauphin's tent, the Dolphin gold.
  A hundred knights in armor glancing.
  Hurry afield with pennons dancing,
  Each with a vow to splinter a lance
  For Christine, the Lily of Provence.
          "Haste!" cried Christine;
      "Sisters, we tarry late.
      Let not the tourney wait
          For its Queen!"
      And, toward the castle gate,
  They take their silent way along the green.




From The Literary Workman.





Mary Lorimer returned in safety to Beremouth under Horace Erskine's
care, welcomed as may be supposed by the adopted father and her
mother. Not that "Mother Mary," as Lady Greystock in the old Claudia
Brewer days used to call her, could ever welcome Horace. She had never
liked him; she had always felt that there was some unknown wrong about
his seeking and his leaving Claudia; she had been glad that a long
absence abroad had kept him from them while her darling Mary had been
growing up; and it was with a spasm of fear that she heard of his
spending that autumn at her sister's. And yet she had consented to his
bringing Mary home. Yes, she had consented, for Mr. Brewer in his
overflowing hospitality had asked him to come to them--had regretted
that they had seen so little of him of late years--and had himself
suggested that he should come when Mary returned.

Nine years does a great deal; it may even pay people's debts
sometimes. But it had not paid Horace Erskine's debts: on the
contrary, it had added to them with all the bewildering peculiarities
that belong to calculations of interests and compound interests. He
had got to waiting for another man's death. How many have had to
become in heart death-dealers in this way! It was known that he would
be his uncle's heir, and his uncle added to what he supposed Horace
possessed a good sum yearly; making the man rich as he thought, and
causing occasionally a slight passing regret that Horace was so
saving. "He might do so much more if he liked on his good income," the
elder Mr. Erskine would say. But he did not know of the many sums for
ever paying to keep things quiet till death, the great paymaster,
should walk in and demand stern rights of himself, the elder, and pass
on the gold that we all must leave behind to the nephew, the younger

But in the nine years that had passed since the coward took his
revenge on a brave woman by doing that which killed her husband, great
things had happened to pretty Minnie Lorimer. The "county people" had
been after her--those same old families who had flouted her mother,
and prophesied eternal poverty to her poor pet baby--fatherless, too!
a fact that finished the story of their faults with a note of peculiar

That a man of good family should marry without money, become the
father of a lovely child, and _die_--that the mother should go back to
that old poverty-stricken home where that stiff-looking maid-servant
looked so steadily into the faces of all who stood and asked
admittance--that they should pretend to be happy!--altogether, it was
really too bad.

Why did not Mrs. Lorimer, widow, go out as a governess? Who was to
bring up that unfortunate child on a paltry one hundred a year? Of
course {184} she begged for help. Of course they were supported by Mr.
Erskines's charity. A pretty humiliation of Lorimer's friends and

Altogether, the whole of the great Lansdowne Lorimer connection had
pronounced that to have that young widow and her daughter belonging to
them was a trial very hard to bear. They had not done talking when
Mary made that quiet walk to church--no one but her mother and Jenifer
being in the secret--and reappeared in the county after a few months'
absence as mistress of Beremouth. Mr. Brewer had counted his money,
and had told the world what it amounted to. And this time he never
apologized, he only confessed himself a person scarcely deserving of
respect, because he had done so little good with the mammon of
unrighteousness. But Mary now would tell him how to manage. He did
perhaps take a little to the humble line. He hoped the world would
forget and forgive his former shortcomings; such conduct would
assuredly not now be persevered in; and that resolution was fulfilled
without any doubt. The splendors of Beremouth were something to talk
about, and the range of duties involved in a large hospitality were
admirably performed.

Old Lady Caroline, whose pianoforte survived in Mrs. Morier's house at
Marston, considered the matter without using quite as many words as
her neighbors. "That man will be giving money to Lorimer's child." She
was quite right. He had already invested five thousand pounds for
Minnie. Lady Caroline (what an odd pride hers was!) went to Beremouth,
and got upon business matter with "Mother Mary."

She would give that child five thousand pounds in her will if Mr.
Brewer would not give her anything. Alas! it was already given. Mr.
Brewer used to count among his faults that, with him, it was too much
a word and a blow, especially when a good action was in question, and
this curious unusual fault he had decidedly committed in the case of
Minnie Lorimer. The money was hers safe enough, invested in the hands
of trustees. "Safe enough," said Mr. Brewer exultingly; and then,
looking with a saddened air on Lady Caroline, he added, gravely, that
it couldn't be helped! "The man's a saint or a fool, I can't tell
which," was Lady Caroline's very cute remark. "The most unselfish
idiot that ever lived. Does Mary like him, or laugh at him, I wonder?"

But Lady Caroline cultivated Mr. Brewer's acquaintance. Not in an evil
way, but because she had been brought up to _use_ the world, and to
slave all mankind who would consent to such persecution. Not wickedly,
I repeat, but with a fixed intention she cultivated Mr. Brewer, and
she got money out of him.

Mr. Brewer still made experiments with ten pounds. He helped Lady
Caroline in her many charities, as long as her charities were confined
to food and clothing, so much a week to the poor, and getting good
nursing for the sick. But once Lady Caroline used that charity purse
for purposes of "souping"--it has become an English word, so I do not
stop to explain it--and then Mr. Brewer scolded her. Nobody had ever
disputed any point with Lady Caroline. But Mr. Brewer explained, with
a most unexpected lucidity, how it would be _right_ for him to make
her a Catholic, and yet _wrong_ for her to try her notions of
conversion on him.

Lady Caroline kept up the quarrel for two years. She upbraided him for
his neglect, on his own principles, of Claudia. She abused him for the
different conduct pursued about his son. Mr. Brewer confessed his
faults and stood by his rights at the same time. Two whole years Lady
Caroline quarrelled, and Mr. Brewer never left the field. And
afterward, some time after, when Lady Caroline was in her last
illness, she said: "I believe that man Brewer may be right after all."
When she was dead young Mary Lorimer had double the sum that had {185}
been originally offered, and Freddy her largest diamond ring.

But another thing had to come out of all this. Mrs. Brewer became a
Catholic; and that fact had made her recall her daughter to her
side--that fact had made Horace Erskine say, at the inn at Hull, that
he dreaded for the girl he, spoke to the influence of the home and the
people she was going to--that fact had brought that passion of tears
to Mary Lorimer's eyes, and had made her feel so angrily that he had
taken an advantage of her.

Here, then, we are back again to the time at which we began the story.
Mary got home and was welcomed.

The day after their arrival, if we leave Beremouth and its people, and
go into Marston to Mrs. Morier, "old Mrs. Morier" they called her now,
we shall see Jenifer walk into the pleasant upstairs drawing-room,
where the china glittered on comer-shelves, and large jars stood under
the long inlaid table, and say to her mistress: "Eleanor is come, if
you please, ma'am."

Mrs. Morier looked up from her knitting. She had been sitting by the
window, and the beautiful old lady looked like a picture, as Jenifer
often declared, as she turned the face shadowed by fine lace toward
her servant with a sweet, gentle air, and smiling said, "And so you
want to go to Clayton--and Eleanor is to stay till you come back?"
"Yes, ma'am--it's the anniversary." "Go, then," said the gentle lady.
"And you must not leave me out of your prayers, my good Jenifer; for
you may be sure that I respect and value them." "I'll be back in good
time," said Jenifer; and the door closed, and Mrs. Morier continued
her knitting.

Soon she saw from the window that incomparable Jenifer. Her brown
light stuff gown, the black velvet trimming looking what Jenifer
called _rich_ upon the same. Buttons as big as pennies all the way
down the front--the good black shawl with the handsome border that
had been Mr. Brewer's own present to her on the occasion of his
wedding; the fine straw bonnet and spotless white ribbon--the crowning
glory of the black lace veil--oh, Jenifer was _somebody_, I can tell
you, at Marston; and Jenifer looked it.

It was with nothing short of a loving smile that Mrs. Morier watched
her servant. Servant indeed, but true, tried, and trusty friend also;
and when the woman was out of sight, and Mrs. Morier turned her
thoughts to Jenifer's prayer, and what little she knew of it, she
sighed--the sigh came from deep down, and the sigh was lengthened, and
her whole thoughts seemed to rest upon it--it was breathed out, at
last, and when it died away Mrs. Morier sat doing nothing in peaceful
contemplation till the door opened, and she whom we have heard called
Eleanor came in with inquiries as to the proper time for tea.

I think that this Eleanor was perhaps about eight-and-twenty years of
age. She was strikingly beautiful. Perhaps few people have ever seen
anything more faultlessly handsome than this young woman's form and
face. She looked younger than she was. The perfectly smooth brow and
the extraordinary fair complexion made her look young. No one would
have thought, when looking at Eleanor, that she had ever _worked_. If
the finest and loveliest gentlewoman in the world had chosen to put on
a lilac cotton gown, and a white checked muslin apron, and bring up
Mrs. Morier's early tea, she would perhaps have looked a little like
Eleanor; provided her new employment had not endowed her with a
momentary awkwardness. But admiration, when looking at this woman, was
a little checked by a sort of atmosphere of pain--or perhaps it was
only patience--that surrounded the beautiful face, and showed in every
gesture and movement, and rested on the whole being, as it were.


Eleanor suffered. And it was the pain of the mind and heart, not of
the body--no one who had sufficient sensibility to see what I have
described could ever doubt that the inner woman, not the outer fleshly
form of beauty, suffered; and that the woe, whatever it was, had
written _patience_ on that too placid brow.

"And are they all well at Dr. Rankin's?" "Very well, ma'am, I believe.
I saw Lady Greystock in her own rooms an hour before I came away. I
said that I was coming here, and she said"--Eleanor smiled--"Lady
Greystock said, ma'am, 'My duty to grandmamma Morier--mind you give
the message right.'"

"Ah," said Mrs. Morier, "Lady Greystock is wonderfully well." "There
is nothing the matter with her, ma'am." "Except that she never goes to
Beremouth." What made the faint carnation mount to Eleanor's
face?--what made the woman pause to collect herself before she
spoke?--"Oh, ma'am, she is right not to try herself. She'll go there
one day." "I suppose you like being at Dr. Rankin's?" "Very much. My
place of wardrobe-woman is not hard, but it is responsible. It suits
me well. And Mrs. Rankin is very good to me. And I am near Lady
Greystock." "How fond you are of her!" "There is not anything I would
not do for her," said the woman with animation. "I hope, indeed Dr.
Rankin tells me to believe, that I have had a great deal to do with
Lady Greystock's cure. She has treated me like a sister; and I can
never feel for any one what I feel for her." "Lady Greystock always
speaks of you in a truly affectionate way. She says you have known
better days." "_Different_ days; I don't say _better_. I have nothing
to wish for. Ever since the time that Lady Greystock determined on
staying at Blagden, I have been quite happy." "You came just as she
came." "Only two months after." "And did you like her from the first?"
"Oh, Mrs. Morier, you know she was very ill when she came. I never
thought of love, but of every care and every attention that one woman
could show to another. Had it been life for life, I am sure she might
have had _my_ life--that was all that I _then_ thought. But when she
recovered and loved me for what I had done for her, then it was love
for love. Lady Greystock gave me a new life, and I will serve her as
long as I may for gratitude, and as a thanksgiving."

When Eleanor was gone, her pleasant manner, her beauty, the music of
her voice, and the indescribable grace that belonged to her remained
with Mrs. Morier as a pleasant memory, and dwelling on it, she
lingered over her early tea, and ate of hashed mutton, making
meditation on how Eleanor had got to be Jenifer's great friend; and
whether their both being Catholics was enough to account for it.

This while Jenifer walked on toward Clayton. She stood at last on the
top of a wide table-land, and looked from the short grass where the
wild thyme grew like green velvet, and the chamomile gave forth
fragrance as you trod it under foot, down a rugged precipice into the
little seaport that sheltered in the cove below. The roofs of the
strange, dirty, tumble-down houses were packed thickly below her. The
nature of the precipitous cliff was to lie in terraces, and here and
there goats and donkeys among the branching fern gave a picturesque
variety to the scene, and made the practical Jenifer say to herself
that Clayton Cove was not "that altogether abominable" when seen to
the best advantage on the afternoon of a rich autumn day. A zigzag
path, rather difficult to get upon on account of the steepness of the
broken edge and the rolling stones, led from Jenifer's feet down to
the terraces; short cuts of steps and sliding stones led from terrace
to terrace, and these paths ended, as it appeared to the eye, in a
chimney-top that sent up a volume of white smoke, and a {187} pleasant
scent of wood and burning turf. By the side of the house that owned
the chimney, which was whitewashed carefully, and had white blinds
inside the green painted wood-work of small sash windows, appeared
another roof, long, high, narrow, with a cross on the eastern gable,
and that was the Catholic chapel--the house Father Daniels lived in;
and after a moment's pause down the path went Jenifer with all the
speed that a proper respect for her personal safety permitted. When
the woman got to the last terrace, she opened a wicket gate, and was
in a sunny garden, still among slopes and terraces, and loaded with
flowers. Common flowers no doubt, but who ever saw Father Daniels's
Canterbury bells and forgot them? There, safe in the bottom walk,
wide, and paved with pebbles from the beach, Jenifer turned not to the
right where the trellised back-door invited, but to the left, where
the west door of the chapel stood open--and she walked in. There was
no one there. She knelt down. After a while she rose, and kneeling
before the image of our Lady, said softly: "Mother, she had no mother!
Eleven years this day since that marriage by God's priest, and at his
holy altar--eleven years this day since that marriage which the laws
of the men of this country deny and deride. Mother, she had no mother!
Oh, mighty Mother! forget neither of them. Remember her for her
trouble, and him for his sin." Not for vengeance but for salvation,
she might have added; but Jenifer had never been accustomed to explain
her prayers. Then she knelt before the adorable Presence on the altar,
and her prayer was very brief--"My life, and all that is in it!"--was
it a vain repetition that she said it again and again? Again and
again, as she looked back and thought of what _it had been_; as she
thought of that which _it was_; and knew of the future that, blessed
by our Lady's prayers, she should take it, whatever it might be, as
the will of God. And so she said it; by so doing offering _herself_.
One great thing had colored all her life; had, to her, been _life_--
_her_ life; she, with that great shadow on the past, with the weight
of the cross on the present, with the fear of unknown ill on the
future, gathered together all prayer, all hope, all fear, and gave it
to God in those words of offering that were, on her lips, an earnest
prayer; the prayer of submission, of offering, of faith--"_My life,
and all that is in it_."

Jenifer could tell out her wishes to the Mother of God, and had told
them, in the words she had used, but it was this woman's way to have
no wishes when she knelt before God himself. "My life, and all that is
in it;" that was Jenifer's prayer.

After a time she left the chapel, putting pieces of money, many, into
the church box, and went into the house. She knew Mrs. Moore, the
priest's housekeeper, very well. She was shown into Father Daniels's
sitting-room. He was a venerable man of full seventy years of age, and
as she entered he put down the tools with which he was carving the
ornaments of a wooden altar, and said, "You are later than your note
promised. I have therefore been working by daylight, which I don't
often do." She looked at the work. It seemed to her to be very
beautiful. "It is fine and teak-wood," said Father Daniels; "part of a
wreck. They brought it to me for the church. We hope to get up a
little mariner's chapel on the south side of the church before long,
and I am getting ready the altar as far as I can with my own hands.
'Mary, star of the sea'--that will be our dedication. The faith
spreads here. Mistress Jenifer; and I hope we are a little better than
we used to be." And Father Daniels crossed himself and thanked God for
his grace that had blessed that wild little spot, and made many
Christians there. {188} Jenifer smiled, as the holy man spoke in a
playful tone, and she said, "It is the anniversary, father." "Of
Eleanor's marriage. Yes. I remembered her at mass. Has she heard
anything of him?" "Yes, father; she has heard his real name, she
thinks. She has always suspected, from the time that she first began
to suspect evil, that she had never known him by his real name--she
never believed his name to be Henry Evelyn, as he said when he married

"And what is his real name?"

"Horace Erskine," said Jenifer.

"What!" exclaimed Father Daniels, with an unusual tone of alarm in his
voice. "The man who was talked of for Lady Greystock before she
married--the nephew of Mrs. Brewer's sister's husband!" "Yes, sir."
"Is she sure?" "No. She has not seen him. But she has traced him, she
thinks. Corny Nugent, who is her second cousin, and knew them both
when the marriage took place, went as a servant to the elder Mr.
Erskine, and knew Henry Evelyn, as they called him in Ireland, when he
came back from abroad. He _thought_ he knew him. Then Horace Erskine,
finding he was an Irishman, would joke him about his religion, and how
he was the only Catholic in the house, and how he was obliged to walk
five miles to mass. Time was when Mr. Erskine, the uncle, would not
have kept a Catholic servant. But since Mr. and Mrs. Brewer married,
he has been less bigoted. He took Corny Nugent in London. It was just
a one season's engagement. But when they were to return to Scotland
they proposed to keep him on, and he stayed. After a little Horace
Erskine asked him about Ireland; and even if he knew such and such
places; and then he came by degrees to the very place--the very
people--to his own knowledge of them. Corny gave crafty answers. But
he disliked the sight of the man, and the positions he put him into.
So he left. He left three months ago. And he found out Eleanor's
direction, and told her that surely--surely and certainly--her
husband, Henry Evelyn, was no other than his late master's nephew, who
had been trying to marry more than one, only always some unlooked-for
and unaccountable thing had happened to prevent it. Our Lady be
praised, for her prayers have kept off that last woe--I make no
doubt--thank God!"

"How many years is it since they married?" "Eleven, to-day. I keep the
anniversary. He is older than he looks. He is thirty-two, this year,
if he did not lie about his age, as well as everything else. He told
Father Power he was of age. He said, too--God forgive him--that he was
a Catholic."

"But when I followed Father Power at Rathcoyle," said the priest,
"there was no register of the marriage. I was sent for on the
afternoon of the marriage day. I found Father Power in a dying state.
He was an old man, and had long been infirm. The marriage was not
entered. It was known to have taken place. Your niece and her husband
were gone. I walked out that evening to your brother's farm. He knew
nothing of the marriage. He had received a note to say that Eleanor
was gone with her husband, and that they would hear from them when
they got to England. Why Father Power, who was a saintly man, married
them, I do not know. It was unlawful for him to marry a Catholic and a
Protestant. If your sister went through no other marriage, she has no
claim on her Protestant husband. If she could prove that he passed
himself off as a Catholic, she might have some ground against
him--but, can she?"

"No, sir; on the contrary, she knew that she was marrying a
Protestant; she had hopes of converting him; she learnt from {189}
himself, afterward, that he had deceived the priest. She had said to
him that she would many him if Father Power consented. He came back
and said that the consent had been given. He promised to marry her in
Dublin conformably to the license he had got there--or there he had
lived the proper time for getting one, so he declared. But I have
ceased to believe anything he said. Then my brother wrote the girl a
dreadful letter to the direction in Liverpool that she had sent to
him. Then, after some months, she wrote to me at Marston. She was
deserted, and left in the Isle of Man. She supported herself there for
more than a year. I told Mr. Brewer that I knew a sad story of the
daughter of a friend, and one of her letters, saying her last gold was
changed into silvery and that she was too ill and worn oat to win
more, was so dreadful, that I feared for her mind. So Mr. Brewer went
to Dr. Rankin, and got her taken in as a patient, at first, and when
she got well she was kept on as wardrobe-woman. She had got a tender
heart; when she heard of Lady Greystock's trial, she took to her. Dr.
Rankin says he could never have cured Lady Greystock so perfectly nor
so quickly, but for Eleanor."

"That is curious," said Father Daniels, musingly. "Have you been in
Ireland since the girl left it with her husband?"

"I never was there in my life. My mother was Irish, and she lived as a
servant in England. She married an Englishman, and she had two
daughters, my sister--Eleanor's mother--and myself. My mother went
back to Ireland a year after her husband's death, on a visit, and she
left my sister and me with my father's family. She married in Ireland
almost directly, and married well, a man with a good property, a
farmer. She died, and left one son. My sister and I were four and five
years older than this half-brother of ours. Then time wore on and my
sister Ellen went to Ireland, and she married there, and the fever
came to the place where they lived, and carried them both off, and she
left me a legacy--my niece Eleanor--oh, sir I with such a holy letter
of recommendation from her death-bed. Poor sister! Poor, holy soul!
Our half-brother asked to have Eleanor to stay with him when she knew
enough to be useful on the farm. He was a good Christian, and I let
him take the girl. She was very pretty, people said, and I wished her
to marry soon. Then there came--sent, he said, by a great rich English
nobleman--a man who called himself a gardener, or something of that
sort. He lodged close by; he made friends with my brother. He was
often off after rare bog-plants, and seemed to lead a busy if an easy
life. He would go to mass with them. But they knew he was a
Protestant. Eleanor knew that her uncle would not consent to her
marrying a Protestant. But, poor child, she gave her heart away to the
gentleman in disguise. He had had friends there--a fishing party. Sir,
he never intended honorably; but they were married by the priest, and
he got over the holy man, whom everybody loved and honored, with his
falseness, as he had got over the true-hearted and trusting woman whom
he had planned to desert."

"Well," said Father Daniels, "you know I succeeded this priest for a
short time at Rathcoyle. He died on that wedding day. I never
understood how it all happened. I left a record to save Eleanor's
honor; but she has no legal claim on her husband--it ought not to have
been done." Jenifer shrank beneath the plainness of that truth--"_My
life, and all that is in it,_" her heart said, sinking, as it were, at
the sorrow that had come on the girl whom her sister had left to her
with her dying breath.

"She ought not to have trusted a man who was a Protestant, and not
willing to marry her in the only way that is legal by the Irish
marriage-law." "_My life, and all that is in it._" {190} So hopelessly
fell on her heart every word that the priest spoke, that, but for that
offering of all things to God, poor Jenifer could scarcely have borne
her trial.

"And if this Henry Evelyn should turn out to be Horace Erskine, why,
he will marry some unhappy woman some time, of course, and the law of
the land will give him one wife, and by the law of God another woman
will claim him. Oh, if people would but obey holy church, and not try
to live under laws of their own inventing." "_My life, and all that is
in it!_" Again, only that could have made Jenifer bear the trials that
were presented to her.

"And if gossip spoke truth he was very near marrying Lady Greystock
once--Mr. Brewer, himself, thought it was going to be." One more great
act of submission--"_My life, and all that is in it!_"--came forth
from Jenifer's heart. She loved Mr. Brewer, with a faithful sort of
worship--if such a trial as that had come on him through her
trouble!--_that_ was over; _that_ had been turned aside; but the
thought gave rise to a question, even as she thanked God for the
averted woe.

'"Is it Eleanor's duty to find out if Henry Evelyn and Horace Erskine
are one?" "Yes," said the priest "Yes; it is. It is everybody's duty
to prevent mischief. It is her duty, as far as lies in her power, to
prevent sin."

"And if it proves true--that which Corny Nugent says, what then?"

"Be content for the present. It is a very difficult case to act in."

Poor Jenifer felt the priest to be sadly wanting in sympathy--she
turned again to him who knows all and feels all, and she offered up
the disappointment that _would_ grow up in her heart--"_My life, and
all that is in it!_"

She turned to go; and then Father Daniels spoke so kindly, so
solemnly, with such a depth of sympathy in the tone of his voice--"God
bless you, my child;" and the sign of the cross seemed to bless her
sensibly. "Thank you, father!" And, without lifting her eyes, she left
the room and the house; and still saying that prayer that had grown to
be her strength and her help, she went up the steep rugged path to the
spreading down; and then she turned round and looked on the great sea
heaving, lazily under the sunset rays, that painted it in the far
distance with gold and red, and a silvery light, till it touched the
ruby-colored sky, and received each separate ray of glory on its
breast just where earth and heaven seemed to meet--just where you
could fancy another world looking into the depths of the great sea
that flowed up into its gates. It seemed to do Jenifer good. The whole
scene was so glorious, and the glory was so far-spreading--all the
world seemed to rest around her bathed in warm light and basking in
the smile of heaven. She stood still and said again, in a sweet soft
voice: "_My life, and all that is in it!_"

Her great dread that day when Mr. Brewer had told her to put him and
his into her prayer, had been lest the punishment of sin should come
on the man who had deserted her dear girl, and lest that sin's effect
in a heart-broken disease should fall on the girl herself.

When Mr. Brewer said, "Put me and mine into that prayer, Jenifer," the
thought had risen that she would tell him of Eleanor. She had told
him, and he had helped her. But she had never thought that, by acting
on the impulse, the two women whose hearts Horace Erskine had crushed,
as a wilful child breaks his playthings when he has got tired or out
of temper, had been brought together under one roof, and made to love
each other. Yet so it had been. The woman who could do nothing but
pray _had_ prayed; and a thing had been done which no human
contrivance could have effected. And as Jenifer stood gazing on the
heavens that grew brighter and brighter, and on the water that
reflected every glory, and seemed to bask with a living motion in the
great magnificence that was poured upon it, she recollected how great
a pain had been {191} spared her; she thought how terrible it would
have been if Claudia Brewer had married Horace Erskine--Horace
Erskine, the husband of the deserted Eleanor; and she gave thanks to

Now she drew her shawl tighter round her, and walked briskly on. She
got across the down, and over a stone stile in the fence that was its
boundary from the road. She turned toward Marston, and walked fast--it
was almost getting cold after that glorious sunset, and she increased
her pace and went on rapidly. She soon saw a carriage in the road
before her, driving slowly, and meeting her. When it came near enough
to recognize her, the lady who drove let her ponies go, and then
pulled up at Jenifer's side. "Now, Mistress Jenifer," said Lady
Greystock, looking bright and beautiful in the black hat, and long
streaming black feather, that people wore in those days, "here am I to
drive you home. I knew where you were going. Eleanor tells me her
secrets. Do you know that? This is an anniversary; and you give gifts
and say prayers. Are you comfortable? I am going to drive fast to
please the ponies; they like it, you know." And very true did Lady
Greystock's words seem; for the little creatures given their heads
went off at a pace that had in it every evidence of perfect good will.
"I came to drive you back, and to pick up Eleanor, and drive her to
Blagden after I had delivered you up safely to grandmamma Morier.
Mother Mary came to see me this afternoon. You had better go and see
Minnie soon. Jenifer"--Jenifer looked up surprised at a strange tone
in Lady Greystock's voice---"Jenifer," speaking very low, "if you can
pray for my father and his wife, and all he loves, pray now. It would
be hard for a man to be trapped by the greatness of his own good

"Is there anything wrong, my dear?" Jenifer spoke softly, and just as
she had been used to speak to the Claudia Brewer of old days.

"I can't say more," Lady Greystock replied; "here we are at Marston."
Then she talked of common things; and told James, the man-servant, to
drive the horses up and down the street while she bade Mrs. Morier
"Good night." And they went into the house, and half an hour after
Lady Greystock and Eleanor had got into the pony carriage, and were
driving away. The quiet street was empty once more. The little
excitement made by Lady Greystock and her ponies subsided. Good-byes
were spoken, and the quiet of night settled down on the streets and
houses of Marston.

Jenifer had wondered over Lady Greystock's words; and comforted
herself, and stilled her fears, and set her guesses all at rest by
those few long-used powerful words--"_My life, and all that is in
it!_" She offered life, and gave up its work and its trials to God;
and Jenifer, too, was at rest then.

But at Clayton things were not quite in the same peaceful state as in
that little old-fashioned inland town. Clayton was very busy; and
among the busy ones, though busy in his own way, was Father Daniels.

That morning a messenger had brought him a packet from Mrs. Brewer;
for "Mother Mary" since becoming a Catholic had wanted advice, and
wanted strength, and she had sought and found what she wanted, and now
she had sent to the same source for further help. As soon as Jenifer
was gone, Father Daniels put away his teak-wood and his carving tools,
and packed up his drawings and his pencils. He was a man of great
neatness, and his accuracy in all business, and his fruitful
recollection of every living soul's wants, as far as they had ever
been made known to him, were charming points of his character--
points, that is, natural gifts, that the great charity which belonged
to his priesthood adorned and made meritorious.  {192} While he
"tidied away his things," as his housekeeper Mrs. Moore used to say,
bethought and he prayed--his mind foresaw great possible woe; he knew,
with the knowledge that is made up of faith and experience united,
that some things seem plainly to know no other master than prayer.
People are prayed out of troubles that no other power can touch. Every
now and then this fact seems to be imprinted in legible characters on
some particular woe, actual or threatened; and though Father Daniels,
like a holy priest, prayed always and habitually, he yet felt, as we
have said, with respect to the peculiar entanglements that the letter
from Mrs. Brewer in the morning and the revelation made by Jenifer in
the afternoon seemed to threaten. So, when he again sat down, it was
with Mrs. Brewer's letter before him on the table, and a lamp lighted,
and "the magnifiers," to quote Mrs. Moore again, put on to make the
deciphering of Mrs. Erskine's handwriting as easy as possible. Mrs.
Brewer's was larger, blacker, plainer--and her note was short. It only
said: "Read my sister's letter, which I have just received. It seems
so hard to give up the child; it would be much harder to see her less
happy than she has always been at home. I don't like Horace Erskine.
It is as if I was kept from liking him. I really have no reason for my
prejudice against him. Come and see me if you can, and send or bring
back the letter." Having put this aside. Father Daniels opened Mrs.
Erskine's letter. It must be given just as it was written to the


  "You must guess how dreadful your becoming a Catholic is to us. I
  cannot conceive why, when you had been happy so long--these thirteen
  years--you should do this unaccountable thing now. There must have
  been some strange influence exercised over you by Mr. Brewer. I
  feared how it might be when, nine years ago, your boy was born, and
  you gave him up so weakly. However, I think you will see plainly
  that you have quite forfeited a mother's rights over Mary. She is
  seventeen, and will not have a happy home with you now. Poor child,
  she would turn Catholic to please you, and for peace sake, perhaps.
  But you cannot _wish_ such a misery for her. She will, I suppose,
  soon be the only Protestant in your house. I can't help blaming old
  Lady Caroline, even after her death; for she certainly brought the
  spirit of controversy into Beremouth, and stirred up Mr. Brewer to
  think of his rights. Now, I write to propose what is simply an act
  of justice on your part, though really, I must say, an act of great
  grace on the part of my husband. Horace is in love with Mary. As to
  the fancy he was supposed to have for Claudia, I _know_ that _that_
  was only a fancy. He was taken with her wilful, spoilt-child
  ways--you certainly did not train her properly--and he wanted her
  money. Of course as you had been married four years without
  children, he did not suspect anything about Freddy. It was an
  entanglement well got rid of; and Claudia wanted no comforting, that
  was plain enough. But it is different now. Horace _is_ in love
  _now_. And if Mary is not made a Catholic by Mr. Brewer and you and
  old Jenifer, she will say, 'Yes,' like a good child. We are
  _extremely_ fond of her. And Mr. Erskine generously offers to make a
  very handsome settlement on her. I consider a marriage, and a very
  speedy one, with Horace the best thing; now that you have, by your
  own act, made her home so homeless to her. I am sure you ought to be
  very thankful for so obviously good an arrangement of difficulties.
  Let me hear from you as soon as Horace arrives. He is going to speak
  to you directly.
   "Your affectionate sister,
      "Lucia Erskine.

  "P.S.--As Mr. Brewer has always said that, Mary being his adopted
  child, he should pay her on her marriage the full interest of the
  money which will be hers at twenty-one, {193} of course Horace
  expects that, as we do. Lady Caroline's ten thousand, Mr. Brewer's
  five thousand, and the hundred a year for which her father insured
  his life, and which I find that you give to her, will, with Horace's
  means, make a good income; and to this Mr. Erskine will, as Mary is
  my niece, add very liberally. I cannot suppose that you can think of
  objecting. L. E."

Father Daniels read this letter over very carefully. Then he placed
it, with Mrs. Brewer's note, in his pocket-book, and immediately
putting on his hat, and taking his stick, he walked into the kitchen.

"Where's your husband?" to Mrs. Moore.

"Mark is only just outside, sir."

"I shall be back soon. Tell him to saddle the cob." One of Mr.
Brewer's experiments had been to give Father Daniels a horse, and to
endow the horse with fifty pounds a year, for tax, keep, house-rent,
physic, saddles, shoes, clothing, and general attendance. It was, we
May say as we pass on, an experiment which answered to perfection. The
cob's turnpikes alone remained as a grievance in Mr. Brewer's mind. He
rather cherished the grievance. Somehow it did him good. It certainly
deprived him of all feeling of merit. All thought of his own
generosity was extinguished beneath the weight of a truth that could
not be denied--"that cob is a never-ending expense to Father Daniels!"
However, this time, without a thought of the never-ending turnpike's
tax, the cob was ordered; being late, much to Mr. and Mrs. Moore's
surprise; and Father Daniels walked briskly out of the garden, down
the village seaport, past the coal-wharves, where everything looked
black and dismal, and so pursued his way on the top of the low edge of
the cliff, to a few tidy-looking houses half a mile from Clayton,
which were railed in from the turfy cliff-side, and had painted on
their ends, "Good bathing here." The houses were in a row. He knocked
at the centre one, and it was opened by a man of generally a seafaring
cast. "Mr. Dawson in?" "Yes, your reverence. His reverence, Father
Dawson, is in the parlor;" and into the parlor walked Father Daniels.
It was a short visit made to ascertain if his invalid friend could say
mass for him the next morning at a later hour than usual--the hour for
the parish mass, in fact; and to tell him why. They were dear friends
and mutual advisers. They now talked over Mrs. Erskine's letter.

"There can be no reason in the world why Miss Lorimer should not marry
Horace Erskine if she likes him, provided he is not Henry Evelyn. He
stands charged with being Henry Evelyn, and of being the doer of Henry
Evelyn's deeds. You must tell Mrs. Brewer. It is better never to tell
suspicions, if you can, instead, tell facts. In so serious a matter
you may be obliged to tell suspicions, just to keep mischief away at
the beginning. Eleanor must see the man. As to claiming him, that's
useless. She acted the unwise woman's part, and she most bear the
unwise woman's recompense. He'll find somebody to marry him, no doubt;
but no woman ought to do it; no marriage of his can be right in God's
sight. So the course in the present instance is plain enough." Yes, it
was plain enough; so Father Daniels walked back to Clayton and mounted
the cob, and rode away through the soft sweet night air, and got to
Beremouth just after ten o'clock.

"I am come to say mass for you to-morrow," he said to Mr. Brewer, who
met him in the hall. "No, I won't go into the drawing-room. I won't
see any one to-night. I am going straight to the chapel."


"Ring for night prayers then in five minutes, will you?" said Mr.
Brewer. And Father Daniels, saying "Yes," walked on through the hall,
and up the great stair-case to his own room and the chapel, which,
were side by side. In five minutes the chapel bell was rung by the
priest. Mrs. Brewer looked toward her daughter. "Mary must do as she
likes;" said Mr. Brewer, in his open honest way driving his wife
before him out of the room. There stood Horace Erskine. It was as if
all in a moment the time for the great choice had come. They were at
the door--the girl stood still. They were gone, they were crossing the
hall; she could hear Mr. Brewer's shoes on the carpet--not too late
for her to follow. Her light step will catch theirs--they may go a
little further still before the very last moment comes. Her mother or
Horace? How dearly she loved her mother, how her child's heart went
after her, all trust and love--and Horace, _did_ she love him?--love
him well enough to stay _there--there_ and _then_, at a moment that
would weigh so very heavily in the scale of good and evil, right or
wrong? If he had not been there she might have stayed, if she stayed
now that he was there, should she not stay with him--more, leave her
mother and stay with him? Thought is quick. She stood by the table;
she looked toward the door, she listened--Horace held out his
hand--"With me, Mary--with _me_!" And she was gone. Gone even while he
spoke, across the hall, up the stairs and at that chapel door just as
this last of the servants, without knowing, closed it on her. Then
Mary went to her own room just at the head of the great stair-case,
and opened the doors softly, and knelt down, keeping it open, letting
the stair-case lamp stray into the darkness just enough to show her
where she was. There she knelt till the night prayers were over, and
when Mr. Brewer passed her door, she came out, a little glad to show
them that she had not been staying down stairs with Horace. He smiled,
and put his hand inside her arm and stopped her from going down. "My
dear child," he said, "I have had the great blessing of my life given
to me in the conversion of your mother. If God's great grace, for the
sake of his own blessed mother, should fall on you, you will not
quench it, my darling. Meanwhile, I shall never have a better time
than _this_ time to say, that I feel more than ever a father to you.
That if you will go on treating me with the childlike candor and trust
that I have loved to see in you, you will make me happier than you can
ever guess at, dear child." And then he kissed her, and Minnie eased
her heart by a few sobs and tears, and her head rested on his
shoulder, and she thanked him for his love. Then Father Daniels came
out of the chapel, and advanced to where they stood. Mary had long
known the holy man. He saw how it was in an instant. "Welcome home,
Mary; you see I come soon. And now--when I am saying mass to-morrow,
stay quietly in your own room, and pray to be taught to love God. Give
yourself to him. Don't trouble about questions. His you are. Rest on
the thought--and we will wait on what may come of it. I shall remember
you at mass to-morrow. Good-night. God bless you."

"I can't come down again. My eyes are red," said Mary, to Mr. Brewer,
when they were again alone. And he laughed at her. "I'll send mamma
up," he said. And Mary went into her room. But she had taken no part
_against_ her mother; so her heart said, and congratulated itself. She
had not left her, and stayed with Horace. She had had those few words
with her step-father. That was over, and very happily too. She had
seen Father Daniels again. It was getting speedily like the old
things, and the old times, before the long visit to Scotland, where
Horace Erskine was the sun of her {195} new world. Somehow she felt
that he was losing power every moment--also she felt, a little
resentfully, that there had been things said or thought, or
insinuated, about the dear home she was loving so well, which were
unjust, untrue, unkind; nay, more, cruel, shameful!--and so wrong to
unite _her_ to such ideas; to make her a party to such thoughts. In
the midst of her resentment, her mother came in. "Nobody ever was so
charming looking," was the first thought. "How young she looks--how
much younger and handsomer than Aunt Erskine. What a warm loving
atmosphere this house always had, and _has_." The last word with the
emphasis of a perfect conviction. "And so you have made your eyes red
on papa's coat--and I had to wipe the tears off with my
pocket-handkerchief. Oh, you darling, I am sure Horace Erskine thought
we had beaten you!" Then kisses, and laughter; not quite without a tear
or two on both, sides, however. "Now, my darling, Horace has told us
his love story--and so he is very fond of you?" "Mamma, mamma, I love
you better than all the earth." Kisses, laughter, and just one or two
tears, all over again.

"My darling child, you have been some months away from us--do you
think you can quite tell your own mind on a question which is
life-long in its results? I mean, that the thing that is pleasant in
one place may not be so altogether delightful in another. I should
like you to decide so great a question while in the full enjoyment of
your own rights _here_. This is your _home_. _This_ is what you will
have to exchange for something else when you marry. You are very young
to marry--not eighteen, remember. Whenever you decide that question, I
should like you to decide it on your own ground, and by your own
mother's side."

"I wonder whether you know how wise you are?" was the question that
came in answer. "Do you know, mother, that I cried like a baby at
Hull, because I felt all you have said, and even a little more, and
thought he was unkind to press me. You know Aunt Erskine had told me;
and Horace, too, in a way--and he said at Hull he dreaded the
influence of this place, and--and--" "But there is nothing for _you_
to dread. This home is yours; and its influence is good; and all the
love you command here is your safety." Mrs. Brewer spoke boldly, and
quite with the spirit of heroism. She was standing up for her rights.
But Mr. Brewer stood at the door. "The lover wants to smoke in the
park in the moonlight. Some information just to direct his thoughts,
you little witch," for his step-child had tried to stop his mouth with
a kiss--

"Papa, I am so happy. I won't, because I can't, plan to leave
everything I love best in the world just as I come back to it." "But
you must give Erskine some kind of an answer. The poor fellow is
really very much in earnest. Come and see him." "No, I won't," said
Mary, very much as the wilful Claudia might have uttered the words.
But Mary was thinking that there was a great contrast between the
genial benevolence she had come to, and the indescribable _something_
which was _not_ benevolence in which she had lived ever since her
mother had become a Catholic. Mr. Brewer almost started. "I mean,
papa, that I must live here unmolested at least one month before I can
find out whether I am not always going to love _you_ best of all
mankind. Don't you think you could send Horace off to Scotland again
immediately?" "Bless the child! Think of the letters that have
passed--you read them, or knew of them?" "_Knew_ of them," said Mary,
nodding her head confidentially, and looking extremely naughty. "Well;
and I asked him here!" "Yes; I know that." "And you now tell me to
send him away! {196} My dear!" exclaimed Mr. Brewer, looking
appealingly at his wife. "Dearest, you must tell Mr. Erskine that Mary
really would like to be left quiet for awhile. Say so now; and
to-morrow you can suggest his going soon, and returning in a few
weeks." "And to-morrow I can have a cold and lie in bed. Can't I?"
said Mary. But now they ceased talking, and heard Horace Erskine go
out of the door to the portico. "There! he's gone. And I am sure I can
smell a cigar--and I could hate smoking, couldn't I?" Mother and
father now scolded the saucy child, and condemned her to solitude and
sleep. And when they were gone the girl put her head out of the open
window, and gazed across the spreading park, so peaceful in its
far-stretching flat, just roughened in places by the fern that had
begun to get brown under the hot sun; and then she listened to the
sound of the wind that came up in earnest whispers from the woody
corners, and the far-off forests of oak. The sound rose and fell like
waves, and the silence between those low outpourings of mysterious
sound was loaded with solemnity.

Do the whispering woods praise him; and are their prayers in the tall
trees? She was full of fancies that night. But the words Father
Daniels had said to her seemed to her to come again on the
night-breeze, and then she was quiet and still. And yet--and
yet--though she _tried_ to forget, and _tried_ to keep her mind at
peace, the spirit within would rise from its rest, and say that she
had left an atmosphere of evil speaking and uncharitableness; that
malice and harsh judgment had been hard at work, and all to poison
_home_, and to win her from it.

And while she was trying to still these troublings of the mind, Mr.
Brewer, by her mother's side, was reading for the first time Mrs.
Erskine's letter, which Father Daniels had returned. "My dear, my
dear," said Mr. Brewer, "a very improper letter. I think Mary is a
very extraordinary girl not to have been prejudiced against me. I
shall always feel grateful to her. And as to this letter, which I call
a very painful letter, don't you think we had better burn it?" And so,
by the assistance of a lighted taper, Mr. Brewer cleared that evil
thing out of his path for ever.

"Eleanor," said Lady Greystock, "how lovely this evening is. The moon
is full, and how glorious! Shall we drive by a roundabout way to
Blagden? James," speaking to the man who occupied the seat behind,
"how far is it out of our way if we go through the drive in Beremouth
Park, and come out by the West Lodge into the Blagden turnpike road?"
"It will be two miles further, my lady. But the road is very good, and
the carriage will run very light over the gravelled road in the park."
"Then we'll go." So on getting to the bottom of the street in which
Mrs. Morier lived, Lady Greystock took the road to Beremouth; and the
ponies seemed to enjoy the change, and the whole world, except those
three who were passing so pleasantly through a portion of it, seemed
to sleep beneath the face of that great moon, wearing, as all full
moons do, a sweet grave look of watching on its face.

"Isn't it glorious? Isn't it grand, this great expanse and this
perfect calm? Ah, there goes a bat; and a droning beetle on the wing
just makes one know what silence we are passing through. How pure the
air feels. Oh, what blessings we have in life--how many more than we
know of. I think of that in the still evenings often. Do you,

"Yes, Lady Greystock." But Eleanor spoke in a very calm,
business-like, convinced sort of manner; not the least infected by the
tears of tenderness and the poetical feeling that Lady Greystock had


"Yes, Lady Greystock And when in great moments"--"Great moments! I
like that," said Claudia--"when I have those thoughts I think of
you." "Of me?" "Yes. And I am profoundly struck by the goodness of
God, who endowed the great interest of my life with so powerful an
attraction for me. I must have either liked or disliked you. I am so
glad to love you."

"Eleanor, I wish you would tell me the story of your life." They had
passed through the lodge gates now, and were driving through Beremouth
Park. "You were not always what you are now."

"You will know it one day," said Eleanor, softly. "Oh, see how the
moon comes out from behind that great fleecy cloud; just in time to
light us as we pass through the shadows which these grand oaks cast.
What lines of silver light lie on the road before us. It is a treat to
be out in such a place on such a night as this. Stay, stay, Lady
Greystock. What is that?"

Lady Greystock pulled up suddenly, and standing full in the moonlight,
on the turf at the side of the carriage, was a tall, strong-built man.
He took off his cap with a respectful air, and said, "I beg pardon. I
did not intend to stop you. But if you will allow me I will ask your
servant a question." He addressed Lady Greystock, and did not seem to
look at Eleanor, though she was nearest to him. Eleanor had suddenly
pulled a veil over her face; but Lady Greystock had taken hers from
her hat, and her uncovered face was turned toward the man with the
moonlight full upon it. He said to the servant, "Can you tell me where
a person called Eleanor Evelyn is to be found? Mrs. Evelyn she is
probably called. I want to know where she is." Before James, who had
long known the person by his mistress's side as Mrs. Evelyn, could
speak, or recover from his very natural surprise, Eleanor herself
spoke. "Yes," she said, "Mrs. Evelyn lives not far from Marston. I
should advise you to call on Mrs. Jenifer Stanton, who lives at
Marston with Mrs. Morier. She will tell you about her." "She who lives
with Madam Morier, of course?" said the man. "Yes; the same."

"Good night," said Lady Greystock in answer, and obeying Eleanor's
whispered "Drive on," she let the ponies, longing for their stable,
break into their own rapid pace, and, soon out of the shadows, they
were in the light--the broad, calm, silent light--once more.




Translated from Le Correspondant



  [Footnote 35: "Herman Vambéry's Travels In Central Asia." Original
  German edition. Leipzic: Brockhaus,1865. Paris: Xavier. French
  translation by M. Forgues. Paris: Hachette.]

A brilliant imagination, a sparkling and ready wit, an indomitable
energy, the happy gift of seeing and painting man and things in a
lively manner, such are the qualities which we remark at first in the
new explorer of central Asia. But he is not only a bold traveller, a
delightful story-teller, full of spirit and originality, we must
recognize also in him a learned orientalist, an eminent ethnologist
and linguist.

Born in 1832, in a small Hungarian town, he began at an early age to
study with passion the different dialects of Europe and Asia,
endeavoring to discover the relations between the idioms of the East
and West. Observing the strong affinity which exists between the
Hungarian and the Turco-Tartaric dialects, and resolved to return to
the cradle of the Altaic tongues, he went to Constantinople and
frequented the schools and libraries with an assiduity which in a few
years made of him a true effendi. But the nearer he approached the
desired end, the greater was his thirst for knowledge. Turkey began to
appear to his eyes only the vestibule of the Orient; he resolved to go
on, and to seek even in the depths of Asia the original roots of the
idioms and races of Europe.  [Footnote 36] In vain his friends
represented to him the fatigues and perils of such a tour. Infirm as
he was (a wound had made him lame), could he endure a long march over
those plains of sand where he would be obliged to fight against the
terror of tempest, the tortures of thirst--where, in fine, he might
encounter death under a thousand forms? and then, how was he to force
his way among those savage and fanatic tribes, who are afraid of
travellers; and who a few years before had destroyed Moorcraft,
Conolly, and Stoddart? Nothing could shake the resolution of Vambéry;
he felt strong enough to brave suffering, and as to the dangers which
threatened him from man, his bold and inventive spirit would furnish
him the means to avert them in calling to his assistance their very
superstitions. Was he not as well versed in the knowledge of the Koran
and the customs of Islam as the most devout disciple of the Prophet?
He would disguise himself in the costume of a pilgrim dervish, and so
would go through Asia, distributing everywhere benedictions, but
making secretly his scientific studies and remarks. His foreign
physiognomy might, it is true, raise against him some obstacles. But
he counted on his happy star, and, above all, on his presence of mind,
to succeed at last. These difficulties were renewed often in the
course of his adventurous tour; more than once the suspicious look of
some powerful tyrant was fixed upon him as if to say: "Your features
betray you; you are a European!" The extraordinary coolness, the
ingenious expedients to which Vambéry had recourse in these
emergencies, give to the story of his travels an interest which
novelists and dramatists might envy. To this powerful charm, the work
of which we give a rapid sketch unites the merit of containing {199}
the most valuable notes on the social and political relations, the
manners and character, of the races which inhabit Central Asia.

  [Footnote 36: The linguistic and ethnographical studies form a
  separate volume, which the author proposes to publish very soon.]


It was early in July, 1862, that Vambéry, leaving Tabriz, began his
long and perilous journey. Persia, at this period of the year, does
not offer the enchanting spectacle which the enthusiastic descriptions
of poets lead us to imagine. This boasted country displays only to the
eye a heaven of fire, burning and desert plains, through the midst of
which sometimes advances slowly a caravan covered with dust, exhausted
by fatigue and heat. After a monotonous and painful march of fifteen
days, our traveller sees at last rising from the horizon the outlines
of a number of domes, half lost in a bluish fog. This is Teheran, the
celestial city, the seat of sovereignty, as the natives pompously call

It was not easy to penetrate into this noble city; a compact crowd
filled the streets, asses, camels, mules laden with straw, barley, and
other marketable articles jostled each other in the strangest
confusion. "Take care! Take care!" vociferated the passers-by; each
one pressed, pushed, and blows of sticks and even of sabres were
distributed with surprising liberality. Vambéry succeeded in getting
safe and sound out of this tumult; he repaired to the summer residence
of the Turkish ambassador, where all the effendis were assembled under
a magnificent silken tent. Haydar Effendi, who represented the sultan
at the court of the Shah, had known the Hungarian traveller in
Constantinople; he received him most cordially, and very soon the
guests, gathered round a splendid banquet, began to call up souvenirs
of Stamboul, of the Bosphorus, and their delightful landscapes, so
different from the arid plains of Persia.

The contrast of character is not less noticeable between the two
nations who divide the supremacy of the Mohammedan world. The Ottoman,
in consequence of his close relations with the West, is more and more
penetrated by European manners and civilization, and gains by this
contact an incontestable superiority. The Persian preserves more the
primitive type of the Orientals, his mind is more poetic, his
intelligence more prompt, his courtesy more refined; but proud of an
antiquity which loses itself in the night of time, he is deeply
hostile to our sciences and arts, of which he does not comprehend the
importance. Some choice spirits, indeed, have endeavored to rejuvenate
the worm-eaten institutions of Persia, and to lead their country in
the way of progress. The pressing solicitations of the minister
Ferrukh Khan engaged, some years ago, several nations of Europe,
Belgium, Prussia, Italy, to send ambassadors in the hope of forming
political and commercial relations with Iran; but their efforts were
checked, Persia not being ripe for this regeneration.

Thanks to the generous hospitality of Haydar Effendi, Vambéry was
rested from his fatigues. Impatient to continue his journey, he wished
to take immediately the road to Herat; his friends dissuaded him from
it, because the hostilities just declared between the sultan of this
province and the sovereign of the Afghans rendered communications
impossible. The northern route was quite as impracticable; it would
have been necessary to cross during the winter months the vast deserts
of central Asia. The traveller was forced to await a more favorable
season. To remove gradually the obstacles which prevented the
realization of his plan, he began immediately to draw around him the
dervishes who every year pass through Teheran on their way to Turkey.
These pilgrims or hadjis never fail to address themselves to the
Ottoman embassy, for they are all _Sunnites_ and {200} recognize the
emperor of Constantinople as their spiritual head; Persia, on the
contrary, belongs to the sect of the _Shiites_, who may be called the
Protestants of Islam, with so profound a horror have they inspired the
faithful believers of Khiva, Bokhara, Samarcande, etc. Vambéry, who
proposed to visit all these fanatic states, had then adopted the
character of a pious and zealous Sunnite. Very soon it was noised
abroad among the pilgrims that Reschid Effendi (_nom de guerre_ of our
traveller) treated the dervishes as brothers, and that he was no doubt
himself a dervish in disguise.

In the morning of the 20th of March, 1862, four hadjis presented
themselves before him whom they regarded as the devoted protector of
their sect. They came to complain of Persian officials who, on their
return from Mecca, had imposed upon them an abusive tax long since
abolished. "We do not demand the money of his excellency the
ambassador," said he who appeared to be the chief; "the only object of
our prayers is, that in future the Sunnites may be able to visit the
holy places without being forced to endure the exactions of the
infidel Shiites." Surprised at the disinterestedness of this language,
Vambéry considered more attentively the austere countenances of his
guests. In spite of their miserable clothing, a native nobility
discovered itself in them; their words were frank, their looks
intelligent. The little caravan of which they made a part, composed in
all of twenty-four persons, was returning to Bokhara. The resolution
of the European was immediately taken; he said to the pilgrims that
for a long time he had had an extreme desire to visit Turkestan, this
hearth of Islamite piety, this holy land which contained the tombs of
so many saints. "Obedient to this sentiment," said he, "I have quitted
Turkey; for many months I have awaited in Persia a favorable
opportunity, and I thank God that have at last found companions with
whom I may be able to continue my journey and accomplish my purpose."

The Tartars were at first much astonished. How could an effendi,
accustomed to a life of luxury, resolve to encounter so many dangers,
to endure so many trials? The ardent faith of the pretended Sunnite
was hardly efficient to explain this prodigy, so the dervishes felt
themselves bound to enlighten him on the sad consequences to which
this excess of zeal might expose him. "We shall travel," they said,
"for whole weeks without encountering a single dwelling, without
finding the least rivulet where we can quench our thirst. More than
that, we shall run the risk of perishing by the robbers who infest the
desert, or of being swallowed up alive by tempests of sand. Reflect
again, seigneur effendi, we would not be the cause of your death."
These words were not without their effect, but, after coming so far,
Vambéry was not easily discouraged. "I know," said he to the pilgrims,
"that this world is an inn where we sojourn for some days, and from
which we soon depart to give place to new travellers. I pity those
restless spirits who, not content with having thought of the present,
embrace in their solicitude a long future. Take me with you, my
friends; I am weary of this kingdom of error, and I long to leave it."

Perceiving in him so firm a resolve, the chiefs of the caravan
received the pretended Reschid as a travelling companion. A fraternal
embrace ratified this engagement, and the European felt not without
some repugnance the contact of these ragged garments which long use
had impregnated with a thousand offensive odors.

Following the advice of one of the dervishes, Hadji Bilal, who
entertained a particular friendship for him, the traveller cut his
hair, adopted the Bokhariot costume, and the better to play the part
of a pilgrim, an enemy of all worldly superfluity, he left behind his
bedding, his linen, everything, in {201} short, which in the eyes of
the Tartars had the least appearance of refinement or luxury. Some
days after, he rejoined his companions in the caravansery where the
hadjis had promised to meet him. There Vambéry ascertained, to his
great surprise, that the miserable garments which had disgusted him so
much were the state robes of the dervishes; their travelling dress was
composed of numerous rags, arranged in the most picturesque manner and
fastened at the waist by a fragment of rope. Hadji Bilal, raising his
arms in the air, pronounced the prayer of departure, to which all the
assistants responded by the sacramental _amen_, placing the hand upon
the beard.

Vambéry quitted Teheran not without sadness and misgiving. In this
city, placed on the frontiers of civilization, he had found devoted
friends; now, in the company of strangers, he was about to face at
once the perils of the desert and those, more to be feared, which
threatened him from the cruelty of the inhabitants of the cities. He
was roused from these reflections by joyous ballads sung by many of
the pilgrims, others related the adventures of their wandering life or
boasted of the charms of their native country, the fertile gardens of
Mergolan and Khokand. Sometimes their patriotic and religious
enthusiasm led them to intone verses from the Koran, in which Vambéry
never failed to join with a zeal which did honor to the strength of
his lungs. He had then the satisfaction of observing the dervishes
look at one another and say, in an undertone, that Hadji Rescind was a
true believer, who, without doubt, thanks to the good examples before
his eyes, would soon walk in the steps of the saints.

At the end of five days the pilgrims reached the mountain of
Mazendran, the western slope of which extends its base to the Caspian
sea. Here the sterility of the country yields to the freshest, the
richest vegetation; splendid forests, prairies covered with thick
grass, extend themselves everywhere before the charmed eye of the
traveller, and from time to time the murmur of a waterfall delights
his ear. The sight of this smiling country drove away all the sad
presentiments which had possessed the soul of Vambéry; mounted upon a
gently-treading mule, he arrives full of confidence at Karatèpe, where
he is to embark upon the Caspian sea. There an Afghan of high birth,
whom the pretended Reschid had met upon his journey, and who knew the
consideration which he enjoyed at the Ottoman embassy, offered him the
hospitality of his house. The news of the arrival of pilgrims had
collected a great number of visitors; squatted along the walls of the
houses, they fixed upon Vambéry looks of mingled distrust and
curiosity. "He is not a dervish," said some, "you can see that by his
features and complexion." "The hadjis," replied others, "pretend that
he is a near relation of the Turkish ambassador." All then, shaking
their heads with a mysterious air, said in an undertone, "Only Allah
can know what this foreigner is after." During this time, Vambéry
pretended to be plunged in a profound meditation; in which as a
Protestant, he committed a grave imprudence, for the Orientals, liars
and hypocrites themselves, cannot believe in frankness, and always
infer the contrary of whatever is told them. These suspicions,
moreover, had nearly frustrated at the outset the bold designs of the
European. The captain of the Afghan ship, employed in provisioning the
Russian garrison, had consented for a small sum to take all the hadjis
in his ship across the arm of the sea which divides Karatèpe from
Ashourada. But learning the reports which were in circulation
regarding our traveller, he refused to permit him to embark; "his
attachment for the Russians not allowing him," he said, "to facilitate
the secret designs of an emissary of Turkey." In vain Hadji Bilal,
Hadji Salih, and others of the caravan endeavored to change his {202}
resolution. All was useless, and Vambéry was doubting whether he
should not be forced to retrace his steps, when his companions
generously declared that they would not proceed without him.

Toward evening, the dervishes learned that a Turcoman named Yakaub
proposed from a religious motive, and without desiring any recompense,
to take them in his boat. The motive of this unexpected kindness was
very soon discovered. Yakaub, having drawn Vambéry apart, confessed to
him in an embarrassed tone, which contrasted singularly with his wild
and energetic physiognomy, that he nourished a profound and hopeless
passion for a young girl of his tribe; a Jew, a renowned magician who
resided at Karatèpe, had promised to prepare an infallible talisman if
the unhappy lover were able to procure for him thirty drops of essence
of rose direct from Mecca. "You hadjis," added the Tartar, casting
down his eyes, "never quit the holy places without bringing away some
perfume; and as you are the youngest of the caravan, I hope that you
will comprehend my vexation better than the others, and that you will
help me." The companions of Vambéry had in fact several bottles of the
essence, of which they gave a part to the Turkoman, and this precious
gift threw the son of the desert into a genuine ecstasy.

The voyagers passed two days on a _kèseboy_ a boat provided with a
mast and two unequal sails, which the Tartars use for the transport of
cargoes. It was almost night when Yakaub cast anchor before Ashourada,
the most southerly of the Russian possessions in Asia. The czar
maintains constantly on this coast steamers charged with repressing
the depredations of the Turkomen, which formerly inspired terror
throughout the province. All natives before approaching the port of
Ashourada must be provided with a regular passport, and must submit to
the inspection of the Russian functionaries. This visit caused Vambéry
some alarm; would not the sight of his features, a little too
European, provoke from the Russian agent an indiscreet exclamation of
surprise? and would not his incognito be betrayed? Happily, on the day
of their arrival Easter was celebrated in the Greek Church, and, on
account of this solemnity, the examination was a mere formality. The
pilgrims continued their voyage, and landed the next day at
Gomushtèpe, a distance of only three leagues from Ashourada.


The hadjis were received by a chief named Khandjan, to whom they had
letters of recommendation. The noble Turkoman was a man of about forty
years; his fine figure, his dress of an austere simplicity, the long
beard which fell upon his breast, gave him a dignified and imposing
air. He advanced toward his guests, embraced them several times, and
led the way to his tent. The news of the arrival of dervishes had
already spread among the inhabitants; men, women, and children threw
themselves before the pilgrims, disputing with one another the honor
of touching their garments, believing that they thus obtained a share
in the merits of these saintly personages. "These first scenes of
Asiatic life," says Vambéry, "astonished me so much that I was
constantly doubting whether I should first examine the singular
construction of their tents of felt, or admire the beauty of the
women, enveloped in their long silken tunics, or yield to the desire
manifested by the arms and hands extended toward me. Strange
spectacle! Young and old, without distinction of sex or rank, pressed
eagerly round these hadjis covered yet with the holy dust of Mecca.
Fancy my amazement when I saw women of great beauty, and even young
girls, rush through the crowd to embrace me. These demonstrations of
sympathy and respect, however, became fatiguing when we {203} arrived
at the tent of the chief _ishan_ (priest), where our little caravan
assembled. Then began a singular contest. Each one solicited as a
precious boon the right of receiving under his tent the poor
strangers. I had heard of the boasted hospitality of the nomad tribes
of Asia, but I never could have imagined the extent of it. Khandjan
put an end to the dispute by himself distributing among the
inhabitants his coveted guests. He reserved only Hadji Bilal and
myself, who were considered the chiefs of the caravan, and we followed
him to his _ooa_ (tent)."

A comfortable supper, of boiled fish and curdled milk, awaited the two
pilgrims. The touching kindness with which he had been received, the
comfort by which he was surrounded, filled Vambéry with a joy which
accorded ill with the gravity of his assumed character of dervish. His
friend Hadji Bilal felt bound to advise him upon this subject. "You
have remarked already," said he, "that my companions and I distribute
_fatiha_ (blessings) to every one. You must follow our example. I know
it is not the custom in _Roum_ (Turkey), but the Turkomen expect it
and desire it. You will excite great surprise if, giving yourself out
for a dervish, you do not take completely the character of one. You
know the formula of this blessing; you must, then, put on a serious
face and bestow your benedictions. You can add to them _nefes_ (holy
breathings) when you are called to the sick; but do not forget to
extend at the same time your hand, for every one knows that the
dervishes subsist by the piety of the faithful, and they never leave a
tent without receiving some little present."

The Hungarian traveller profited so well by the advice of Hadji Bilal
that, five days after his arrival at Gomushtèpe, a crowd of believers
and sick people besieged him from the moment that he rose, soliciting,
one his blessing, another his sacred breathing, a third the talisman
that was to cure him. Thanks to the complaisance and marvellous tact
which characterized him, Vambéry henceforth identified himself
completely with the venerable personage of Hadji Reschid, and never
during a period of two years escaped him the smallest gesture or word
which could possibly betray him. His reputation for sanctity increased
every day, and procured for him numerous offerings, which he received
with a truly Mussulman gravity. This increasing confidence permitted
the European to form with the Turkomen frequent intimacies, of which
he profited to study the social relations of these tribes, to discover
the innumerable ramifications of which they are composed, and to form
an exact idea of the bonds which unite elements in appearance so
heterogeneous and confused. But he was obliged to exercise great
prudence; a dervish, wholly preoccupied with heavenly things, never
ought to ask the smallest question in regard to affairs purely
worldly. Fortunately, the Tartars, so terrible and so impetuous, when
they have completed their forays, pass the remainder of their time in
absolute idleness, and then they amuse themselves with interminable
political and moral discussions. Vambéry, dropping his beads with an
exterior of pious revery, lent an attentive ear to all these
conversations, of which he never lost the slightest detail.

One thing which surprised him among the Turkomen was to see that if
all are too proud to obey, no one seems ambitious to command. "We are
a people without a head," they say; "and we wish no head. Every one is
king in our country," Yet, notwithstanding the absence of all
restraint, of all authority, these savage robbers, the terror of their
neighbors, live together amicably, and we find among them fewer
robberies and murders, and more morality than among the majority of
the Asiatic people. {204} This is explained by the action of an
all-powerful law, which exercises over the inhabitants of the desert
more empire than religion itself; we speak of the _Deb_, that is to
say, the custom, the traditions. An invisible sovereign, obeyed
everywhere, it sanctions robbery and slavery, and all the
prescriptions of Islam fall to the ground before it. "How," asked
Vambéry one day of a Tartar famous for his robberies and his great
piety, "how can you sell your Sunnite brother, when the Prophet has
said expressly: Every Mussulman is free?" "Bah!" he replied, "the
Koran, this book of God, is more precious than a man, and yet you buy
and sell it; Joseph, the son of Jacob, was a prophet, and yet they
sold him, and was he ever the worse for it?" The influence of Deb
extends throughout central Asia; in converting themselves to the
worship of Mohammed, the nomad tribes have taken only the exterior
form; they adored formerly the sun, the fire, and other natural
phenomena--they personify them to-day under the name of Allah.

Many ancient and singular customs are found everywhere in central
Asia; marriage is accompanied by characteristic rites. The young girl,
in her rich bridal costume, bravely bestrides a furious courser, whom
she urges to his utmost speed; with one hand she holds the rein, with
the other she presses to her bosom a lamb just killed, which the
bridegroom, mounted also on a fast horse, endeavors to take from her.
All the young people of the tribe take a part in the eager pursuit,
and the sandy desert then becomes the theatre of this fantastic

The ceremonies prescribed for funerals are not less singular. When a
member of a Turkoman family dies, the mourners come every day for an
entire year, at the hour when the deceased expired, to utter sobs and
cries, in which the relations are bound to join. This custom seems to
prove that the Tartars, superior in this respect to civilized people,
consecrate to their dead a remembrance more profound and more durable;
but, in fact, one must abate a little of this praise; the tears and
prolonged mourning are only a matter of form, and Vambéry often could
hardly suppress a smile when he saw the head of the family tranquilly
smoking his pipe or enjoying his repast, interrupting himself now and
then to join the noisy lamentations of the choir. It is the same with
the ladies; they cry, they weep in the most lugubrious fashion,
without ceasing to turn the wheel or rock the cradle. But what then?
is not human nature the same everywhere, and do the Turkoman ladies
differ so much from our inconsolable widows, to whom, as La Fontaine
says with good-natured malice, "mourning very soon becomes an

Vambéry, venerated as one of the elect of the prophet, often passed
his evenings among these Tartar families. Then, surrounded by a large
audience, the troubadour, accompanying himself upon the guitar,
chanted the poetry of Koroghi, of Aman Mollah, or more frequency of
Makhdumkuli, the Ossian of the desert, whom his compatriots regard as
a demigod. This holy personage, who had never studied in the colleges
of Bokhara, received the gift of all science by a divine inspiration.
He was one day transported in a dream to Mecca, in presence of the
Prophet and of the first caliphs. Seized with respect and fear at the
sight of this august assembly, he prostrated himself, and, throwing
around him a timid look, perceived Omar, the patron of the Turkomen,
who, with a benevolent air, signed him to approach. He received then
the benediction of the Prophet, a light blow on the forehead, which
awakened him. From this moment a celestial poesy flowed from his lips;
he composed heroic hymns which the Tartars regard to-day as the most
beautiful productions of the human mind.


About this time, a mollah having undertaken a trip to Atabeg and the
Göklen, our traveller seized the occasion to examine the Greek ruins
which perpetuate among these savage people the remembrance of the
conquests of Alexander. He recognized the wall built by the Macedonian
hero to oppose a barrier to the menacing stream of the desert tribes.
The legend of the Turkomen shows how the oriental imagination clothes
the events of history with poetic and religious fiction. Alexander,
they say, was a profoundly religious Mussulman; and as the saints
exercise all power over the invisible world, he commanded the spirits
of darkness, and it was by his order that the genii built the sacred

Notwithstanding the generous hospitality of Khandjan, Vambéry began to
get tired of his residence at Gomushtèpe. The continual raids of the
Turkomen peopled their tents with a crowd of Persian slaves, whose
tortures revolted any one who had a spark of humanity. These unhappy
beings, surprised for the most part in a nocturnal attack, were
dragged from their families, and loaded with heavy chains which
betrayed the slightest movement and hindered every attempt at flight.
Khandjan himself possessed two young Iranians of eighteen and twenty
years, and, singularly enough, this man, so good and so hospitable,
overwhelmed these young men with injuries and insults on the slightest
pretext. Our traveller could not, without betraying himself, manifest
the least compassion for these poor slaves. Notwithstanding, the pity
which they sometimes surprised in his looks induced them to address
him. They begged him to write to their relatives, imploring them to
sell cattle, gardens, and dwellings in order to release them from this
frightful captivity; for the Turkomen often maltreat their prisoners
merely in the hope of obtaining a great ransom for them.

Vambéry then learned with joy that the khan of Khiva, for whom the
physicians had prescribed the use of buffalo's milk, had sent his
chief of caravans to Gomushtèpe to buy two pair of these animals, in
order to have them acclimated in his own country. To join an officer
who knew the invisible paths of the desert better than the most
experienced guides, was an unexpected good fortune for the pilgrims,
and Vambéry urged Hadji Bilal to improve so good an opportunity; but
Hadji Bilal was surprised at the impatience of his friend, and
remarked that it was extremely childish. "It is of no use to be in a
hurry," said he; "you will remain on the banks of the Gorghen until
destiny shall decree that you quench your thirst at another river, and
it is impossible to tell when the will of Allah will be manifested."
This answer was not particularly satisfactory to Vambéry; but he could
not attempt the desert alone; he was forced then to submit to the
oriental slowness of his companions.

The little caravan was to return to Etrek, the capital of a tribe of
warriors, to wait until the chief of caravans should join it. One of
the most renowned chiefs of this tribe came just at this time to
Gomushtèpe. His name was Kulkhan-_le-Pir_ (chief). His sombre and wild
physiognomy, little calculated to inspire confidence, never brightened
at the sight of the pious pilgrims; nevertheless, out of regard for
Khandjan, he consented to take the hadjis under his protection,
recommending to them to be ready to start with him in two days, for he
awaited in order to return to his tent at Etrek only the arrival of
his son, who had gone on a raid. Kulkhan spoke of this expedition with
the paternal pride which makes the heart of a European beat in
learning that his son has covered himself with glory on the field of
battle. Some hours later, the young man, followed by seven Turkomen,
appeared on the banks of the Gorghen. A great crowd had gathered, and
admiration was painted upon every face when the proud cavaliers threw
themselves with their {206} prey, ten magnificent horses, into the
midst of the river, which they crossed swimming. They landed
immediately, and even Vambéry, in spite of the contempt with which
these acts of pillage inspired him, could not take his eyes from these
bold warriors, who, in their short riding-habit, the chest covered
with their abundant curling hair, gaily laid down their arms.

About noon the next day the traveller quitted Gomushtèpe, and was
escorted for a considerable distance by Khandjan, who wished to fulfil
punctually all the duties of hospitality. It was not without heartfelt
regret that he parted from this devoted host, from whom he had
received so many marks of interest. The pilgrims travelled toward the
north-east; their road, which led them from the coast, was bordered by
many mounds raised by the Turkomen in memory of their illustrious
dead. When a warrior dies, every man of his tribe is bound to throw at
least seven shovelsful of earth upon his grave. So these mausoleums
often appear like little hills. This custom must be very ancient among
the Asiatics; the Huns brought it into Europe, and we find traces of
it to-day in Hungary. Half a league from Gomushtèpe the little caravan
reached magnificent prairies, the herbage of which, knee-high, exhaled
a delicious fragrance. But these blessings of nature are thrown away
upon the Turkomen, who, wholly occupied in robbery and pillage, never
dream of enriching themselves by peaceful, pastoral occupations.
"Alas!" thought our European, "what charming villages might shelter
themselves in this fertile and beautiful country. When will the busy
hum of life replace the silence of death which broods over these

Approaching Etrek, the landscape suddenly changes. This lonely verdure
is exchanged for the salt lands of the desert, whose rank odor and
repulsive appearance seem to warn the traveller of the sufferings
which await him in these immense solitudes. Little by little Vambéry
felt the ground become soft under foot; his camel slipped, buried
himself at each step, and gave such evident signs of intending to
throw him in the mud, that he thought it prudent to dismount without
waiting for a more pressing invitation. After tramping an hour and a
half in the mire the pilgrims reached Kara Sengher (black wall), where
rose the tent of their host, Kulkhan-le-Pir. The district of Etrek is,
to the populations of Mazendran and Taberistan, a by-word of terror
and malediction. "May you be carried to Etrek," is the most terrible
imprecation which fury can extort from a Persian. One cannot pass
before the tents of the Turkomen of Etrek without seeing the unhappy
Iranian slaves, wasted by fatigue and privations, and bent under the
weight of their chains. But the nomad tribes of Tartary offer a
singular mixture of vice and virtue, of justice and lawlessness, of
benevolence and cruelty. Vambéry, in his character of dervish, made
frequent visits among the Tartars. He always returned loaded with
presents and penetrated with gratitude for their charitable
hospitality. To this sentiment succeeded a profound horror at the
barbarous treatment inflicted upon their slaves. At Gomushtèpe such a
spectacle had already revolted him; and yet this city, compared to
Etrek, might be considered the _Ultima Thule_ of humanity and

One day, returning to his dwelling, Vambéry met one of the slaves of
Kulkhan, who, in a piteous tone, begged him to give him to drink. This
unfortunate being had labored ever since morning in a field of melons,
exposed to the heat of a burning sun, without any other food than salt
fish, and without a drop of water to quench his thirst. The sight of
this poor sufferer, and of the cheers which ran down over his thick
black beard, made Vambéry forget the danger {207} to which an
imprudent compassion might expose himself. He gave his bottle to the
slave, who drank eagerly and fled, not without having passionately
thanked his benefactor.

Another time the European and Hadji Bilal called on a rich Tartar,
who, learning that Vambéry was a disciple of the Grand Turk, cried,
with great glee, "I will show you a spectacle which will delight you;
we know how well the Russians and the Turks agree, and I will show you
one o£ your enemies in chains." He then called a poor Muscovite slave,
whose pallid features and expression of profound sadness touched
Vambéry to the heart. "Go and kiss the feet of this effendi," said the
Turkoman to the prisoner. The poor fellow was about to obey, but our
traveller stopped him by a gesture, saying that he had that morning
begun a great purification and that he did not wish to be defiled by
the touch of an infidel.

At last a messenger came to inform the pilgrims that the chief of
caravans was about to leave, and that he would meet them at noon the
next day on the shore opposite Etrek. The hadjis therefore began their
journey, escorted by Kulkhan-le-Pir, who, thanks to the introduction
of Kulkhan, neglected nothing for the security of his guests. Now, as
these districts are infested by brigands and very dangerous for
caravans, the protection of this _graybeard_ was very useful to the
travellers. Kulkhan was, in fact, the spiritual guide and grand
high-priest of these fierce robbers; he united to a character
naturally ferocious a consummate hypocrisy which made him a curious
type of the desert chiefs. One ought to have heard this renowned
bandit, who had ruined so many families, explaining to his assembled
disciples the rites prescribed for purifications, and telling them how
a good Mussulman ought to cut his moustache, etc. A sort of pious
ecstasy, a perfect serenity, the fruit of a good conscience, was
visible meanwhile upon the countenances of these men, as if they
already enjoyed a foretaste of the delight of Mohammed's paradise.

The chief of caravans now joined the pilgrims. Vambéry desired very
much to win the good graces of so important a man, and was, therefore,
much alarmed when he saw that this dignitary, who had received the
other pilgrims with marks of great respect, treated him with great
coldness. Hadji Bilal eagerly undertook the defence of his friend.
"All this," he cried angrily, "is no doubt the work of that miserable
Mehemmed, who, even while we were in Etrek, tried to make us believe
that our Hadji Reschid, so holy and so learned in the Koran, was a
European in disguise! The Lord, pardon my sins!" This was the favorite
exclamation of the good dervish in his moments of greatest agitation.
"Be patient," he added, addressing his companion, "once arrived at
Khiva, I will set this opium-eater right." Mehemmed was an Afghan
merchant, born at Kandahar, who had frequently met Europeans. He
thought he discovered in Vambéry a secret agent travelling, no doubt,
with great treasure, and he hoped, by frightening him, to extort from
him considerable sums; but the European was too cunning to be taken in
this trap, and he found a secure protection in his reputation for
sanctity and in the generous friendship of Hadji Bilal.

This incident had no immediate consequences. The chief of caravans,
who was now chief of the united caravans, ordered each pilgrim
carefully to fill his bottle, for they would travel now many days
without meeting any spring. Vambéry followed the example of his
companions, but with a negligent air which Hadji Salih thought himself
bound to reprove. "You do not know yet," said he, "that in the desert
each drop of water becomes a drop of life. The thirsty traveller
watches over his bottle as a miser over his treasure; it is as
precious to him as his eye-sight."

They travelled the whole day over a sandy soil, at times slightly
undulating, but where it was impossible to discover the least trace of
a path. The sun alone indicated their course, and during the night the
_kervanbashi_ (chief of caravans) guided himself by the polar star,
called by the Turkomen the iron pin, because it is motionless.
Gradually the sand gave place to a hard and flinty soil, on which
through the silent night resounded the foot-fall of the camels. At
day-break the caravan stopped to take some hours of rest, and
presently Vambéry perceived the kervanbashi engaged eagerly in
conversation with Hadji Bilal and Hadji Salih, the subject of which
their looks, constantly directed toward him, sufficiently indicated.
He pretended not to observe it, and occupied himself with renewed
earnestness in turning over the pages of the Koran. Some moments after
his friends came to him, and said "his foreign features excited the
distrust of the kervanbashi, for this man had already incurred the
anger of the king because he had some years before conducted to Khiva
a European, whom this single journey had enabled to put down on paper
with diabolical art all the peculiarities of the country, and he never
should be able to save his head if he committed another such blunder.
It is with great difficulty," added the dervishes, "that we have
persuaded him to take you with us, and he has made it a condition,
first, that you shall consent to be searched, and secondly, that you
will swear, by the tomb of the Prophet, that you will not carry about
you secretly a _wooden pen_ as these detestable Europeans always do."

These words, we may imagine, were not very agreeable to Vambéry, but
he had too much self-control to permit his agitation to be seen.
Pretending to be very angry, he turned toward Hadji Salih, and, loud
enough to be heard by the chief of caravans, replied, "Hadji, you have
seen me in Teheran, and you know who I am; say to the kervanbashi that
an honest man ought not to listen to the gossip of an infidel." This
pretended indignation produced the desired effect; no one afterward
expressed a doubt in regard to the pilgrim. Vambéry could not resolve
to keep his promise, and, whatever it might have cost him to deceive
his friends, he continued to make in secret some rapid notes. "Let one
imagine," says he, to excuse himself, "the latter disappointment of a
traveller who arriving at last, after long efforts and great peril,
before a spring for which he has eagerly sighed, finds himself
forbidden to moisten his parched lips."

The caravan advanced slowly through the desert; in compassion for the
camels, who suffered much from the sand, upon which they could hardly
walk, the pilgrims dismounted when the road became very bad. These
forced marches were a severe trial to Vambéry on account of his
lameness; but he endeavored to forget, his fatigue and to take a part
in the noisy conversations of his companions. The nephew of the
kervanbashi, a Turkoman of Khiva, entertained a particular affection
for him; full of respect for his character as dervish, and won by the
benevolence of his looks, he took great pleasure in talking to him of
his _tent_, the only manner in which the prescriptions of the Prophet
permitted him to speak of the young wife whom he had left at home.
Separated for a whole year from the object of his tenderness, Khali
Mallah appealed to the science of the pretended hadji to pierce the
veil which absence had placed between himself and his family. Vambéry
gravely took the Koran, pronounced some cabalistic words, closed his
eyes, and opened the book precisely at a passage in which women are
spoken of. He interpreted the sacred text so as to draw from it an
oracle sufficiently vague, at which the young Tartar was transported
with joy.

On the 27th of May the travellers reached the table-lands of
Korentaghi, a chain of mountains surrounded by vast valleys, to the
west of which extend ruins probably of Greek origin. {209} The nomads
who inhabit this district came in crowds to visit the caravan, and for
some hours the encampment had the appearance of a bazaar. The
merchants and drovers who accompanied the kervanbashi concluded
important bargains with the natives, mostly on credit; but Vambéry was
surprised to see the debtor, instead of giving the note as a guarantee
to the creditor, tranquilly put it in his own pocket. Our European
could not refrain from speaking of this, and he received from one of
the merchants this answer of a patriarchal simplicity: "What should I
do with the paper? it would not do me any good; but the debtor
requires it in order to remind him of the amount of the debt and of
the time when it is to be paid."

Two days after a dark blue cloud appeared in the horizon toward the
north; this was Petit-Balkan, the elevation, the picturesque
landscapes, and the rich mineral resources of which are celebrated in
all Turkoman poetry. The travellers passed along the chain of
mountains, perceiving here and there green and fertile prairies, and
yet the profound solitude of these beautiful valleys filled the soul
with a vague sadness. Beyond commences the Great Desert, where the
traveller marches for many weeks without finding a drop of water to
quench his thirst, or a tree to shelter him from the rays of the sun.
In winter the cold is intense, in summer the heat; but the two seasons
present an equal danger, and frequent tempests swallow up whole
caravans under drifts of snow or whirlwinds of sand.

"In proportion," says Vambéry, "as the outlines of Balkan disappear
from the horizon, the limitless desert shows itself, terrible and
majestic. I had often thought that imagination and enthusiasm enter
largely into the profound impression produced by the sight of these
immense solitudes. I deceived myself. In my own beloved country I have
often seen vast plains of sand; in Persia I have crossed the salt
desert; but how different were my feelings to-day! It is not
imagination, it is nature herself who lights the sacred torch of
inspiration. The interminable hills of sand, the utter absence of
life, the frightful calm of death, the purple tints of the sun at his
rising and setting, all warn us that we are in the Great Desert, all
fill our souls with an inexpressible emotion."

After travelling many days, the provision of water beginning to be
exhausted, Vambéry knew for the first time the horrible tortures of
thirst. "Alas!" he thought, "saving and blessed water, the most
precious of all the elements, how little have I known your value! what
would I not give at this moment for a few drops of your divine
substance!" The unfortunate traveller had lost his appetite, he
experienced an excessive prostration, a devouring fire consumed his
veins, he sank upon the ground in a state of complete exhaustion.
Suddenly he heard resound the magic words, "Water! water!" He looked
up and saw the kervanbashi distribute to each of his companions two
glasses of the precious liquid. The good Turkoman had the habit
whenever he crossed the desert of hiding a certain quantity of water,
which he distributed to the members of his caravan when their
sufferings became intolerable. This unexpected succor revived the
strength of Vambéry, and he acknowledged the justice of the Tartar
proverb: "The drop of water given in the desert to the traveller dying
of thirst, effaces a hundred, years of sin."

The next day numerous tracks of gazelles and wild asses announced to
the travellers that springs were to be found in the neighborhood;
thither they hastened to fill their bottles, and, relieved now from
all anxiety lest water should fail them before their arrival at Khiva,
they gave themselves up to transports of joyful enthusiasm. Toward
evening they reached the table-land of Kaflankir, an island {210} of
verdure in the midst of a sea of sand. Its fertile soil, covered with
luxuriant vegetation, gives asylum to a great number of animals; two
deep trenches surround this oasis, which the Turkomen say are ancient
branches of the Oxus. The caravan, instead of going directly to Khiva,
made a circuit to avoid a tribe of marauders; the first of June it
arrived within sight of the great Tartar city, which, with its domes,
its minarets, its smiling gardens, the luxuriant vegetation which
surrounds it, appeared to the travellers, worn by the monotony of the
desert, an epitome of the delights of nature and of civilization.


On entering the city their admiration was somewhat lessened. Khiva is
composed of three or four thousand houses, constructed of earth,
scattered about in all directions and surrounded by a wall, also of
clay, ten feet high. But at every step the pious Khivites offered them
bread and dried fruits, begging their blessing. For a long time Khiva
had not received within its walls so great a number of hadjis; every
face expressed astonishment and admiration, and on all sides resounded
acclamations of welcome. Entering into the bazaar, Hadji Bilal intoned
a sacred canticle, in which his companions joined; the voice of
Vambéry predominated; and his emotion was very great when he saw the
surrounding crowd rush toward him, to kiss his hands, his feet covered
with dust, and even the rags which composed his dress.

According to the usage of the country, the travellers returned
immediately to the caravan which served as custom-house. The principal
_mehrum_ (royal chamberlain) fulfilled the functions of director;
hardly had he addressed the usual questions to the kervanbashi when
the miserable Afghan before spoken of, furious at having been thwarted
in his avaricious designs, advancing, cried in a tone of raillery: "We
have brought to Khiva three interesting quadrupeds, and a biped who is
not less so." The first part of the expression, of course, alluded to
the buffaloes which had been brought from Gomushtèpe; the second was
pointed at Vambéry. Instantly all eyes were fixed upon him, and he
could distinguish among the murmurs of the crowd the words: "Spy,
European, Russian." Imagine his agitation! The khan of Khiva, a cruel
fanatic, had the reputation of reducing to slavery or destroying by
horrible tortures all suspected strangers. In this emergency Vambéry
was not intimidated; often he had considered the possible consequences
of his bold enterprise, and looked death in the face.

The mehrum, lifting his brows, considered the foreign countenance of
the unknown, and rudely ordered him to approach. Vambéry was about to
reply when Hadji Bilal, who did not know what was going on, eagerly
entered to introduce his friend to the Khivite officer; the exterior
of the Turkoman dervish inspired so much confidence that suspicions
were instantly changed into respectful excuses.

This peril avoided, Vambéry could not deny that his European features
raised in his way every moment new difficulties; he must have a
powerful protector always ready to defend him. He presently remembered
that an important man, named Shukrullah Bay, who had been for ten
years ambassador to the sultan from the khan of Khiva, must know
Constantinople and every official of that city. Vambéry thought he
should find in this dignitary the support which he desired, and he
repaired the same day to the _medusse_ (college) of Mohammed Emin
Khan, where he resided. Informed that an effendi, recently arrived
from Stamboul, wished to see him, the ex-minister immediately
appeared. His surprise, already very great, was not diminished when he
saw enter a mendicant covered with {211} rags and frightfully
disfigured; but after exchanging a few words with his strange visitor,
his distrust vanished; he addressed him question after question
regarding his friends whom he had left at Constantinople, and, from
the mere pleasure of hearing him speak of them, he forgot to raise a
doubt regarding the supposed quality of the traveller. "In the name of
God, my dear effendi," said he at last, "how could you quit such a
paradise as Stamboul to come into our frightful country?" The
pretended Reschid sighed deeply. "Ah, pir!" he replied, putting a hand
upon his eyes in sign of obedience. Shukrullah was too good a
Mussulman not to understand these words; he was persuaded that his
guest belonged to some order of dervishes, and had been charged by his
_pir_ (spiritual chief) with some mission which a disciple was bound
to accomplish even at the peril of his life. Without asking any
farther explanations, he merely inquired the name of the order to
which Vambéry was attached. Vambéry mentioned the Nakish bendi,
[Footnote 37] implying that Bokhara was the end of his pilgrimage, and
he retired, leaving the Khivite minister marvelling at his learning,
his wit, his sanctity, and his extensive acquaintance.

  [Footnote 37: A celebrated order which originated in Bokhara, where
  its principal establishment still exists.]

The khan, hearing of the arrival of a Turk, the first who had ever
come from Constantinople to Khiva, sent in all haste a _yasoul_
(officer of the court) to give the European a small present and inform
him that the _hazret_ (sovereign) would give him audience the same
evening, for he greatly desired to receive the blessing of a dervish
born in the holy land. Our voyager, therefore, accompanied by
Shukrullah Bay, who made it a point to present him, repaired to the
palace of the formidable monarch. We will leave Vambéry to relate
himself this curious interview:

"It was the hour of public audience, and the principal entrance and
halls of the palace were filled with petitioners of every rank, sex,
and age. The crowd respectfully made way at our approach, and my ear
was agreeably tickled when I heard the women say to each other: 'See
the holy dervish from Constantinople; he comes to bless our khan, and
may Allah hear his prayer!' Shukrullah Bay had taken care to make it
known that I was very intimate with the highest dignitaries in
Stamboul, and that nothing should be omitted to render my reception
most solemn. After waiting a few moments, two yasouls came to take me
by the arm, and, with the most profound demonstrations of respect,
conducted me in the presence of Seid Mehemmed Khan.

"The prince was seated upon a sort of platform, his left arm resting
upon a velvet cushion, his right hand holding a golden sceptre.
According to the prescribed ceremonial, I raised my two hands, a
gesture which was immediately imitated by the khan and others present;
then I recited a verse from the Koran, followed by a prayer much used
beginning with the words: '_Allahuma Rabbina_.' I concluded with an
_amen_, which I pronounced with a resounding voice, holding my beard
with both hands. '_Kaboul bolgay!_' (may thy prayer be heard),
responded in unison all the assistants. Then I approached the
sovereign and exchanged with him the _mousafeha_,  [Footnote 38] after
which I retired a few steps. The khan addressed me several questions
regarding the object of my journey, and my impressions in crossing the
Great Desert.

  [Footnote 38: Salute prescribed by the Koran, during which the right
  and left hand of each party are placed flatly one upon the other. ]

"'My sufferings have been great,' I replied, 'but my reward is greater
yet, since I am permitted to behold the splendor of your glorious
majesty. I return thanks to Allah for this favor, and I see in it a
good omen for the rest of my pilgrimage.'


"The king, evidently flattered, asked how long I proposed to remain at
Khiva, and if I were provided with the necessary funds for pursuing my

"'My intention,' I replied, 'is to visit before my departure the tombs
of the saints who repose in the vicinity of Khiva. As to the means of
pursuing my journey, I give myself no anxiety. We dervishes occupy
ourselves very little with such trifles. The sacred breathing which I
have received from the chief of my order suffices, moreover, to
sustain me four or five days without any other nourishment; therefore
the only prayer which I address to heaven is that your majesty may
live a hundred and twenty years.'

"My words had gained the good graces of the khan; he offered me twenty
ducats, and promised to make me a present of an ass. I declined the
first of these presents, because poverty is the necessary attribute of
a dervish; but I accepted the animal with gratitude, not without
piously remarking that the precept of the Prophet requires that a
white ass should be used for pilgrimages. The king assured me that I
should have one of this color, and he put an end to the interview,
begging me to accept at least during my short residence in his capital
two _tenghe_ (1 franc 50 centimes) a day for my maintenance.

"I retired joyfully, receiving at every step the respectful homage of
the crowd, and regained my own dwelling. Once alone, I uttered a sigh
of satisfaction, thinking of the danger which I had incurred, and the
happy manner in which I had escaped it. This dissolute khan, savage
and brutal tyrant, had treated me with unexampled kindness; I was now
free from all fear, and at liberty to go where I liked. During the
entire evening, the audience of the khan was present to my mind; I saw
again the Asiatic despot, with his pallid countenance, his eyes deeply
sunk in the orbits, his beard sprinkled with white, his white lips and
trembling voice. So, I thought, Providence has permitted that
fanaticism itself should serve as a bit to this suspicious and cruel

It was soon understood in Khiva that the dervish of Constantinople was
in great favor with the khan, therefore the notables of the city
delayed not to overwhelm him with visits and invitations; the
_oulemas_ especially, anxious to enlighten themselves with his light,
asked him a thousand questions regarding various religious
observances. Vambéry, repressing his impatience, was obliged to spend
whole hours instructing these fervent disciples on the manner of
washing the feet, the hands, the face; explaining to them how, not to
violate any precept, the true believers ought to sit down, to rise, to
walk, sleep, etc. The pretended pilgrim, who was supposed to be a
native of Stamboul, venerated seat of religion, passed for an
infallible oracle, for the sultan of Constantinople and the grandees
of his court are regarded at Khiva as the most accomplished observers
of the law. They there represent the Turkish emperor as _coiffé_ in a
turban at least fifty or sixty yards long, wrapped in a long trailing
robe, and wearing a beard which falls to the girdle. To inform the
Khivites that this prince dresses like a European, and has his clothes
cut by Dusautoy, would only excite their pious indignation; any one
who would attempt to disabuse them on these points would pass for an
impostor, and would only risk his own life. Vambéry was obliged to
answer the most ridiculous questions: one wished to know if in the
whole world there was any city to be compared to Khiva; another, if
the meals of the grand sultan were sent to him every day from Mecca,
and if it only took one minute for them to come from the Kaaba to the
palace at Constantinople. What would these pious enthusiasts say if
they could know with what honor _Chateau-Lafitte and Chateau-Margeaux_
figure upon the table of the actual successor of the Prophet?


The convent which gave asylum to the pilgrims served also as a public
square; it contained a mosque, the court of which, ornamented with a
piece of water surrounded with beautiful trees, was the favorite
lounge of all the idle people in town. The women came there to fill
the heavy jugs which they afterward carried to their dwellings. More
than one of these recalled to the European the daughters of his dear
Hungary; he took great pleasure in watching them, and never refused
them his blessing, his powder of life, or even his sacred breathing,
which had the power of curing all infirmities. On these occasions, the
sick person squatted upon the threshold of the door, the pretended
dervish, moving his lips as if in prayer, extended a hand over the
patient, then he breathed three times upon her and uttered a profound
sigh. Very often the innocent creatures fancied that they had
experienced immediate relief, so great is the power of the

During the time that Vambéry was at Khiva, a fair had assembled there
from twenty leagues round all the rich natives. Most of these came to
the markets not so much to buy and sell as to gratify that love of
display so inveterate among the Orientals; their purchases were often
limited to a few needles or similar trifles; but it was an excellent
occasion to parade their beautiful horses, to display their richest
clothes and their finest weapons. Khiva, moreover, is the centre of an
active commerce; beside the fruits, which enjoy great renown, and are
exported to Persia, Turkey, Russia, and China, the stalls of the fair
contain excellent manufactured articles. Beside the _urgendi
tchapani_, a kind of dressing robe made of woollen or silken stuffs of
two colors, are displayed the linens of Tash-hauz, the bronzes of
Khiva, muslins, calicoes, cloth, sugar, iron sent by Russia to be
exchanged for cotton, silk, and furs, which the caravans deliver in
the spring at the markets of Orenbourg, and in the autumn at those of
Astrakan. The transactions with Bokhara are equally important: they
export thither robes and linens, and receive in exchange tea, spices,
paper, and fancy articles.

Vambéry, divided between the friendship of Hadji Bilal and his daily
increasing intimacy with Shukrullah Bay, led a very agreeable life at
Khiva. Unhappily this calm was troubled by the secret intrigues of the
mehter (minister of the interior), who was a personal enemy of the
Khivite ambassador. He persuaded the khan that our traveller was a
secret agent of the sultan of Bokhara, and Seid Mehemmed resolved to
have a second interview with the would-be dervish, and submit him to a
strict examination. Vambéry, exhausted by the extreme heat, was taking
a siesta in his cell when he was warned by a messenger to report
himself to the sovereign. Surprised at this unexpected order, he
departed with some anxiety. In order to reach the palace he was
obliged to cross the grand square, where were assembled all the
prisoners taken in a recent war against the neighboring tribe of the
Tchandors, and the sight of these unfortunate beings impressed him
most painfully. The khan in company with the mehter awaited his
arrival; he overwhelmed him with artful questions, and said that,
knowing how thoroughly versed he was in the worldly sciences, he
should like very much to see him write some lines after the manner of
Stamboul. The necessary materials having been brought, Vambéry wrote
the following epistle, when, under pompous flowers of rhetoric, he
slipped in a bit of raillery pointed at the mehter, who was extremely
vain of his own beautiful writing:


  "Most majestic, powerful, terrible, and formidable monarch and

  "Inundated with the royal favor, the poorest and most humble of your
  servants has, until this day, consecrated little time to the study
  of penmanship, for he remembers the Arab proverb: 'Those who have a
  beautiful handwriting have ordinarily very little wit.' But he knows
  also the Persian adage: 'Every defect which pleases a king becomes a
  virtue.' This is why he ventures respectfully to present these

The khan, charmed with the pompous eloquence of our traveller, made
him sit beside him, offered him tea and bread, and had with him a long
political conversation, the subject of which had been agreed upon
beforehand. In his quality of dervish, the adroit European maintained
an austere silence. Seid Mehemmed drew from him with great difficulty
some sententious phrases, which offered not the slightest pretext to
the malicious designs of the mehter.

On leaving the royal audience, a yasoul conducted Vambéry to the
treasurer to receive his daily allowance. He was obliged to cross a
vast court, where a horrible spectacle awaited him. Three hundred
Tchandors, covered with rags and wasted by hunger till they looked
like living skeletons, were expecting the sentence which was to decide
their fate. The younger ones, chained one to another by iron collars,
were to be sold as slaves or given as presents to the favorites of the
king. More cruel punishments were reserved for those whose age caused
them to be considered as chiefs. While some of them were conducted to
the block upon which already many heads had fallen, eight of these
unhappy old men were thrown upon the ground while the executioner tore
out their eyes. It is impossible to enter upon the frightful details
of these barbarous punishments. Arriving at the office of the
treasurer, Vambéry found him singularly occupied in sorting silken
vestments of dazzling colors, covered with large golden embroidery.
These were the _khilat_, or robes of honor, which were to be sent to
the camp to recompense the services of the warriors; they were
designated as robes of four, twelve, twenty, or forty heads. This
singular mode of distinguishing them, which the designs upon the
tissue in no way explained, having excited the curiosity of Vambéry,
he inquired the reason. "What!" was the reply, "have you never seen
similar ones in Turkey? In that case, come to-morrow to assist at the
distribution of these glorious emblems. The most beautiful of these
vestments are intended for those soldiers who have brought forty
enemies' heads, the most simple for those who have furnished only
four." In spite of the horror which this custom inspired, the European
could not without exciting suspicion refuse the invitation thus
extended to him. Accordingly, the next morning he saw arrive in the
principal square of Khiva a hundred cavaliers covered with dust; each
one of them led at least one prisoner fastened to the pommel of the
saddle, or to the tail of his horse; women and children bound in the
same manner making a part of the booty. Beside, all the soldiers
carried behind them large bags filled with heads cut off from the
vanquished. They delivered the captives to the officer in charge, and
then emptied their bags, rolling out the contents upon the ground with
as much indifference as if they had been potatoes. These noble
warriors received in exchange an attestation of their great exploits,
and this billet would give them a right after a few days to a
pecuniary recompense.

These barbarous customs are not peculiar to Khiva; they are found in
all central Asia. Tradition, law, and religion agree in sanctioning
them. During the first years of his reign, the khan of Khiva, wishing
to display his zeal for the Mussulman faith, proceeded with the utmost
rigor not only against the heretic Tchandors, but also against his own
subjects who were found guilty of the least infraction of the
commandments of the Prophet. The oulemas endeavored to moderate the
too ardent piety of the king; but, notwithstanding their intervention,
not a day passes without {215} some person admitted to audience of the
khan being dragged from the palace, after hearing the words,
equivalent to his death-warrant: "_Alib barin!_" (take him away).

Notwithstanding the cruelties by which Khiva is disgraced, it was in
this city that  Vambéry passed, under the costume of a dervish, the
most agreeable days of his journey. Whenever he appeared in public
places he was surrounded by a crowd of the faithful, who heaped
presents upon him. Thus, though he never accepted considerable sums,
and though he shared the offerings of the pious believers with his
brethren the hadjis, his situation was much improved; he was provided
with a well-lined purse, and a vigorous ass; in short, he was
perfectly equipped for his journey. His companions were very anxious
to arrive at Bokhara, fearing that the heat might render it
impracticable to cross the desert, and they urged Vambéry to terminate
his preparations for departure. Before quitting Khiva our European
wished to bid adieu to the excellent protector to whose hospitable
reception he owed so much.

"I was deeply moved," he says, "to hear the arguments which the good
Shukrullah Bay employed to dissuade me from my enterprise. He painted
Bokhara under the most gloomy colors, the distrustful and hypocritical
emir, hostile to all strangers, and who had even treacherously put to
death a Turk sent to him by Reschid Pacha. The anxiety of this worthy
old man, so convinced at first of the reality of my sacred character,
surprised me extremely. I began to think that he had penetrated the
secret of my disguise, and perhaps divined who I was. Accustomed to
European ideas, Shukrullah Bay understood our ardor for scientific
researches, for in his youth he had passed many years in St.
Petersburg, and often also, during his residence in Constantinople, he
had formed affectionate intimacies with Europeans. Was it on this
account that he had manifested so warm a friendship for me? In parting
from him I saw a tear glisten in his eye; who can tell what sentiment
caused it to flow?"

Vambéry gave the khan a last benediction. The prince recommended to
him on his return from Samarcande to pass through his capital, for he
wished to send with the pilgrim a representative, charged to receive
at Constantinople the investiture which the masters of Khiva wish to
obtain from every new sultan. This was by no means the plan of our
traveller. "_Kismet_," he replied, with his habitual presence of mind;
a word altogether in the spirit of his character, and which signifies
that one commits a grave sin when one counts upon the future.



From Aubrey De Vere's May Carols.


  The gifts a mother showers each day
    Upon her softly-clamorous brood:
  The gifts they value but for play,--
    The graver gifts of clothes and food,--

  Whence come they but from him who sows
    With harder hand, and reaps, the soil;
  The merit of his laboring brows,
    The guerdon of his manly toil?

  From him the grace: through her it stands
    Adjusted, meted, and applied;
  And ever, passing through her hands,
    Enriched it seems, and beautified.

  Love's mirror doubles love's caress:
    Love's echo to love's voice is true:--
  Their sire the children love not less
    Because they clasp a mother too.


  As children when, with heavy tread,
    Men sad of face, unseen before,
  Have borne away their mother dead--
    So stand the nations thine no more.

  From room to room those children roam,
    Heart-stricken by the unwonted black:
  Their house no longer seems their home:
    They search; yet know not what they lack.

  Years pass: self-will and passion strike
    Their roots more deeply day by day;
  Old servants weep; and "how unlike"
    Is all the tender neighbors say.

  And yet at moments, like a dream,
    A mother's image o'er them flits:
  Like hers their eyes a moment beam;
    The voice grows soft; the brow unknits.

  Such, Mary, are the realms once thine,
    That know no more thy golden reign.
  Bold forth from heaven thy Babe divine!
    O make thine orphans thine again!



From The Month


The appearance of a work such as the "Eirenicon," from the pen of one
in so conspicuous a position as Dr. Pusey, was sure to attract general
attention, and to call forth a great number of comments and answers
more or less favorable to it or severe upon it. It gives an occasion
for, and indeed invites, the frankest discussion of a very wide range
of most important questions; and in doing so it has rendered a great
service to the cause of truth. Many of these questions are of that
kind which those whom the "Eirenicon" itself may be supposed more
particularly to represent have been in the habit of avoiding, at all
events in public, although their own ecclesiastical position depended
entirely upon them. It is a very great gain that these should now be
opened for discussion, at the invitation of one who has long passed as
a leader among Anglicans. Moreover, a book which handles so many
subjects and contains so many assertions has naturally raised
questions as to itself which require consideration. It is a
comparatively easy matter to look on it as a simple overture for
peace, or to speculate on the possibility of that "union by means of
explanations" which Dr. Pusey tells us is his dearest wish. Even here
we are directly met by the necessity of further investigations. Dr.
Pusey puts a certain face on the Thirty-nine Articles, and on Catholic
doctrines and statements with regard to the questions to which those
Articles refer. Is he right in his representation either of the
definitions of his own communion or of the support which those
definitions may receive from authorities external to it? Is it true
that the "Catholic" interpretation is the legitimate sense of the
Articles? Is it true that that interpretation is supported by Roman
and Greek authorities? Is there no statement, for instance, in the
Council of Trent about justification to which any in the Anglican
communion can object? It must be quite obvious that a great number of
sanguine assertions such as these require examination in detail; and
surely no one can complain if they are not admitted on Dr. Pusey's
word. Then again, unfortunately, he was not content with painting his
own communion in his own colors; he must needs give a description of
the Catholic system also. He has told us--and we are both willing and
bound to believe him--that he has not drawn this sketch in a hostile
spirit; perhaps he will some day acknowledge--which is much more to
the point--that he has drawn it in great and lamentable ignorance, the
consciousness of which ought to have deterred him from attempting it.
Surely there are some enterprises which are usually undertaken by none
but the dullest or the most presumptuous of men. Such an enterprise is
that of giving an account of a practical system which influences and
forms the hearts and minds of thousands of our fellow-creatures, when
we have ourselves lived all our days as entire strangers to it. If it
be something simply in the natural order, such as the polity or the
customs of a foreign nation, we do not feel so much surprise at the
blunders made by the {218} writer who undertakes to describe them, as
at his temerity in making the attempt. This is, of coarse, enhanced
greatly in proportion as we ascend into the higher spheres of the
spiritual and supernatural life. It is strange enough to see any
sensible man writing as if he could fairly characterize the devotional
sentiments and religious thoughts of men of a different belief; but it
becomes something more than strange when this venturesome critic
proceeds not only to characterize, but to condemn and to denounce in
the strongest language that which he might in all reason and modesty
have supposed himself, at least, not quite able fully to comprehend;
and this at the very time that he is proposing peace.

We are not, however, here concerned with this more painful view of the
subject. We are only pointing out that the elaborate chapter of
accusation against the Catholic Church which Dr. Pusey has drawn up
could not fail to be received with great indignation on the part of
Catholics, and that the overtures which accompany it cannot be fairly
dealt with until it has been thoroughly sifted by criticism as well as
by controversy. How can we explain a "system" which we deny to exist?
Of course, no Catholic will acknowledge Dr. Pusey's representation as
anything but a monstrous caricature. Of course, also, the chief heads
of accusation can be easily dealt with one by one, and positive
statements given as to what is really taught, thought, and felt by
Catholics with regard to them. But this leaves the book untouched. How
came these charges to be made? What grounds has Dr. Pusey for
asserting that to be true which we all know to be so false? Does he
quote rightly? Has he understood the books he cites, where he has read
them? And has he read them through? Are the authors whom he gives as
fair specimens of Catholic teaching acknowledged as writers of credit,
or are some of them even on the Index? Has he ever understood the
Catholic doctrines on which he is severe, such as the immaculate
conception and the papal infallibility, or the meaning of the Catholic
authorities whom he seems to set in some sort of opposition to others,
such as Bossuet and the bishops, whose answers he quotes from the
"Pareri?" It is true that questions like this are to some extent
personal; but Dr. Pusey makes it necessary to ask them, and he is the
one person in the world who ought to wish that they should be
thoroughly handled. We cannot believe that he approves of the tactics
of some Anglican critics, who speak as if the ark of their sanctuary
were rudely touched when it is said that he can be mistaken or
ignorant about anything. He has never shown any lack of controversial
courage. Up to the present time we are not aware of a single
publication of any note from the Catholic side of the question which
has not exposed some one or two distinct and important errors of fact,
quotation, historical statement, or some grave misconception of
doctrine on his part; and this, it is to be observed, has hitherto
only been done incidentally by writers who have not addressed
themselves to the systematic examination of the "Eirenicon" as a work
of learning.

Lastly, this miscellaneous work has occasioned a call which, also, we
are glad to feel sure, will be adequately answered; a call for calm
and learned statements from Catholic theologians on some of the chief
controversial questions touched on by Dr. Pusey. What is the real
unity of the church? What is the true doctrine of her infallibility
and of that of the Roman Pontiff? and how are the commonly alleged
(though so often refuted) objections--as, for instance, that about
what Dr. Pusey calls _formal heresy_ of Liberius--to the met? What is
really meant by the immaculate conception, and what was in truth the
history of the late definition?  {219}  These, and a few more
important matters--such as the doctrine of transubstantiation, and the
historical truth as to the cases of Meletius and the African
churches--will be treated at length in the forthcoming volume of
essays announced under the title of "Peace through the Truth." The
case of the Anglican ordinations has been incidentally raised by Dr.
Pusey; but it will be natural for Catholic critics to wait for a
volume on the subject which has been announced by Mr. F. G. Lee. As
far as the alleged sanction of those ordinations by Cardinal Pole is
concerned, Dr. Pusey does not seem inclined to raise the question

We have thus a tolerably large promise of work for theological writers
and readers; and it cannot but be looked on as a good sign that so
strong an impulse to controversial activity should have been given by
one who has not hitherto been fond of inviting attention to the
difficulties of his own position. It is but natural that the more
solid and erudite works called forth by the "Eirenicon" should be the
last to appear; and any one who has read but a few pages of that work
will understand the difficulty which its writer has imposed on any
conscientious critic by a frequently loose way of quoting, and an
occasional habit of giving no authority at all for statements that
certainly require more proof than a bare assertion. But we have
already the beginning of a most valuable collection of publications by
men of the highest position, dealing either with detached portions of
Dr. Pusey's work or in a summary way with its general plan; and some
service has been done by letters in the papers, such as those of Canon
Estcourt and Mr. Rhodes. Father Gallwey's "Sermon" has been widely
circulated; Canon Oakeley has given us an interesting pamphlet on the
"Leading Topics of the Eirenicon;" Dr. Newman has written a letter to
its author, and is understood to be preparing a second; and his grace
the Archbishop of Westminster has dealt with several of Dr. Pusey's
assertions in his "Pastoral Letter on the Reunion of Christendom." We
propose now to deal shortly with some of these publications, which,
though they belong to the earlier and more incidental stage of the
controversy, are of the highest value in themselves and on account of
the position of their authors.  [Footnote 39]

  [Footnote 39:  We have found it impossible to deal with so important
  and authoritative a è as his Grace's "Letter" in our present paper.]

We must first, however, speak of a work put forth by Dr. Pusey as a
sequel or a companion to the "Eirenicon." This is a republication
(with leave of the author) of the celebrated Tract 90, preceded by an
historical preface from Dr Pusey's own pen, and followed by a letter
of Mr. Keble on "Catholic Subscription to the Articles," which was
widely circulated, though not published, in 1861. Of the tract itself
we need not, of course, speak. Dr. Pusey's preface, however, is open
to one or two obvious remarks. It is remarkable for the manner in
which he identifies himself with the Mr. Newman of the day, though it
appears that the proof of the tract in question was submitted to Mr.
Keble, and its publication urged by him, while Dr. Pusey himself was
only made aware of its existence by the clamor with which it was
received. Then, again, the remarkable difference of view between Dr.
Pusey and Mr. Newman as to the "Catholic" interpretation of the
Articles forces itself again upon our notice. From the tract itself
all through, and its explanations by its author at the time and since,
it is perfectly clear that nothing more was meant by it than to claim
such latitude of interpretation of the Thirty-nine Articles as would
admit the "Catholic" sense on equal terms, as it were, with the
anti-Catholic; and the same view is urged by Mr. Keble in his letter.
The writer of the tract supposes that the Anglican formularies were
drawn {220} up with designed ambiguity, in order to catch Catholic
subscriptions. He compares the tactics adopted by the framers of the
Articles to those which were followed by M. Thiers: "A French
minister, desirous of war, nevertheless, as a matter of policy, draws
up his state papers in such moderate language that his successor, who
is for peace, can act up to them without compromising his own
principles. . . . The Protestant confession was drawn up with the
purpose of including Catholics; and Catholics now will not be
excluded. What was an economy in the reformers is a protection to us"
(Tract 90, conclusion). This is a plain common-sense view of the
matter, and is abundantly supported by history. But it obviously
leaves a stain on the Anglican establishment, which will appear of
vital or of trifling importance according to the different views under
which that community is regarded. If it is looked upon as a political
and national organization, it was no doubt a stroke of prudence so to
frame the formularies as to include both sides. If it is considered as
a church of Christ, it can hardly be anything but discreditable that
it should thus compromise divine truth. But Dr. Pusey's view of the
"Catholic interpretation," as expressed both in his present preface
and in the "Eirenicon," claims for it the exclusive title of the
natural and legitimate sense. It may seem almost incredible that any
one should maintain this; but so it is. Dr. Pusey thus speaks of the
"Protestant" interpretations: "We had all been educated in a
traditional system, which had practically imported into the Articles a
good many principles _which were not contained in them nor suggested
by them;_ yet which were habitually identified with them. . . . . We
proposed no system to ourselves, but laid aside piece by piece the
system of ultra-Protestant interpretation, which had incrusted round
the Articles. This doubtless appeared in our writings from time to
time; but the expositions to which we were accustomed, and which were
to our minds the genuine expositions of the Articles, had never before
been brought into one focus, as they were in Tract 90. . . . Newman
explained that it was written solely against this system of
interpretation, which brought meanings into the Articles, not out of
them, and also why he wrote it at all" (Pref., v.-vii.) Yet the words
of Mr. Newman's explanation, which are quoted immediately after this
last passage, distinctly contradict the interpretation of the tract
put forward by Dr. Pusey. Mr. Newman says that the Anglican Church, as
well as the Roman, in his opinion, has a "traditionary system beyond
and beside the letter of its formularies. . . . . And this
traditionary system not only inculcates what I cannot conceive
(receive?), but would exclude any difference of belief from itself.
_To this exclusive modern system_ I desire to oppose myself; and it is
as doing this, doubtless, that I am incurring the censure of the four
gentlemen who have come before the public. _I want certain points to
be left open which they would close._. . .  In thus maintaining that
we have open questions, or, as I have expressed it in the tract,
'ambiguous formularies,' I observe, first, that I am introducing no
novelty." He then gives an instance which shows that the principle is
admitted. Again, he says: "The tract is grounded on the belief that
the Articles _need_ not be so closed as the received methods of
teaching closes them, and _ought_ not to be for the sake of many
persons" (Letter to Dr. Jelf, quoted by Dr. Pusey, p. vii.)

It is obvious that the interpretations contained in the tract, however
admissible on the hypothesis of their author, become little less than
extravagant when they are considered in the light in which Dr. Pusey
now puts them forward; and it is but fair to Dr. Newman and others to
point out the change. Moreover, it is not {221} impossible that this
republication of the tract, together with the avowals made in the
"Eirenicon" as to the interpretation of the Articles, may be
considered as a kind of challenge thrown out on the part of Dr. Pusey
and his followers to the authorities of the establishment and the
parties within it that are most opposed to "Catholic" opinions. It may
be considered fairly enough that if this "claim to hold all Roman
doctrine"--as far as those well-used words apply to it--is allowed to
pass unnoticed, the position of the "Anglo-Catholic" clergy in the
establishment will be made as secure as silent toleration on the part
of authorities can make it.  [Footnote 40] Be it so by all means; but
let it be understood that the claim now made is quite different from
that made by Mr. Newman in 1841; and that if it enjoys immunity from
censure, on account of the far greater latitude now allowed in the
establishment to extreme opinions of every color except one, it has
still to free itself from the charge of being one of the most
grotesque contortions of language that has ever been seriously
advocated as permissible by reasonable men. One of the Articles, for
instance--to take the case adduced by Canon Oakeley--says that
"transubstantiation (or the change of the substance of the bread and
wine) in the Supper of the Lord cannot be proved by Holy Writ; but is
repugnant to the plain words of Scripture, overthroweth the nature of
a sacrament, and hath given occasion to many superstitions." On the
other hand, let us place the Tridentine Canon: "If any one saith that
in the sacred and holy sacrament of the eucharist the substance of the
bread and wine remains conjointly with the body and blood of our Lord
Jesus Christ, and denieth that wonderful and singular conversion of
the whole substance of the bread into the body, and of the whole
substance of the wine into the blood--the species only of the bread
and wine remaining--which conversion the Catholic Church most aptly
calls transubstantiation, let him be anathema." (Sess. xiii.) Not only
does Dr. Pusey assert that there is a sense in which the two
statements are compatible, but he maintains that such an
interpretation is the one single obvious grammatical and legitimate
interpretation of the words of the Anglican Article. We can only
imagine one process of reasoning by which this conclusion can be
maintained; and we have little doubt that if Dr. Pusey's argument were
drawn out it would come to this. The Articles must mean "Catholic"
doctrine, whether they seem to do so or not, because the Anglican
Church is a true and orthodox portion of the Catholic Church. And a
part of the proof that she is such a portion consists in the fact that
her formularies signify Catholic doctrine!

  [Footnote 40: Canon Oakeley, in the pamphlet of which we shall
  presently speak, says of Dr. Pusey's interpretation: "Dr. Pusey's
  avowal, moreover, not merely involves the acceptance of that
  interpretation of the Thirty-nine Articles for which Mr. Newman was
  censured by nearly every bishop of the establishment, but goes
  beyond that interpretation in a Catholic direction, inasmuch as it
  comprehends the doctrine of transubstantiation, which Mr. Newman, I
  believe, never thought to be included within the terms of the
  Articles. It also goes beyond Mr. Newman's argument in his tract,
  _in that it supports the Catholic sense of the Articles to be their
  obvious and only true sense._ Instead of being merely one of the
  senses which are compatible with honest subscription. And here I
  must say, in passing, that I think Dr. Pusey somewhat unfair on Mr.
  Ward in attributing to him the unpopularity of Tract 90, since, in
  extending the interpretation of the tract to our doctrine of the
  blessed eucharist. Dr. Pusey is in fact adopting Mr. Ward's
  Construction of the Articles, and not Mr. Newman's" (p, 6).]

The other noticeable feature in Dr. Pusey's preface is an attempt to
throw the blame of the undoubted unpopularity of Tract 90 upon Mr.
Ward rather than on the tract itself. Mr. Ward was probably at one
time the best-abused person of all the followers of the tractarian
movement; and if powerful reasoning, keen logic, unflinching openness,
and courageous honesty are enough to make a person merit wholesale
abuse, Mr. Ward certainly deserved it. But to attribute the
unpopularity of No. 90 to him is simply to forget dates and distort
facts. {222} In 1841, when the clamor against No. 90 was at its
height, Mr. Ward, though well known in Oxford for his decided opinions
and thorough honesty in avowing them, and though highly influential
(as he could not fail to be) over those who came within his reach, was
hardly known in the country at large. Dr. Pusey's mistake has been
pointed out by Canon Oakeley in the appendix to his pamphlet, of which
we shall speak presently. He observes that the word "non-natural"--of
which he gives a very plain and simple explanation, which quite
vindicates it from the interpretation commonly put upon it--was not
used till the appearance of "The Ideal of a Christian Church" in 1844.

Canon Oakeley's pamphlet, like everything that he writes, is graceful
and courteous, lucid and cogent; and it ought to have all the greater
weight with Dr. Pusey from the evident disinclination of the author to
think or speak with severity. In fact, Dr. Pusey has already
[Footnote 41] had occasion to correct an over-sanguine conclusion as
to his own position which had been formed by Canon Oakeley in
consequence of certain explanations which he addressed to a Catholic

  [Footnote 41: In his second letter to the "Weekly Register."]

We think that the fullest credit should be given to Dr. Pusey for
these explanations; but they must not be allowed to counterbalance
assertions which he has never withdrawn, and seems never to have meant
to withdraw. He has only negatively declared something about the
intention he had in making them. He says they were not meant to hurt
Catholics; he does not say that they were not meant to frighten
Anglicans. We refer, of course, to the large number of pages which he
has devoted to attacks on what he chooses to consider as the practical
system of Catholicism, chiefly with regard to the _cultus_ of our
Blessed Lady, and which no Catholic can read without intense
indignation. He has heaped up a number of extracts from books of very
little authority, and put forward as characteristics of the Catholic
system the pious contemplations of individuals, as well as tenets
which have been actually condemned. The charge is urged with all the
recklessness of an advocate, with eager rhetoric rather than calm
argument, with all the looseness of insinuation and inaccuracy of
quotation which mark the productions of a heated partizan.   [Footnote

  [Footnote 42: A writer in the current number of "Macmillan's
  Magazine" (Feb., 1866) observes: "We could scarcely transcribe all
  that is here set forth without offending the religious taste of our
  readers, and appearing to gloat over the degradation of a church
  which, amidst all its aberrations and after all ita crimes, is a
  part of Christendom. We may reasonably hope, also, that there is
  something to be said upon the other side: for, without casting any
  suspicion upon Dr. Pusey's honesty, we must remember that he is
  personally under a strong temptation to scare the wavering members
  of his party from defection to the Church of Rome" (p. 277). This is
  the opinion of an intensely anti-Catholic writer; and it would be
  easy to quote scores of similar criticisms. A letter from Oxford, in
  the "London Review" of February 3, says: "It seems a gentle irony,
  certainly, to call a book an 'Eirenicon' which most mercilessly
  exposes the errors, perversions, and tendencies of those whom it
  proposes to conciliate. A great portion of the book might have been
  written by the most distinguished Papophobe--we will not say Dr.
  Cumming, for the style does not remind us of his publications." The
  writer in "Macmillan" adds an observation on another point which is
  well worthy of Dr. Pusey's consideration: "Dr. Pusey's argument,
  both against Mariolatry and Papal infallibility, _appeals to
  principles essentially rationalistic_, which are capable, as we
  conceive, of being turned with fatal effect against himself" (p.

No part of his book shows more earnestness than this. Such being the
case, it seems to us very strange that any one should expect Catholics
to be satisfied with a simple assurance from Dr. Pusey that "nothing
was further from my wish than to write anything which should be
painful to those in your communion."  [Footnote 43]

  [Footnote 43: Dr. Pusey to the "Weekly Register," Nov. 25, 1865.]

We suppose that if some one were to write a pamphlet of a hundred
pages full of the hardest and most vulgar insinuations against
something that Dr. Pusey holds dear and sacred, his opinion of it
would hardly be changed by the assurance, unaccompanied by a single
retraction, "I never meant to hurt your feelings." He would naturally
ask in what sort of atmosphere such a person had lived, to be able to
think that such things _could_ be said without being "painful." He
disclaims {223} all desire to "prescribe to Italians and Spaniards
what they shall hold, or how they shall express their pious opinions."
But he is not speaking of Spaniards or Italians only in many of the
most offensive passages of his work. He says, for instance, that it
"is a practical question, affecting our whole eternity: What shall I
do to be saved? The practical answer to the Roman Catholic seems to me
to be, Go to Mary, and you will be saved; in our dear Lord's own words
it is, Come unto me; in our own belief it is, Go to Jesus, and you
will be saved" (p. 182). Can anything be more shocking than the
contrast insinuated here? Or, again, when he says in another place,
"One sees not where there shall be any pause or bound, short of that
bold conception, 'that every prayer, both of individuals and of the
church, should be addressed to St. Mary?'" Dr. Pusey must be perfectly
aware of the effect of words like these from him upon the mass of his
readers. It is certainly no sufficient _withdrawal_ of them to write a
letter to a Catholic newspaper, of limited circulation, saying that he
"never thought of imputing to any of the writers whom he quoted that
they took from our Lord any of the love which they gave to his
mother." Whatever he may think about the writers themselves, he
certainly asserts in the face of the world that they teach others to
do this. He asserts that there is a "system" in the Catholic Church,
of which this is the effect. If he "had no thought of criticising holy
men who held it," he still will not take Catholic explanations of
their words, which show that they did _not_ hold it; and his own words
imply, or at all events admit of, a reservation, that such is the
tendency of the system, from which certain individuals escape in
consequence of their holiness. Now, it is this assertion about the
system of the church which offends Catholics. They care little about
their own "feelings;" they resent false charges against the church all
the more when they proceed from one who professes to be nearer to them
than others, and to be a lover of peace, and who might easily have
satisfied himself that his accusations were groundless. People have
not complained of Dr. Pusey's intention in saying these things, but of
his having said them. They willingly accept his statement as to his
intention; but misrepresentations retain their mischievous character
till they have been formally withdrawn, whatever may have been the
temper in which they have been put forward.

It is, moreover, obvious that this, which to ordinary eyes is the
prominent feature in Dr. Pusey's volume, must be taken into account in
all conclusions concerning the present state of mind among Anglicans
that are founded upon the reception which the "Eirenicon" has met with
among them. We think that there are but few among them, as there are
certainly very few among Catholics, who attach much practical
importance to the vague and dreamy ideas about corporate union by
means of mutual explanations which are put forward in other parts of
the work. It is perfectly clear that Dr. Pusey's account of the
Articles would be repudiated at once by all the Anglican authorities;
and equally clear that the points to which he still objects, such as
the papal infallibility and the dogma of the immaculate conception,
are among those which can never be conceded on the side of the church.
The proposals for union are not, therefore, generally looked upon as
matters for practical consideration; though, as Dr. Newman has
remarked, they may hereafter lead to results of the highest
importance. What has struck the Anglican public in the book is its
attack on Catholicism, which has, no doubt, surprised Protestants as
much as Catholics by its violence. We say, therefore, that to consider
Dr. Pusey's unrebuked declaration about the possibility of union as a
great sign of progress among Anglicans, without {224} taking into
consideration the other features of the work which he has put forth,
is to ignore the most essential circumstances of the case. Canon
Oakeley compares the outcry with which similar declarations were once
received on Mr. Ward's part and his own with the indifference and
absence of opposition now evinced toward Dr. Pusey. It is true that
the cases are in some respects parallel; but there is this vital
difference, that neither Mr. Ward nor Canon Oakeley accompanied their
declarations as to Roman doctrine with virulent abuse of Roman
practice; and we may feel pretty certain that the "Ideal of a
Christian Church" would never have been made the ground of an
academical condemnation of its author if it had contained the hundred
pages on the _cultus_ of the Blessed Virgin on which Dr. Pusey has
expended so much care, and which he has adorned with so much apparent
erudition. Englishmen judge roughly, and in the main fairly; and they
will look on the proposals for union as an amiable eccentricity in a
writer who has pandered so lovingly to their favorite prejudices.

Canon Oakeley has drawn out very clearly another very important
qualification, which must modify our feelings of joy at the apparent
progress of Anglicans in general toward greater tolerance of Catholic
opinions among themselves. He has shown that this seemingly good sign
is in reality only an indication of increasing indifference to
doctrine of every kind. It is the reflection on the broad mirror of
public opinion of the uniformly latitudinarian tendency of the
authorities of the establishment, as evinced in the succession of
judicial decisions of which we have all heard so much. It is not
wonderful that Puseyism should share in this universal indulgence. We
have also to thank Canon Oakeley for a calm and forcible vindication
of the Catholic devotion to our Blessed Lady, which has been made the
subject of so violent an attack by Dr. Pusey--perhaps more in the form
of an apology than was necessary--and for some very sensible remarks
on the dream of "corporate union."

There is one writer in England whose words on this subject will be
listened to with almost equal interest by Catholics and Protestants.
The conflict passes into a new phase with the appearance of Dr. Newman
upon the scene. It is "the great Achilles moving to the war." The
gleam of well-worn armor flashes on the eye, and the attention of both
armies is riveted on him as he lifts his spear. He cannot mutter his
favorite motto:

[Greek text]

for it is but lately that he struck down and kicked off the field a
swaggering bully from the opposite ranks hardly worthy of his steel.
It is different now. He will begin in Homeric fashion with a
complimentary harangue to the champion on the other side; but then
will come the time for blows--blows of immense force, dealt out with a
gentle affectionateness which enhances their effect tenfold. Dr.
Newman begins by a generous tribute to Dr. Pusey himself, and to those
whom he may be supposed to influence. No one can speak more strongly
on the paramount rights of conscience, which is not to be stifled for
the sake of making a path easy or removing a wearisome difficulty. Dr.
Pusey is allowed to have every right to mention the conditions on
which he proposes union, though Dr. Newman does not agree with them,
and thinks that he would himself not hold to them; he has also the
right to state what it is that he objects to, as requiring
explanation, in the Catholic system. But then the tone changes, and
business begins. Dr. Newman tells his old friend in the plainest way
that "there is much both in the matter and manner of his volume
calculated to wound those who love him well, but truth more;" and he
points out the {225} glaring inconsistency of "professing to be
composing an Irenicon while treating Catholics as foes;" and
characterizes, in his happy way, the proceeding of Dr. Pusey as
"discharging an olive branch as from a catapult." The hundred pages on
the subject of the Blessed Virgin which are contained in the
"Eirenicon" are so palpably "one-sided" that no one can venture to
deny it. Few have characterized them in stronger terms than Dr.
Newman. "What could an Exeter Hall orator, what could a Scotch
commentator on the Apocalypse, do more for his own side of the
controversy by the picture he drew of us?" Further on he pointedly
reminds Dr. Pusey that he all the time knew better. After a proof from
the fathers as to the doctrine in question, he says, "You know what
the fathers assert; but if so, have you not, my dear friend, been
unjust to yourself in your recent volume, and made far too much of the
differences which exist between Anglicans and us on this particular
point? It is the office of an Irenicon to smooth difficulties" (p.
83); and again, "As you revere the fathers, so you revere the Greek
Church; and here again we have a witness in our behalf, _of which you
must be aware as fully as we are_, and of which you must really mean
to give us the benefit" (p. 95); and again, "Then I think you have not
always made your quotations with that consideration and kindness which
is your rule" (p. 111). The calm gentleness of the language will
certainly not conceal from Dr. Pusey the gravity and severity of the
rebuke thus administered. Moreover, Dr. Newman has complaints of his
own to urge. With the most questionable taste Dr. Pusey has actually
brought "to life one of" Dr. Newman's "own strong sayings, in 1841,
about idolatry;" he has at least been understood to father upon him
the well-known saying, that "the establishment is the great bulwark
against infidelity in this land;" he has used some words from Dr.
Newman's notes to St. Athanasius in a collection of passages from the
fathers, the apparent purpose of which is to defend some Anglican
doctrine about the sufficiency of Holy Scripture against a supposed
Catholic contradiction. Dr. Newman also most clearly distinguishes his
own intention in publishing Tract 90 from that of Dr. Pusey in its
recent republication.

The introduction to the letter before us concludes with a passage of
singular interest, in which Dr. Newman vindicates the right of a
convert to speak freely about the system of the church to which he has
submitted. We must confess that we hardly understood the passages in
Dr. Pusey's work, to which reference is here made, as denying the
right of free comment to a convert, in the sense in which Dr. Newman
affirms it. Dr. Pusey has a standard and measure of his own (external
to the Anglican establishment), by which he criticises, approves, or
condemns this or that feature in it; and he distinctly contemplates at
least the possibility of his being driven to quit it by its formal
adoption of heresy. Certainly, to submit to the Catholic Church, and
yet retain the right of measuring her in such a way by an external
standard, would be a contradiction in terms. But this does not touch
the right of a convert either to choose freely, according to his own
tastes and leanings, among those varieties of devotion and practice
which the church expressly leaves to his choice, or to express his
opinion on such subjects (so that it be done with charity), or on any
other matters which fall within the wide and recognized range of open
questions. If Dr. Pusey meant to deny this right, he will be convinced
by the frank use made of it by Dr. Newman in the passage before us. No
one, certainly, will assail _him_ as unorthodox; yet he takes his
stand openly on one particular side with regard to some of the moot
questions of the day, as to which certainly a large {226} number of
English Catholics will be as ready to say that they do not altogether
agree with him as to acknowledge that he has a perfect right to the
opinions which he expresses. Perhaps we should rather say that they
will profess their admiration for the authors whom he so far at least
disavows as to question their right to be treated in controversy as
the legitimate and exclusive representatives of English Catholicism;
for we need not understand Dr. Newman's words about the late Father
Faber and the editor of the "Dublin Review" as meaning more than this;
and his point, as against Dr. Pusey, is fully secured by the
indisputable fact that those distinguished men have never considered
themselves, or let others consider them, as such representatives.

The greater part, however, of Dr. Newman's present letter is given to
an exquisite defence of Catholic doctrine and devotion as regards our
Blessed Lady. Its power and beauty are so great as to fill us with
inexpressible sadness at the thought that Dr. Newman has written
comparatively so little on similar subjects since he has been a
Catholic. This short and very condensed sketch on one particular point
has given him an opportunity of exercising, on however limited a
scale, those powers as to which he is simply unrivalled. There is the
keen penetration of the sense of Scripture, and of the relation
between different and distinct parts of the Holy Volume. After putting
forward the patristic view of our Blessed Lady as the second Eve, Dr.
Newman has occasion to defend that interpretation of the vision of the
woman in the Apocalypse which understands it of her. This has given
him occasion to explain how it is that this interpretation may be the
true one, although there is no great amount of positive testimony for
it in the fathers, and to refute from the general principles of
scriptural language that which looks upon the image as simply a
personification of the church. This passage is a real and great gain
in scriptural interpretation. Then, again, here is the masterly and
discriminating erudition, not dealing with the fathers as an
ill-arranged and incoherent mass of authorities, but giving to each
witness his due place and weight, pointing out what parts of the
church and what apostolical tradition he represents, and blending the
different sufferages into one harmonious statement. History is brought
in to trace the gradual development of devotion on points as to which
doctrine, on the other hand, was always uniform; and to give a natural
and simple explanation of the chronological order in which the heart,
as it were, of the church seems to have mastered the different
portions of the wonderful deposit which the apostles sowed in her
mind. The effect of Dr. Newman's explanation of the comparatively
later growth of certain devotions, which in themselves might have been
expected to precede others, is not only to remove the apparent
difficulty, but to make every other view appear more difficult than
that which he gives. Equally beautiful and convincing is his
explanation in the appendix of the historical account which may be
given of the strange sayings of certain fathers as to our Blessed Lady
having possibly fallen into faults of infirmity. Some most accurate
and delicate tests for the discernment of a real tradition are here
given, as well as reasons for the apparent absence of such a tradition
in a special case. Dr. Newman is one of the few writers who show us,
first, that they thoroughly understand a difficulty or an objection;
then, that they can make it even stronger; and then, that they can not
only say something against it, or crush it, but even unravel it, and
show that it was to be expected. In every one of these respects Dr.
Pusey is his exact contrary. Then again, Dr. Newman brings together a
series of passages from the fathers of the "undivided church"--to use
the now term invented, we believe, by Mr. Keble--of which, of course,
{227} Dr. Pusey was aware, but of which he has said nothing in his
"Eirenicon." These testify amply not only to the doctrine but to the
devotion of the fourth and fifth centuries as to our Blessed Lady. He
is, of course, sparing of quotations in a work like the present; but
he crowns his argument from authority by a number of passages not from
popular books of devotion among the Greeks, but from their liturgies
and authoritative formularies--on which Dr. Pusey would have founded
a strong argument to the effect that our Lady is elevated to the place
of our Lord, if he had been able to find them in circulation among
Catholics. In fact, a number of formal Greek devotions end with the
words, "through the Theotocos," instead of "per Dominum nostrum Jesum
Christum." The contrast between the cogency and appositeness of every
word of Dr. Newman's few quotations (almost universally given at
length), and the utter illusiveness and bewildering misapplication of
the clouds upon clouds of citations paraded in Dr. Pusey's volume, is
wonderfully striking. Nor, again, is the difference less great between
the two when a personal remark has to be made. Dr. Newman has no hard
words for any one. He does not shrink from pointing out faults, as we
have already said. He tells Dr. Pusey plainly enough that he does not
think that he even understands what the immaculate conception means;
and when he speaks of Anglicans being ignorant of the Catholic
doctrine of original sin, he seems carefully to omit exempting Dr.
Pusey from the general statement. He says again pointedly, "He who
charges us with making Mary a divinity is thereby denying the divinity
of Jesus. _Such a man does not know what divinity is._" He complains
of the unfairness--of which, we are sorry to say, Dr. Pusey seems
habitually guilty--of taking a strong and apparently objectionable
passage from an author who, either in the immediate context or
elsewhere, has qualified it by other statements, which any one but a
partizan writer would feel bound to take into consideration and to
place by its side, without giving the reader any intimation that such
qualifications exist. "When, then, my dear Pusey, you read anything
extravagant in praise of our Lady, is it not charitable to ask, even
while you condemn it in itself, Did the author write nothing else?"
(p. 101). He refuses to receive Dr. Pusey's collection of strong
passages as a fair representation of the minds of the authors from
whom they are quoted. He speaks of their "literal and absolute sense,
as any Protestant would naturally take them, and as the writers
doubtless did not use them" (p. 118). And again: "I know nothing of
the originals, and cannot believe that they have meant what you say"
(p. 120). But with all this strong and decisive language, which we may
be sure is the very gentlest that he can use, and implies an estimate
of the "Eirenicon" by no means in accordance with that of its
admirers, he is so uniformly calm and affectionate in manner that we
cannot but hope that Dr. Pusey and others who think with him will be
won over to think more seriously of the extreme gravity of their step
in casting forth upon the world of English readers so extremely
intemperate an accusation against the Catholic Church as that which
they have put in circulation. Nor can we abandon the hope that they
will listen to Dr. Newman's clear and unanswerable statement of the
doctrine of the fathers as to our Blessed Lady, and see how truly he
has pointed to the flaws and defects in their own thoughts with regard
to her. They will certainly be hardly able to deny that they have
misunderstood not only the immaculate conception, against which they
have talked so loudly, but even, it may be, original sin itself; nor
do we think that it can be questioned that he has put his finger upon
the fundamental error--not to say heresy---to which all their low
conceptions as to the Blessed Mother of God {228} are to be assigned
as their ultimate cause. Dr. Pusey, as Dr. Newman remarks, seems to
have no idea that our Blessed Lady had any other part or position in
the incarnation than as its _physical instrument_--much the same part,
as it were, that Juda or David may have had. The fathers, on the
contrary, from the very first, speak of her "as an intelligent,
responsible cause of our Lord's taking flesh;" "her faith and
obedience being accessories to the incarnation, and gaining it as her
reward" (p. 38). Dr. Newman insists on this vital and all-important
difference more than once, and seems to consider it the explanation of
the strange blindness of these students of antiquity. If they can once
gain a new and more Catholic idea as to that which is the foundation
alike of our Blessed Lady's greatness and the devotion of the church
to her--and certainly they must be very blind or very obstinate not to
see the reasons for such an idea in Dr. Newman's pages--then the
"Eirenicon" will have produced incidentally a far greater blessing to
themselves and others than if its strange interpretation of the
Anglican Articles had been allowed as legitimate in England, and there
had been half a score of Du Pins in France ready to enter into
negotiations with the Archbishop of Canterbury on the basis of its
propositions. These good men have in fact been living and teaching and
studying the fathers with one of the great seminal facts, so to speak,
of Christianity absent from their minds or entirely undeveloped in
them. "It was the creation of a new idea and a new sympathy, a new
faith and worship, when the holy apostles announced that God had
become incarnate; we a supreme love and devotion to him became
possible, which seemed hopeless before that revelation. _But beside
this, a second range of thoughts was opened on mankind, unknown
before, and unlike any other, as soon as it was understood that that
incarnate God had a mother. The second idea is perfectly distinct from
the former--the one does not interfere with the other."_ We conceive
that these words will fall strangely on the ears of Dr. Pusey, though
they might not perhaps do so on those of the author of the "Christian
Year" and the "Lyra Innocentium;" and if they do so, after the
incontestable proof which Dr. Newman has adduced from the early
fathers of their view of the position of our Blessed Lady in the
economy of the incarnation, it will only remain for Dr. Pusey either
to confute that proof or to acknowledge that he has been reasoning on
that great mystery without the guidance of the church, deaf to the
teaching of the fathers, and that he has incurred the usual fate of
men who so reason. May the prayers of the Blessed Mother, against
whose honor he has raised his voice so harshly, save him from closing
his eyes still more firmly!

It appears to be one of the characteristics of Dr. Newman to look at
particular questions and phases of opinion with regard to a wider and
more comprehensive range of thought than other men. Possibly his
retired position favors this habit of mind; but it is, of course, far
more naturally to be attributed to a loftier intellectual stature and
a wider knowledge of history than others possess. Such a man is
eminently fitted for a controversy like the present, in which the word
peace has been blurted forth in so uncouth a manner, while yet it is
not the less the expression of the real and powerful longings of a
thousand hearts. It is a most unpromising overture, but it is an
overture nevertheless. Dr. Newman is not only fitted to deal with it
on account of his tender and large sympathies, and of the affectionate
solicitude with which he has always treated his former friends; he is
able also not indeed to go to the very verge of Catholic doctrine for
their sakes, or to encourage delusive hopes of a compromise which
would patch up rather than unite, but to speak with calm {229}
accuracy, looking on his own times as a philosophical historian of the
church may look at them by-and-bye, and point out what may be
accidental, transient, local, in the features of the religion of the
present day. No one can be less inclined to exaggerate, for instance,
the differences between English and Italian devotion; and we have
seldom felt ourselves in a more Italian atmosphere, out of Italy, than
in the oratory at Edgbaston. But he is not afraid of giving full
weight to national differences of character, nor of avowing himself a
hearty Englishman. In the same way, without going into the question of
fact as to alleged extravagances--which, after all, is of no real
cogency in the argument--he is ready to admit that there may be such,
and puts forward a simple common-sense argument to show that such may
be expected in the living working of energetic ideas generally, and
especially of such ideas in matters of religion, which acts on the
affections. This is the true philosophical answer; and it by no means
excludes other answers that might be given to particular charges,
which might be proved to be false in fact, or to apply to matters so
grave as that the church would never be allowed to permit the alleged

Dr. Newman never shrinks from allowing the full force of any principle
that he has laid down. Thus, he has distinguished between faith as to
our Blessed Lady's position in the kingdom of her Son and the devotion
to her founded upon that faith. The faith may have been from the
beginning, and actually was so, as he proves from the early fathers;
but the full devotion may not all at once have been developed; or
again, it may have been checked in particular countries at a
particular time, and so make no show in the writings of some fathers
of that age, in consequence of the baneful influence of a prevalent
heresy which cut at the faith itself. This, which is really almost
self-evident, enables him not only to explain the passages in St.
Chrysostom and St. Basil which are sometimes objected to, but to grant
that there are no certain traces of _devotion_, strictly so called, to
our Blessed Lady in the writings of others beside these. There need
not be, according to his principles. It must be remembered that all
these statements admit of great development and explanation; they are
germs of thought, and are only put forward most concisely in Dr.
Newman's present letter. It is more to our present purpose to observe
how ready he is to look through the cloud of charges, great and small,
which Dr. Pusey has blown in the face of Catholics, and to discern in
the book of his old friend a new and important turning-point in the
Anglican controversy. He thinks that the indignation of Catholics has
led them in consequence to misconceive Dr. Pusey, so as not, it would
seem, to give him credit for really pacific intentions. We think that
no one has denied--what, indeed, it does not become a critic to
question--the reality of a purpose distinctly avowed; but at the same
time we must repeat that it has never been denied by Dr. Pusey, nor do
we think it ever can be denied, that the book was written with a clear
and distinct intention so to represent Catholicism as to deter people
from submitting to it except on certain terms pointed out by the
author. Possibly Dr. Newman only means that Catholics have been more
alienated by Dr. Pusey's most unhandsome attack than attracted by his
professions of friendship; and certainly never was a friendly
expostulation, never was an earnest request for explanation on certain
points which appear to be difficulties in the way of a much-desired
union, proposed in a way less calculated to conciliate. Dr. Newman,
therefore, neither wonders nor complains at the strong feeling with
which the "Eirenicon" has been received; but he looks beyond the
present moment, and, recalling the former phases of opinion as to
{230} Catholicism which have prevailed among Anglicans, he sees in Dr.
Pusey's proceeding nothing less than the putting "the whole argument
between you and us on a new footing"--a footing which may really and
profitably be used by those who desire peace. No English Catholic but
will most heartily rejoice in this statement of Dr. Newman; and surely
one of our first feelings must be that of thankfulness that he is
among us at a time like this, and that circumstances will give him a
more patient hearing and a more ready acceptance, on the part of those
whose souls may be staked on the issue of this controversy, than he
might otherwise meet with. From him, at least, Anglicans will hear no
extreme or novel doctrine; him, at least, they will never accuse of
not loving everything that is English. He, if any one, may convince
them that no true child of the "undivided church" would be found at
the present day outside the communion of the Holy See; that the church
is the same now as she ever was, and as she ever will be; that she can
never compromise with her enemies, though she yearns with unutterable
love to take back every wanderer to her heart.

Experience has happily shown that the great Shepherd of souls leads
men on in a way they neither discern nor desire, when they have once
set themselves to wish and pray for greater light; and that prophecies
of ill and suspicions of sinister purposes, which have not lacked
ample foundation, have yet been often defeated in the indulgent
dispensations of grace. Nor, indeed, at the present time, are all the
signs of the sky evil. In its most disagreeable and inexcusable
features the "Eirenicon" is not, we are convinced, a fair
representation of the mind of a great number who might commonly be
supposed to sympathize with its author. He has put himself for the
moment at their head; and they are, of course, slow to repudiate his
assistance; but we do not believe that the earnest men who publish so
many Catholic devotions, and who, however mistakenly, attempt to
reproduce in their own churches the external honors paid by Catholics
to him whom they also think that they have with them, would willingly
make themselves responsible for the hundred pages with which Dr.
Newman's present pamphlet is engaged. The advance toward Catholicism
among the Anglicans has, in fact, left Dr. Pusey some way behind other
and younger men. Even as to himself, he is hardly further away than
others have been who are now within the church.

Only it must not be forgotten that the largest and most charitable
thoughts as to the meaning and intentions of individuals, and the most
hopeful anticipations as to the ultimate result of their movements, do
not exhaust the duties imposed upon Catholic writers at the present
moment. Let us see ever so much of good in demonstrations such as
this, and believe that there is a still greater amount of good which
we do not see. We may forbear to press men harshly, to point out
baldly the inconsistencies of their position; we may put up with the
rudeness of the language in which they propose peace. They may be
haughty and ungenerous now; but this is not much to bear for the sake
of that unity which those who know it love better than those who are
strangers to it. Let us be ready, as far as persons are concerned, to
be tender in exposing faults even wanton, and misconceptions which, as
we think, common industry and fairness might have obviated. For Dr.
Pusey himself we can wish no severer punishment than that he should be
able some day to look upon his own work with the eyes of a Catholic.
He has himself shown us, by the use which he has made of old
expressions of Dr. Newman and others, who have long since repudiated
them, that the retraction of charges against the Catholic Church by
their authors does not prevent {231} others from repeating them. We
are sorry to say--what we still believe will be acknowledged as true
by all who have been at the pains--pains not taken by some who have
written on this subject--of not merely considering the animus and
motives of Dr. Pusey, but of examining his book in detail, and taking
its measure as a work of erudition and controversy--that, unattractive
in style, rambling, incoherent, vague, and intentionally "loose" as it
is, it has one great quality, however unintentional--that of being a
perfect storehouse of misrepresentation. We speak simply as critics,
and we disclaim all attempts to account for the phenomenon. It
contains an almost unparalleled number of misstatements of every kind
and degree. Its author's reputation will give weight and currency to
these. Though never perhaps likely to be a popular book, it will still
take its place in Protestant libraries, and will be much used in
future controversies. No one can tell how often we shall have certain
extraordinary statements about the sanctification of the Blessed
Virgin, her active and passive conception, the protest of the Greek
Church against the doctrine, Bellarmine's assertion about general
councils, transubstantiation, extreme unction, and the like, brought
up against us; and the erroneous conclusions founded upon them cannot
be neglected by the defenders of Catholic truth. It is, therefore,
essential not that Dr. Pusey should be attacked in an unkindly spirit,
but that his book should be handled critically, and, as far as may be,
whatever it contains of misstatement, misquotation, unfair insinuation
and conclusion catalogued and exposed. It must be remembered that
there is a great demand for the materials of anti-Catholic
controversy. Dr. Pusey does not subscribe to the societies which
mostly hold their meetings in Exeter Hall in the month of May; but he
might well be made a life-governor of all of them in consideration of
this book. It will be used by the zealots who try to win the poor
peasants of Connaught to apostasy by means of food and clothing, and
by the more decorous "Anglo-Continentals," who are just now rubbing
their hands at the prospects of infidelity in Italy. Alas! it not only
teems with snares for the learned and conscientious, but it is full of
small insinuations for the ignobler herd of paid agents and
lecturers--"what the poorer people believe in Rome," what Catholic
churches are called in south India, what Cardinal Wiseman is reported
to have said of Archbishop Affré, "who died in recovering his people
at the barricades." These things may be passed by as simply faults of
taste; but the pretensions of the book to learning, and its historical
and doctrinal statements, cannot be admitted without sifting. Dr.
Pusey has imposed an unwelcome task on Catholic critics. At the very
time that they would be conciliating his followers, they are forced to
attack him. It has seemed to us indeed that ordinary care in examining
authorities, an attention to the common-sense rule that strangers
cannot understand a system from without, the use of the many means at
his disposal of ascertaining the Catholic meaning of Catholic
language, more self-restraint in assertion, in urging arguments that
appeared telling and conclusions that were welcome to himself, and
somewhat less of confidence in his own attainments as a theologian,
would have spared those who wish him well this painful undertaking at
a time when they would gladly say no word that may sound harsh to his
ears. But, after all, truth is more precious than peace, and peace can
only be had through the truth; and we can cordially return to Dr.
Pusey the assurance which he himself has proffered to Catholics, that
those engaged in the ungrateful task of subjecting his volume to the
analysis of criticism have no intention whatever of wounding his




There is an old aphorism which says that "all life comes from an
egg"--_omne vivum ex ovo_; but this, like a good many other old
aphorisms, is only a convenient and attractive way of stating a
falsehood. It is very true that almost all animals, from man down to
the mollusk, pass through the egg stage at an early period of their
existence; but we purpose to show our readers in this article that
there are others which appear to be sometimes exempted from the common
lot of their kind, and which indeed come into the world in such
curious fashions that we may almost say of them, in the words of
Topsey, that they "never were born; 'spect they _growed_."

To begin with, what is an egg? According to the popular idea, it is an
oval-shaped body, consisting of a hard, thin shell inclosing a whitish
substance called the albumen, within which is a yellowish matter
called the yolk; it is the embryo form of the young of birds and some
other animals, which finally emerge from the shell after the egg has
been acted upon for some time by the heat of the parent's body. Now
this definition may do well enough as a loose description of the more
familiar varieties of eggs, but it will not do for all. It will
perhaps surprise the unscientific reader to be told that every animal
whatever produces eggs. A "mare's nest" is the popular expression of a
myth, an absurdity; but _mare's eggs_ are no myths; they are just as
real as hen's eggs; only we never see them, because they are hatched
in the parent's body before the young colt is brought forth. The same
is true of the eggs of all the other quadrupeds and of viviparous
animals in general.

An egg, therefore, like the seed of a plant, is the germ from which
the embryo is developed. It may have a shell, or it may not; it may be
comparatively large, like birds' eggs, or it may be so small as to be
with difficulty discerned by the naked eye. When it is first formed it
is simply an aggregation of fluid matter, very minute in size, and
exceedingly simple in structure. By degrees this fluid is transformed
into the small particles or granules which form the yolk; the yolk
shapes itself into a multitude of _cells_--little microscopic bodies
consisting of an external membrane, or cell-wall, and of an inner
nucleus, which may be either solid or fluid; and in due process of
time a number of cells combine and form a living being. The albumen,
or "white," is, like the shell, an accessory. It performs important
functions in the development of the young from the germ, but we will
not stop to explain them here; the true egg is the yolk. In the lowest
forms of animal life the egg is a mere cell, with a light spot in one
part of it, and the creature which is developed from it is almost as
simple in structure as the egg itself.

The ordinary mode of reproduction, as we have already said, is by the
formation of an egg in the body of the parent, from which the young
may be hatched either before or after they are brought into the world.
But there are certain of the lower orders of animals which sometimes
multiply and {233} perpetuate their kind in other ways also. Professor
Henry James Clark, of Harvard University, has lately published an
interesting treatise   [Footnote 44] on animal development, in which
he gives some curious instances of the phenomena to which we refer. We
have drawn a good deal of what we have just said about the structure
of eggs from his valuable work, and we purpose now to follow him in
his remarks upon the processes of reproduction by what is called
_budding_ and _division_.

  [Footnote 44: "Mind in Nature; or, The Origin of Life and the Mode
  of Development of Animals." 8vo. New York: D. Appleton & Co.]

Let us look first at that exceedingly beautiful and wonderful animal
commonly called the sea anemone, on account of the delicate fringed
flower so much loved by poets. You may often find it on our coasts
contracted into a lump of gelatinous substance looking like
whitish-brown jelly;   [Footnote 45] watch it for a while, and you
will see the body rise slightly, while a delicate crown of tentacles,
or feelers, steals out at the top. The jelly-like mass continues to
increase in height, and the wreath of tentacles gradually expands.
Soon you will perceive that this graceful fringe surrounds a wide
opening; this is the animal's mouth. When expanded to its full size
the anemone is about three or four inches in height. The body consists
of a cylindrical gelatinous bag, the bottom of which is flat and
slightly spreading at the margin. The upper edge of this bag is turned
in, so as to form a sack within a sack; this is the stomach. The whole
summit of the body is crowned by the soft plumy fringes which give it
such a remarkable resemblance to a flower. At the base it has a set of
powerful muscles, by which it attaches itself to rocks and shells so
firmly that it can hardly be removed without injury. Another set of
muscles enables it to contract itself almost instantaneously into a
shapeless lump. It is extremely sensitive, not only shrinking from the
slightest touch, but even drawing in its tentacles if so much as a
dark cloud passes over it. Anemones may be found, say the authors of
"Sea-side Studies," "in any small pools about the rocks which are
flooded by the tide at high water. Their favorite haunts, however,
where they occur in greatest quantity, are more difficult to reach;
but the curious in such matters will be well rewarded, even at the
risk of wet feet and a slippery scramble over rocks covered with damp
sea-weed, by a glimpse into their more crowded abodes. Such a grotto
is to be found on the rocks of East Point at Nahant. It can only be
reached at low tide, and then one is obliged to creep on hands and
knees to its entrance in order to see through its entire length; but
its whole interior is studded with these animals, and as they are of
various hues, pink, brown, orange, purple, or pure white, the effect
is like that of brightly-colored mosaics set in the roof and walls.
When the sun strikes through from the opposite extremity of this
grotto, which is open at both ends, lighting up its living
mosaic-work, and showing the play of the soft fringes whenever the
animals are open, it would be difficult to find any artificial grotto
to compare with it in beauty. There is another of the same kind on
Saunders's ledge, formed by a large boulder resting on two rocky
ledges, leaving a little cave beneath, lined in the same way with
variously-colored sea anemones, so closely studded over its walls that
the surface of the rock is completely hidden. They are, however, to be
found in larger or smaller clusters, or scattered singly, in any rocky
fissures overhung by sea-weed and accessible to the tide at high

  [Footnote 45: "Sea-side Studies in Natural History." By Elizabeth
  Alexander Agassiz. Boston: Ticknor & Fields. 1865.]

Mr. Gosse, in his "History of British Sea Anemones and Corals,"
mentions the existence of a singular connection between a certain
variety of these animals and a species of hermit crab that lives in
the deserted {234} shell of a mollusk. An anemone is always found
attached to the shell which the crab inhabits, and is so placed that
its fringed month comes just below the mouth of the crab. Whatever
food comes within reach of either animal can, therefore, be shared in
common. The crab is so far from objecting to this community of goods
that he seems unhappy without his companion. Though he is a hermit, he
is not exempt from the common lot of housekeepers; he submits every
now and then to the trouble of _moving-day_.

Mr. Gosse observed one in the act of changing houses. No sooner had he
taken possession of the new shell than he began removing the anemone
from the old one, running his claw under it to separate it from the
shell, and then bringing it to the new house, where, having placed it
in its customary position, he held it down until it had attached
itself, and now and then pressed it closer, or gave it a pat to hasten
the process. In another instance, observed by Mr. Holdsworth, the
crab, after vainly trying for more than an hour to remove his
companion anemone, deserted his new quarters and went back to the old,
rather than submit to a separation.

The anemone, for all that it is so delicate and graceful in
appearance, is a gluttonous little beast, eats raw meat in the
aquarium, and when upon its native coast sucks mussels and cockles out
of their shells. Queer compound of plant and animal in appearance, its
natural kingdom seems still more doubtful than ever if we watch it
while it is undergoing certain processes of reproduction. It does
indeed generally produce its young by maternal gestation; eggs are
formed in the cavity that surrounds its stomach, and at the proper
time the young swim out of the parent's mouth. But it has other modes
of propagation, one of which is almost exactly like the process of
raising plants from suckers. Very often you may see, growing out of
the lower part of the body of the anemone, and as a general thing near
the edge of the basal disc by which it attaches itself to the shell or
rock, little rounded protuberances, like buds; well, they are
buds--the buds of young anemones. In a short time six small tentacles
make their appearance on the top of each bud. A minute oblong aperture
opens in the midst of them. A digestive cavity is formed. The curious
internal structure of the animal (which we have not space here to
describe) is gradually developed. The bud becomes elongated and
enlarged every way. The tentacles multiply; the small aperture grows
into a mouth; and finally the young anemone drops off from its parent
and floats away to shift for itself. Professor Clark has seen as many
as twenty thus detach themselves in the course of a single month. This
is the process of generation by _budding_ or _gemmation_, of which we
spoke on a previous page.

But we have not yet exhausted the list of wonders displayed by this
extraordinary plant-animal. We have seen that it has at least two ways
of being born; what will our readers say when we assure them that it
has not only two but _four?_ The remaining two both come under the
head of what is called _voluntary self-division_. One of them is
strikingly like the propagation of plants by cuttings. Little pieces
break off from the anemone at the base and float away. For a long time
they give no sign of life; but when they have recovered, so to speak,
from the shock of separation, they begin to shoot out their tentacles
and grow up into perfect individuals. The fourth method of generation
is still more wonderful. Now and then you find an anemone whose upper
disc is contracted in a peculiar manner at opposite sides. The
contraction increases until the disc loses its circular form and
presents the shape of the figure 8. The two halves of the 8 next
separate, and you {235} have an anemone with two mouths, each
surrounded by its own set of tentacles. Then the processes of
constriction and separation continue all down the body of the animal
from summit to base, and the result is two perfect anemones, each
complete in its organization. It is well that the lower orders of
creatures have none of the laws of inheritance and primo-geniture that
bother mankind, or such irregular methods of coming into the world
might breed a great deal of trouble among them. Here, for instance,
you have two anemones, which we will call A and B, formed by the
splitting asunder of a single individual; what relation are they to
each other? Are they brother and sister or parent and child? And if
the latter, how is any one to decide which is the parent? Then suppose
A raises offspring in the usual way from eggs, what relation are these
young to B? Are they sisters, or nieces, or grandchildren?

Let us now look at another animal, the stentor, or trumpet-animalcule.
This is a minute infusorian, very common in ponds and ditches, where
it forms colonies on the stems of water-weeds or submerged sticks and
stones. Some of the varieties have a deep blue color, and a settlement
of them looks very much like a patch of blue mould. The stentor is
shaped like a little tube, about one-sixteenth of an inch in length,
spread out at the upper end like a trumpet, and tapering at the lower
almost to a point. When it has fixed upon a place of abode, it
constructs a domicile, consisting of a gelatinous sheath, perhaps half
as high as itself. It lives inside this sheath, with its smaller
extremity attached to the bottom of it, and its wide, funnel-shaped
end projecting above the top. When disturbed it retreats into the
house and shrinks into a globular mass. The disc of the trumpet end is
not perfectly regular; on one side the edge turns inward so as to form
a notch, and curls upon itself in a spiral form. Within this spiral is
the mouth, and a long funnel-shaped throat reaches from it to the
digestive cavity. Opposite the mouth there is a globular cavity, from
which a tube extends to the lower extremity of the body. The cavity
seems to perform the functions of a heart, and the tube takes the
place of veins and arteries. Once in three-quarters of a minute this
heart-like organ contracts and forces the fluid which it contains into
the tube; the latter in its turn, after expanding very sensibly to
receive the flow, contracts and returns it to the heart.

The stentor propagates by budding, like the anemone. The first change
that takes place is a division of this contractile vesicle into two
distinct organs at about mid-height of the body, the lower portion
developing a globular cavity like the upper one. Soon after this a
shallow pit opens in the side of the stentor, in a line with the new
vesicle. This pit is the future mouth. A throat or oesophagus is next
fashioned; and all being ready for the accommodation of the new animal
the process of division begins, and goes on so rapidly that it is all
done in about two hours.

A still more curious animal, in some respects, than either of those we
have just mentioned is the hydra, one of the simplest of the
zoophytes. To all intents and purposes it is nothing but a narrow
sack, about half an inch in length, open at one end, where the mouth
is situated, and attaching itself by the other to pond-lilies,
duck-weeds, or stones on the margins of lakes. Around the mouth it has
from five to eight slender tentacles, which are used as feelers and
for the purpose of seizing the food. What it does with its food after
it has swallowed it is, strange as the statement may sound, a question
to which naturalists have not yet found a satisfactory answer; for the
hydra has no digestive organs, and its stomach is merely a pouch
formed by the folding in of the outer skin. It has no glands, no
mucous membrane, no appliances of any sort for the performance of the
chemical process {236} which we call digestion. You may turn a hydra
inside out and it will get along just as well as it did before, and
swallow its prey with just as good an appetite. The French naturalist
Trembley was the first to notice this remarkable fact. With the blunt
end of a small needle he pushed the bottom of the sack through the
body and out at the mouth, just as you would invert a stocking. He
found that the animal righted itself as soon as it was left alone; so
he repeated the operation, and this time made use of persuasion, in
the form of a bristle run crosswise through the body, to induce the
victim to remain inside out. In the course of a few days its interior
and exterior departments were thoroughly reorganized, and it ate as if
nothing had happened. Trembley next undertook to engraft one
individual upon another! For this purpose he crammed the tail of one
deep down into the cavity of another, and, in order to hold them in
their position, stuck a bristle through both. What was his surprise to
find them, some hours afterward, still spitted upon the bristle, but
hanging _side by side_ instead of one within the other! How they had
got into such a position he could not imagine. He arranged another
pair, and on watching them the mystery was solved. The inner one first
drew up its tail and pushed it out through the hole in the outer one's
side where the bristle entered. Then it pulled its head out after the
tail, and sliding along the spit completely freed itself from its
companion. This it repeated as often as the experiment was tried in
that way. It then occurred to M. Trembley that if the inner hydra were
turned inside out, so as to bring the stomachs of the two animals in
contact, union would take place more readily; and so it proved. The
little creatures seemed much pleased with the arrangement, and made no
attempt to escape. In a short time they were united as one body, and
enjoyed their food in common.

It was perhaps only natural to expect that animals which care so
little about their individuality that two specimens can be turned into
one, would be equally ready to multiply themselves by the simple
process of being cut to pieces. In other words, you may make one hydra
out of two, or two out of one, just as you please. M. Trembley divided
them in every conceivable manner. He cut them in two, and, instead of
dying, one half shot out a new head and the other developed a new
tail. He sliced them into thin rings, and each slice swam away, got
itself a set of tentacles, and grew into a perfectly formed
individual. He split them into thin longitudinal strips, and each
strip reproduced what was wanting to give it a complete body. Some he
split only part way down from the mouth, and the result was a hydra,
like the fabled monster, with many heads. The famous cat with nine
lives is nothing to these little zoophytes. They seem sublimely
indifferent not only to the most fearful wounds, but even to disease
and, we are tempted to add, decomposition itself. A part of the body
decays, and the hydra simply drops it off, like a worn-out garment,
and lives on as if it had lost nothing.

If it can do all this, we need not wonder that it can reproduce its
kind by budding. Indeed, after we have seen a living creature split
itself up into a dozen distinct individuals any other process of
generation must seem tame by comparison. At certain seasons of the
year very few hydras can be found which have not one, two, or three
young ones growing out of their bodies. The budding begins in the form
of a simple bulging from the side of the parent, something like a
wart. This is gradually elongated, and after a time tentacles sprout
from the free end, and a mouth is formed. The young is now in a
condition to seek its own prey. Its independence is finally
accomplished by a constriction of the base of the new body at the
point where it is attached to the old stock, until finally it cuts
itself off. Before {237} this separation takes place, however, it has
often begun to reproduce its own young, and so we sometimes see a
large colony of hydras all connected together, like minute branching

After all, you may say, it is not so very wonderful that a simple
animal like the hydra, which has no intestines, and scarcely any
special organs whatever, should be able to reproduce its lost parts,
or to multiply itself by the simple processes of growth and subsequent
division. Well, then, let us take a more complex creature, and we have
a remarkable example at hand in a certain marine worm called
_myrianida fasciata_. It is an inch or two in length, tapering off
gradually from the head. The body is marked with numerous rings or
joints, attached to which are oar-like appendages, serving not only as
instruments of propulsion but also as gills, or breathing organs. An
intestine extends from the head in a direct course to the posterior.
Blood-vessels are arranged about it like a net-work, and connect with
similar vessels in the gills. It has an organ which serves the purpose
of a heart, a nervous cord swollen at every joint into knots or
ganglions, and, in the head, one principal ganglion, which may be
considered as the brain. Its reproductive organs are situated only in
the posterior rings, and are located there in reference to the
peculiar mode of generation which we are about to describe. The young
worm begins to grow immediately in front of the parent's tail, that is
to say, between the last joint or ring and the next before the last,
and is formed by the successive growth of new rings. Before it is old
enough to be cast off another appears between its anterior end and the
next joint of the old stock; and so on until we have six worms at
once, all strung together behind the parent, and hanging, so to speak,
from one another's tails. They drop off separately, in the order of
their age. Now in this case, you will observe, there must be a
division of several organs--the intestine, the blood-vessels, and the
nervous cord; and each of the six young must develop a heart, a brain,
and a pair of eyes. An odd result of their method of growth (the first
one being formed, you will remember, not behind the parent but
_between_ her last two rings) is that the eldest offspring
appropriates the tail of his mother, while his five brothers and
sisters have to find tails of their own. We are here tempted to
indulge in a curious speculation: this first born produces its young
in the same way itself was produced, and passes on its inherited tail
to the next generation. The eldest born of that generation bequeaths
it to the next, and so on. What becomes of that ancestral tail in the
course of years? Does it at last wear out and drop off? Does the worm
that bears it die after a time without leaving any children? Or is it
possible that the process of entail has been going on without
interruption ever since the year one of the world, and that there may
be a _myrianida fasciata_ now living with a tail as old as creation?
Not very probable, certainly; but if any solution has been offered of
the great tail problem, we do not happen to have heard of it.

Professor Clark also tried various experiments upon the common flat
worm, or _planaria_, which may be found so readily in our ponds,
creeping over stones and aquatic plants, and is so easily recognized
by its opaque white color, and the liver-colored ramifications of its
intestine. He cut the creature in two, and immediately after the
operation the halves crawled away as if nothing had happened; the
anterior part preceding an ideal tail, and the posterior one following
an equally imaginary head and brain. He watched the pieces from day to
day, and found that each reproduced its missing half by a slow process
of budding and growth. This _planaria_ may be cut into several pieces,
and each will reproduce what is requisite to complete the mangled
organism. If the tail of a lizard be broken off, a {238} new one will
grow; and crabs, lobsters, spiders, etc., are known to replace their
amputated limbs. The instances we now and then meet with of what are
called _monsters_--two-headed dogs, calves with six legs, and, more
rarely, even double-headed human beings, are examples of the
phenomenon of budding--which is very common, by the way, among fishes;
and there is an animalcule called the _amoeba_ which shows a more
remarkable tenacity of life than any of the other creatures we have
mentioned, since you may divide and subdivide it until it is
physically impossible to reduce it to particles any smaller, and yet
each piece will live.

The discovery that animals may originate in so many ways independent
of maternal gestation naturally suggests the inquiry whether further
researches may not develop still other methods of reproduction, in
which the new-born creature shall have no connection whatever with any
previously existing individual. Thus we are brought back to the
question which was thought to have been settled long ago, whether
generation ever takes place spontaneously, as Aristotle and the old
physicists supposed it did. Later naturalists, following the Italian,
Redi, utterly rejected the supposition; but within the present century
it has found many reputable supporters, and Professor Clark is one of
them. When organic matter decays, numbers of _infusoria_, or
microscopic plants and animals, arise in it. Where do they come from?
Do the disorganized particles, set free by the process of
decomposition, combine into new forms, which are then endowed with
life by the direct action of Almighty power; or is the decaying
substance merely the _nest_ in which minute eggs or seeds, borne
thither upon the air, or dropped by insects, find conditions suitable
for their development in the ordinary natural way? The question is not
easily answered. Many of these germs are so excessively minute as to
defy detection. Some of the infusoria are no larger than the
twenty-four-thousandth of an inch in diameter, and it is estimated
that a drop of water might contain five hundred millions of them. It
is obvious that the germs of such little creatures must be invisible
even with the best microscope. The problem can only be solved by
placing a portion of the decomposing matter under such conditions that
any germs it may contain shall infallibly be killed and that none can
possibly reach it; then, if infusoria appear, we shall know that they
have been generated spontaneously. The great difficulty is in securing
these conditions. For the development of the living forms we require
both water and air. How are we to be certain that there are no living
germs in the organic matter before we begin the experiment? that there
are none in the water? that none are brought by the air? The action of
heat has been relied upon for the destruction of germs in the organic
matter and the water, and it has been sought to purify the air from
them by passing it through sulphuric add; but experience has shown
that sulphuric add does not kill the germs; so of course experiments
performed in that way prove nothing. Professor Clark quotes a series
of very delicate experiments tried by Professor Jeffries Wyman, of
Harvard University, which seem to us to come nearer to proving
spontaneous generation than any others with which we are acquainted.
He proceeded in three different methods, as follows:

1. The organic matter, consisting of a solution of beef or mutton
juice (or, in a few instances, vegetable matter), was placed in a
flask fitted with a cork through which passed a glass tube. The cork
was pushed deeply into the mouth of the flask, and the space above it
was filled with an adhesive cement, composed of resin, wax, and
varnish. The tube was drawn to a narrow neck a little way above the
cork, and bent at right angles, and {239} the end of it inserted in an
iron tube, where it was secured by a cement of plaster of Paris. The
rest of the iron tube was filled with wires, leaving only very narrow
passages between them. The solution in the flask was then boiled--in
some cases as long as two hours--in order to kill any germs which
might be enclosed, and to expel the air. The iron tube and wires at
the same time were heated to redness. When the boiling had continued
long enough the heat was withdrawn from beneath the flask, and the
steam was allowed slowly to condense. As it did so, air flowed in
between the red-hot wires, which had been kept at a temperature high
enough, it was supposed, to destroy any germs in the air that passed
through them. The flask was then hermetically sealed by fusing the
glass tube with the blow-pipe. When opened, several days afterward, it
was found to contain animal life.

2. A similar solution was placed in a flask the neck of which, instead
of being supplied with a cork and tube, was drawn out and bent at
right angles, and then fitted to the iron tube containing wires. The
experiment was performed as by method No. 1, and with the same result.

3. That there might be no suspicion of imperfectly sealed joints, a
solution was put into a flask with a narrow neck, and the neck itself
was then closed by fusing the glass. The whole flask was then immersed
in boiling water. At the expiration of a few days living infusoria
were found in two instances out of four.

Now these experiments undoubtedly prove that generation sometimes
occurs spontaneously, provided it be true, as Professor Clark assumes,
that there was no imperfection in the closing of the flasks (which we
see no reason to doubt), and that the infusorial germs are destroyed
by boiling. We confess that it is hard to believe they could have
survived such a heat as was applied to them in these cases; but is it
certain that they could not? A writer in an English review a few years
ago, whom we believe to have been Mr. G. H. Lewes, announced that he
had boiled certain germs _an hour and three-quarters_, and yet they
remained perfectly unaltered. At most, therefore, we can regard
spontaneous generation as a probable phenomenon.

Whether spontaneous generation, if it occurs at all, occurs by the
formation of an egg from which the animalcule is hatched, or by the
immediate formation of the adult, Professor Clark does not attempt to
say; but the French naturalist M. Pouchet, who is one of the foremost
advocates of the theory, holds that an egg is produced first. If this
is true we shall have a striking correlative to the proposition with
which we began this paper: not only can living creatures be developed
where no egg has been deposited, but eggs can be produced where there
is no animal to lay them. _Omne ovum e vivo_ will be no more true than
_Omne vivum ex ovo._



From Chambers's Journal


  In a shattered old garret scarce roofed from the sky,
  Near a window that shakes as the wind hurries by,
  Without curtain to hinder the golden sun's shine,
  Which reminds me of riches that never were mine--
  I recline on a chair that is broken and old.
  And enwrap my chilled limbs--now so aged and cold--
  'Neath a shabby old coat, with the buttons all torn.
  While I think of my youth that Time's footprints have worn.
  And remember the comrades who've one and all fled,
  And the dreams and the hopes that are dead with the dead.

  But the cracked plastered walls are emblazoned and bright
  With the dear blessed beams of the day's welcome light.
  My old coat's a king's robe, my old chair is a throne,
  And my thoughts are my courtiers that no king could own;
  For the truths that they tell, as they whisper to me,
  Are the echoes of pleasures that once used to be,
  The glad throbbings of hearts that have now ceased to feel,
  And the treasures of passions which Time cannot steal;
  So, although I know well that my life is near spent,
  Though I'll die without sorrow, I live with content.

  Though my children's soft voices no music now lend;
  Without wife's sweet embraces, or glance of a friend;
  Yet my soul sees them still, as it peoples the air
  With the spirits who crowd round my broken old chair.
  If no wealth I have hoarded to trouble mine ease,
  I admit that I doted on gems rich as these;
  And when death snatched the casket that held each fair prize,
  It flew to my heart where it happily lies;
  So, 'tis there that the utt'rings of love now are said
  By those dear ones, whom all but myself fancy dead.

  So, though fetid the air of my poor room may be.
  It still has all the odors of Eden for me.
  For my Eve wanders here, and my cherubs here sing,
  As though tempting my spirit like theirs to take wing.
  Though my pillow be hard, where so well could I rest
  As on that on which Amy's fair head has been pressed?
  So let riches and honor feed Mammon's vain heart,
  From my shattered old lodging I'll not wish to part;
  And no coat shall I need save the one I've long worn.
  Till the last thread be snapped, and the last rent be torn.



From The Lamp.





While the above exploits were being performed by Jamesy Doyle and the
police, a sad scene indeed was being enacted at the bridge. Winny
Cavana, whose bonds had been loosed, had rushed to where Emon lay with
his head in his father's lap, while the two policemen, Cotter and
Donovan, moved up with their prisoner. They not only handcuffed him,
but had tied his legs together, and threw him on the side of the road,
"to wait their convenience," while they rendered any assistance they
could to the wounded man.

The father had succeeded in stanching the blood, which at first had
poured freely from the wound. With the assistance of one of the
police, while the other was tying the prisoner, he had drawn his son
up into a sitting posture and leaned him against the bank at the side
of the road, and got his arm round him to sustain him. He was not shot
dead; but was evidently very badly wounded. He was now, however,
recovering strength and consciousness, as the blood ceased to flow.

"Open your eyes, Emon dear, if you are not dead, and look at your own
Winny," she said; "your mad Winny Cavana, who brought you here to be
murdered! Open your eyes, Emon, if you are not dead! I don't ask you
to speak."

Emon not only opened his eyes, but turned his face and looked upon
her. Oh, the ghastly smile he tried to hide!

"Don't speak, Emon; but tell me with your eyes that you are not dying.
No, no, Emon--Emon-a-knock! demon as he is, he could not murder you.
Heaven would not permit so much wickedness!"

Emon looked at her again. A faint but beautiful smile--beautiful now,
for the color had returned to his cheeks--beamed upon his lips as he
shook his head.

"Yes, yes, he has murdered him," sobbed the distracted father; "and I
pity you, Winny Cavana, as I hope you will pity his poor mother; to
say nothing of myself."

"No, no, do not say so! He will not die, he _shall_ not die!" And she
pressed her burning that's to his marble forehead. It was smooth as
alabaster, cold as ice.

"Win--ny Ca--va-na, good-by," he faintly breathed in her ear. "My
days, my hours, my very moments are numbered. I feel death trembling
in every vein, in every nerve. I could--could--have--lived for
you--Winny; but even--to--die for you--is--a blessing,
because--successful. One last request--Winny, my best beloved, is
--all--I have--to ask; spare me--a spot in Rathcash--chapel-yard, in
the space allotted to--the--Cavanas. I feel some wonderful strength
given me just now. It is a special mercy that I may speak with you
before I go. But, Winny, my own precious, dearest love, do not deceive
yourself. If I reach home to receive my mother's blessing before I
die, it is the most--" and he leaned his head against his father's

"No more delay!" cried Winny energetically, "Time is too precious to
be lost; bring the cart here, and let us take him home at once, and
send for {242} the doctor. Oh, policeman, one of you is enough to
remain with the prisoner here; do, like a good man, leave your gun and
belts here, and run off across the fields as fast as you can, and
bring Dr. Sweeney to Rathcash house."

"To Shanvilla," faintly murmured the wounded man; "and bring Father

"Yes, yes, to Shanvilla, to be sure," repeated Winny; "my selfish
heart had forgotten his poor mother."

Emon opened his eyes at the word mother, and smiled. It was a smile of
thanks; and he closed them again.

The policeman had obeyed her request in a moment; and, stripped of ail
incumbrances, he was clearing the hedges, ditches, and drains toward
Dr. Sweeney's.

They then placed Lennon, as gently as if he were made of wax, into the
cart, his head lying in Winny's lap, and his hand clasped in hers,
while the distracted father led the horse more like an automaton than
a human being. They proceeded at a very gentle pace, for the cart had
no springs, and Winny knew that a jolt might be fatal if the blood
burst forth afresh. The policeman followed with his prisoner at some
distance; and ere long, for the dawn had become clear, he saw his
comrades coming on behind him, a long way off. But there was evidently
a man beside themselves and Jamesy Doyle. He sat down by the side of
the road until they came up.

How matters stood was then explained to Sergeant Driscoll aside.
Cotter told him he had no hopes that ever Lennon would reach home
alive; that Donovan had gone off across the country for the doctor and
the priest, and his _carabine_ and belts were on the cart.

"We will take that prisoner from you, Cotter," said Driscoll, "and do
you get on to the cart as fast as you can; you may be of use. I don't
like to bring this villain Murdock in sight of them; you need not say
we have got him at all. We will go on straight to the barrack by the
lower road, and let you go up to Lennon's with the cart. But see here,
Cotter--do not speak to the wounded man at all, and don't let anybody
else speak to him either. We don't want a word from him; sure we all
saw it as plain as possible."

Cotter then hastened on, and soon overtook the cart. He merely said,
in explanation of being by himself, that his comrades had come up, and
that he had given his prisoner to them and hastened on to see if he
could be of any use.

Winny soon suggested a use for the kind-hearted man--to help poor Pat
Lennon into the cart, and to lead the horse. This was done without
stirring hand or foot of the poor sufferer; and the father lay at
Emon's other side scarcely less like death than he was himself.

When they came to the end of the road which turned to Rathcash and
Shanvilla, Winny, as was natural, could have wished to go to Rathcash.
She knew not how her poor father had been left, or what might be his
fate. She could not put any confidence in the assurance of such
ruffians, that a hair of his head should not be hurt; and did not one
of the villains remain in the house? Yes, Winny, one of them _did
remain_ in the house, but he _did no harm to your father_.

With all her affection and anxiety on her father's account, Winny
could not choose but to go on to Shanvilla. The less moving poor Emon
got the better, and to get from under his head now and settle him
afresh would be cruel, and might be fatal. Winny, therefore, sat
silent as Cotter turned the horse's head toward Shanvilla, where, ere
another half-hour had added to the increasing light, they had arrived.

Winny Cavana, who knew what a scene must ensue when they came to the
door, had sent on Cotter to the house; the father again taking his
place at the horse's head. He was to tell Mrs. Lennon that an accident
had happened--no, no, not _that_; but that {243} Emon had been hurt;
and that they were bringing him home quietly for fear of exciting him.

These precautions were of no use. Mrs. Lennon had waited but for the
word "hurt," which she understood at once as importing something
serious. She rushed from the house like a mad woman, and stood upon
the road gazing up and down. Fortunately Winny had the forethought to
stop the cart out of sight of the house to give Cotter time to execute
his mission, and calm Mrs. Lennon as much as possible. It was a lucky
thought, and Cotter, who was a very intelligent man, was equal to the

As Mrs. Lennon looked round her in doubt, Cotter cried out, "Oh, don't
go that road, Mrs. Lennon, for God's sake!" and he pointed in the
direction in which the cart was not. It was enough; the ruse had
succeeded; and Mrs. Lennon started off at full speed, clapping her
hands and crying out: "Oh! Emon, Emon, have they killed you at last?
have they killed you? Oh! Emon, Emon, my boy, my boy!" And she clapped
her hands, and ran the faster. She was soon out of sight and hearing.

"Now is your time," said Cotter, running back to the cart; "she is
gone off in another direction, and we'll have him on his bed before
she comes back."

They then brought the cart to the door, and in the most gentle and
scientific manner lifted poor Emon into the house and laid him on his

"God bless you, Winny!" he said, stretching out his hand. "Don't, like
a good girl, stop here now. Return to your poor father, who must be
distracted about you. I'm better and stronger, thank God, and will be
able to see you again before I--"

"Whist, whist, Emon mavourneen, don't talk that way; you are better,
blessed be God! I must, indeed, go home, Emon, as you say, for my
heart is torn about my poor father. God bless you, Emon, my own Emon!"
And she stooped down and kissed his pale lips.

Cotter and she then left the house and made all the speed they could
toward Rathcash. They had not gone very far when Cotter heard Mrs.
Lennon coming back along the road, and they saw her turn in toward her
own house.

Bully-dhu having satisfied himself that nothing further was to be
apprehended from the senseless form of a man upon the kitchen floor,
and finding it impossible to burst open the door where his master was
confined, thought the next best thing that he could do was to bemoan
the state of affairs outside the house, in hope of drawing some help
to the spot. Accordingly he took his post immediately at the
house-door, still determined to be on the safe side, for fear the man
was scheming. Here he set up a long dismal and melancholy howl.

"My father is dead," said Winny; "there is the Banshee."

"Not at all, Miss Winny; that is a dog."

"It is all the same; Bully-dhu would not cry that way for nothing;
there is somebody dead, I'm sure."

"It is because he knew you were gone, Miss Winny, and he did not know
where to look for you; that's all, you may depend."

"Thank you, Cotter; the dog might indeed do that same. God grant it is
nothing worse!"

By this time they were at the door, and Cotter followed Bully-dhu into
the house. Winny, without looking right or left, rushed to her
father's room. She found it locked, but, quickly turning the key, she
burst in. It was now broad daylight, and she saw at a glance her
father stretched upon the bed, still bound hand and foot. She flew to
the table, and taking his razor cut the cords. The poor old man was
quite exhausted from suspense, excitement, and the fruitless physical
efforts he had been making to free himself.

"Thank God, father!" she exclaimed; "I hope you are not hurt."


"No, dear. Give me a sup of milk, or I will choke."

Poor Winny, in the ignorance of her past habits, called out to Biddy
to bring her some.

Biddy answered with a smothered cry from the inner room. Cotter flew
to the door and unlocked it. In another moment he had set her free
from her cords, and she darted across the kitchen to minister to the
old man's wants at Winny's direction.

Poor Bully-dhu then pointed out to Cotter the share he had taken in
the night's work, and it might almost be said quietly "gave himself
up." At least he showed no disposition to escape. He lay down at the
dead man's head, sweeping the floor with an odd wag of his bushy tail,
rather proud than frightened at what he had done. That it was his
work, Cotter could not for a moment doubt. The man's throat had by
this time turned almost black, and there were the marks of the dog's
teeth sunk deep at each side of the windpipe, where the choking grip
of death had prevailed.

Cotter then brought a quilt from the room where he had released Biddy
Murtagh, and spread it over the corpse, and was bringing Bully-dhu out
to the yard, when he met Jamesy Doyle at the door. Jamesy took charge
of him at once, and brought him round to the yard, where for the
present he shut him up in his wooden house; but he did not intend to
neglect him.

Jamesy told Cotter that Sergeant Driscoll and his men had taken their
prisoners safe to the barracks, and desired him to tell Cotter to join
them as soon as soon as possible.

"I cannot join them yet awhile, Jamesy; we have a corpse in the

"God's mercy! an' shure it's not the poor ould masther?" said Jamesy.

"No; I don't know who he is. He must have been one of the

"An' th' ould masther done for him!--God be praised? More power to his

"No, Jamesy, it was not the old master. It was Bully-dhu that choked
him--see here;" and he turned down the quilt.

"The divil a word of lie you're tellin', sir; dear me, but he gev' him
the tusks in style. Begorra, Bully, I'll give you my own dinner
to-day, an' tomorrow, an' next day for that. See, Mr. Cotter, how the
Lord overtakes the guilty at wanst, sometimes. Didn't he strike down
Tom Murdock wid lightning, an' he batin' me out a horseback? an I'd
never have cum up wid him only for that."

Cotter could not help smiling at Jamesy's enthusiasm.

"What are you laughin' at, Mr. Cotter? Maybe it's what you don't give
in to me; but I tell you I seen the flash of lightning take him down
ov the horse, as plain as the daylight. Where's Miss Winny?"

"Whist, whist, boy, don't be talking that way. Never heed Miss Winny;
she's with her father. I would not like her to see this dead man here;
don't be talking so loud. Is there any place we could draw him into,
until we find out who he is?"

"An' _I'd_ like to show him to Miss Winny, for Bully-dhu's sake. Will
I call her?"

"If you do, I'll stick you with this, Jamesy," said Cotter, getting
angry, and tapping his bayonet with his finger.

"Begorra, an' that's not the way to get me to do anything, I can tell
you; for I--"

"Well, there's a good boy, James; you have proved your cell one
tonight; and now for God's sake don't fret poor Miss Winny worse than
what she is already, and it would nearly kill her to see this dead man
here now--it would make her think of some one else dead,
Jamesy--_thigum thu_?

"_Thau_, begorra--you're right enough."


"Where can we bring him to? is there any outhouse or place?"

"To be sure there is; there's the barn where I sleep; cum out wid him
at wanst. I'll take him by the heels, an' let you dhraw him along the
floore by his shoulders."

There was a coolness and intrepidity about all Jamesy's acts and
expressions which surprised Cotter. With all his experience he had
never seen the same in so young a boy--except in a hardened villain;
and he had known Jamesy for the last four years to be the very
contrary. Cotter, however, was not philosopher enough to know that an
excess of principle, and a total want of it, might produce the same
intrepidity of character.

Cotter took the dead man under the shoulders and drew him along, while
Jamesy took him by the feet and pushed him.

Neither Winny, nor Biddy, nor the old man knew a word about this part
of the performance. Jamesy saw the propriety of keeping it to himself
for the present. Cotter locked the barn-door and took away the key
with him. He told Jamesy that he would find out from the other
prisoner "who the corpse was," and that he would call again with
instructions in the course of the day. He then hastened to the
barrack, and Jamesy went in to see Miss Winny and the ould masther.
The message which Cotter had sent her by Jamesy was this--"To keep up
her heart, and to hold herself in readiness for a visit from the
resident magistrate before the day was over."


It was still very early. The generality of the inhabitants were not
yet up, and Winny sighed at the long sad day which was before her. She
had first made her father tell her how the ruffians had served him,
and after hearing the particulars she detailed everything which had
befallen herself. She described the battle at the bridge, as well as
her sobs would permit her, from the moment that Lennon sprang up from
behind the battlement to their rescue until the fatal arrival of the
police, as she called it, upon the approach of whom "that demon fired
his pistol at my poor Emon as close as I am to you, father."

"Well, well; Winny, don't lave the blame upon the police; he would
have fired at Lennon whether they cum up or not, for Emon never would
have let go his holt."

"True enough, father. I do not lay it upon them at all. Emon would
have clung to his horse for miles if he had not shot him down."

"Beside, Jamesy says the police has him fast enough. Isn't that a
mercy at all events, Winny?"

"It is only the mercy of revenge, father, God forgive me for the
thought. The law will call it justice."

"And a just revenge is all fair an' right, Winny. He had no pity on an
innocent boy, an' why should you have pity on a guilty villain?"

"Pity! No, father, I have no pity for him. But I wish I did not feel
so vengeful."

"But how did the police hear of it, Winny, or find out which way they
went; an' what brought Jamesy Doyle up with them?"

"We must ask Jamesy himself about that, father," she said; and she
desired Biddy to call him in, for he was with Bully-dhu.

Jamesy was soon in attendance again, and they made him sit down, for
with all his pluck he looked weary and fatigued. They then asked him
to tell everything, from the moment he first heard the men smashing
the door.

Jamesy Doyle's description of the whole thing was short and decisive,
told in his own graphic style, with many "begorras," in spite of
Winny's remonstrances.

"Begorra, Miss Winny, I tould Bully-dhu what they were up to, an' I
let him in at the hall doore, an' {246} when I seen him tumble the
fust man he met, and stick in his windpipe without so much as a growl,
I knew there was one man wouldn't lave that easy, any way; an' I med
off for the polis as fast as my legs and feet could carry me."

"And how did--how--did--poor Emon hear of it?" sighed Winny.

"Arra blur-an-ages, Miss Winny, didn't I cut across by Shanvilla, an'
tould him every haporth? Why, miss, he'd murdher me af I let him lie
there dhramin', an' they carrin' you off, Miss Winny."

"Oh, Jamesy, why did you not go straight for the police, and never
mind Emon-a-knock?" she said.

"Ah! Winny dear," said her father, "remember that there was nearly
half-an-hour's battle at the bridge before the police came up; and had
your persecutor that half-hour's law, where and what would you be

"I did not care. I would have fought my battle alone against twenty
Tom Murdocks. They might have ill-used me, and then murdered me, but
what of that? Emon-a-knock would live, perhaps to avenge me; but
now--now--oh, father, father! I wish he had murdered me along with
Emon. But, God forgive me, indeed I am very sinful; I forgot you,
father dear. Here, Biddy, get the kettle boiling; we all want a cup of
tea;" and she put her handkerchief to her swimming eyes.

Jamesy had thrown himself in his clothes on some empty sacks in a
corner of the kitchen, saying, "Miss Winny, I'm tired enough to sleep
anywhere, an' I'll lie down here."

"Hadn't you better go to your own bed in the barn, Jamesy, where you
can take off your clothes? I am sure you would be more comfortable."

"No, Miss Winny, I'm sure I would not. Beside, the policeman tuck--"
Jamesy stopped himself. "What the mischief have I been saying?"
thought he.

"The policeman took what, Jamesy?" said Winny.

"He tuck the key, miss. He said no one should g'win there till he cum

"Oh, very well, Jamesy; lie down, and let me throw this quilt over
you. But, God's mercy, if here is not a pool of blood! I wonder what
brought it here? Oh, am I doomed to sec nothing but blood--blood? What
is this, Jamesy, do you know?"

"I do, miss. It was Bully-dhu that cut one of the men when they cum
in; and no cure for him, Miss Winny!"

"Why, he must have cut him severely, James; the whole floor is covered
with blood."

"Cut him, is it? Begorra, Miss Winny, he kilt him out-an-out. I may as
well tell you the thruth at wanst."

"For heaven's sake, you do not mean to say that he actually killed
him, Jamesy?"

"That's just what I do mane. Miss Winny, an' I may as well tell you,
for Mr. Cotter will be here by-an-bye with the coroner and a jury to
hould an inquest. Isn't he lyin' there abroad in the barn as stiff as
a crowbar, an' as ugly as if he was bespoke, miss? Didn't I help Mr.
Cotter to carry him out, or rather to dhrag him? for begorra he was as
heavy as if he was made of lead!"

"Fie, fie, James, you should not talk that way of any poor
fellow-being--for shame!"

"An' a bad fellow-bein' he was, to cum here to carry you away. Miss
Winny, an' maybe to murdher you in the mountain, or maybe worse. My
blessin' on you, Bully-dhu!"

Winny was shocked at the cool manner in which Jamesy spoke of such a
frightful occurrence. She was afraid she would never make a Christian
of him.

Cotter and a comrade soon returned and took charge of the body until
the coroner should arrive. They had served summonses upon twelve or
fourteen of the most respectable neighbors--good men and true. They
had ascertained that the deceased was a man named John Fahy, from the
{247} county of Cavan, a reputed Ribbonman. The cart had belonged to
him, but of course there was no name upon it. The news of the whole
affair had already spread like fire the moment the people began to get
about; and two brothers of Fahy's arrived to claim the body before the
inquest was over.

Jamesy Doyle was the principal witness "before the fact." His evidence
was like himself all over. Having been sworn by the coroner, he did
not think that sufficient, but began his statement with another oath
of his own--the reader knows by this time what it was. The coroner
checked him, and reminded him that he was already on his solemn oath,
and that light swearing of that kind was very unseemly, and could not
be permitted. He advised him to be cautions.

Jamesy had sense enough to take his advice, although he seldom took
Winny's upon the same subject.

"When first I heerd the _rookawn_ I got up, an' dhrew on my clothes,
an' cum round the corner of the house. I seen three men stannin' at
the doore, an' I heerd wan of 'em ordher it to be bruck in. I knew
there was but two women an' wan ould man, the masther, in the house,
an' I knew there was no use in goin' in to be murdhered, an' that I
could be of more use a great dale outside. Bully-dhu was roarin' like
a lion in the back yard, an' couldn't get out. I knew Bully was well
able for wan of 'em, any way, if not for two, an' I let him out an'
brought him to the hall-doore. The minit ever I let him out iv the
yard he was as silent as the grave, an' I knew what that meant. Well,
I brought him to the doore, an' pointed to the deceased, for he was
the first man I seen in from me. Well, without with your lave or by
your lave, Bully had him tumbled on the floore, an' his four big teeth
stuck in his windpipe. 'That'll do,' says I, 'as far as wan of ye
goes, any way;' an' I med off for the police. I wasn' much out about
Bully, your worship, for the man never left that antil Mr. Cotter an'
I helped him out into the barn."

Cotter was then examined. His evidence was "that he had found the
deceased lying dead on the kitchen floor; that the dog on entering lay
down at his head and put his paw upon his breast, as if pointing out
what he had done." That was all he knew about it.

The doctor was then examined--surgeon, perhaps, we should call him on
this occasion--and swore "that he had carefully examined the deceased;
that he had been choked; and that the wounds in the throat indicated
that they had been inflicted by the teeth of a large, powerful dog; no
cat nor other animal known in this country could have done it."

This closed the evidence. The coroner made a short charge to the jury,
and the verdict was "that the deceased, John Fahy, as they believed
him to be, had come by his death by being suffocated _and choked_ by a
large black dog called Bully-dhu, belonging to one Edward Cavana, of
Rathcash, in the parish, etc., etc.; but that inasmuch as he, the said
deceased, was in the act of committing a felony at the time, for
which, if convicted in a court of law, he would have forfeited his
life, they would not recommend the dog to be destroyed."

The coroner said "he thought this was a very elaborate verdict upon so
simple a case; and disagreed with the jury upon the latter part of the
verdict. The dog could not have known that, and it was evident he was
a ferocious animal, and he thought he ought to be destroyed."

"He did know it, your honor," vociferated Jamesy Doyle. "Didn't I tell
him, and wasn't it I pointed out the deceased to him, and tould him to
hould him? If it was th' ould masther or myself kilt him, you couldn't
say a haporth to aidher of us, let alone the dog."

If this was not logic for the coroner, it was for the jury, who
refused to change their verdict. But the {248} tack to the verdict,
exonerating poor Bully-dhu, was almost unnecessary, where he had such
a friend in court as Jamesy Doyle; for he, anticipating some such
attempt, had provided for poor Bully's safety. His first act after
Cotter had left in the morning was to get a chum of his, who lived not
for off, to take the dog in his collar and strap to an uncle's son, a
first cousin of his, about seven miles away, to tell him what had
happened, and to take care of the dog until the thing "blew over," and
that "Miss Winny would never forget it to him."

Billy Brennan delivered the dog and the message safely; "he'd do more
nor that for Miss Winny;" or for that matter for the dog himself, for
they were great play-fellows in the dry grass of a summer's day. Now
it was a strange fact, and deserves to be recorded for the curious in
such things, that although Bully-dhu had never seen Jamesy's cousin in
his life, and that although he was a surly, distant dog to strangers,
he took up with young Barny Foley the moment he saw him. He never
stirred from his side, and did not appear inclined to leave the place.

Before the inquest had closed its proceedings the two brothers of the
deceased man adverted to had arrived to take away the dead body. It
was well for poor Bully-dhu, after all, that Jamesy had been so
thoughtful, although it was quite another source of danger he had
apprehended. The two Fahys searched high and low for the dog, one of
them armed secretly with a loaded pistol, but both openly with huge
crab-tree sticks to beat his brains out, in spite of coroner,
magistrate, police, or jury. But they searched in vain. They offered
Jamesy, not knowing the stuff he was made of, a pound-note "to show
them where the big black dog was." His answer, though mute, was just
like him. He put his left thumb to the tip of his nose, his right
thumb to the little finger of the left hand, and began to play the
bagpipes in the air with his fingers.

They pressed it upon him and he got vexed.

"Begorra," said be, "af ye cum here to-night after midnight to take
Miss Winny away, I'll show him to you, an' maybe it wouldn't be worth
the coroner's while to go home."

"He may stay where he is, for that matther," said one of the brothers.
"He'll have work enough tomorrow or next day at Shanvilla;" and they
turned away.

"Ay, and the hangman from the county of _Cavan_ will have something to
do soon afther," shouted Jamesy after them, who was never at a loss
for an answer. He had the last word here, and it was a sore one.

As the brothers Fahy failed in their search for Bully, they had
nothing further that they dare vent their grief and indignation upon.
It was no use in bemoaning the matter there amongst unsympathizing
strangers; so they fetched the cart to the barn-door and laid the
corpse into it, covering it with a white sheet which they had brought
for the purpose.

"Will I lind you a hand, boys?" said Jamesy, as they were struggling
with the weight of the dead man at the barn-door.

The scowl he got from one of the brothers would have discomfited a boy
less plucky or self-possessed than Jamesy Doyle; but he had not said
it in irony. No one there appeared inclined to give any help, and
Jamesy actually did get under the corpse, and "_helped_ him into the
cart," as he said himself.

The unfortunate men then left, walking one at each side of their dead
brother. And who is there, except perhaps Jamesy Doyle, who would not
pity them as they rumbled their melancholy way down the boreen to the



About two hours later in the day "the chief" arrived to "visit the
scene," as he was bound to do before he made his report.

He was received courteously and with respect by Winny Cavana, who
showed him into the parlor. He considerately began by regretting the
unfortunate and melancholy occurrence which had taken place; but of
course added, the satisfaction it was to him, indeed that it must be
to every one, that the perpetrators had been secured, particularly the
principal mover in the sad event.

Winny made no remark, and "the chief" then requested her to state in
detail what had occurred from the time the men broke into the house
until the shot was fired which wounded the man. She seemed at first
disinclined to do so; but upon that gentleman explaining that she
would be required to do so on her oath, when the magistrate called to
take her information, she merely sighed, and said:

"I suppose so; indeed I do not see why I should not."

She then gave him a plain and succinct account as far as their conduct
to herself was concerned, and referred him to her father and the
servants for the share they had taken toward them.

He then obtained from old Cavana, Biddy Murtagh, and Jamesy Doyle what
they knew of the transaction; and thus fully primed and loaded for his
report, he left, telling Winny Cavana "the stipendiary magistrate had
left home the day before, but that he would be back the next day; and
she might expect an official visit from him, as he would make
arrangements with him that she should not be brought from her home,
when no doubt the prisoners would be remanded for the doctor's report
of the wounded man."

The morning after "the chief" had been at Rathcash house, Winny
Cavana, almost immediately after breakfast, told Jamesy Doyle to get
ready and come with her to Shanvilla. She was anxious to ascertain
from personal knowledge how poor Emon was going on. She was distracted
with the contradictory reports which Biddy Murtagh brought in from
time to time from the passers-by upon the road. Winny had little, if
any, hope at all that Edward Lennon would survive. She had been
assured by Father Farrell, in whose truth and experience she placed
the greatest confidence, that it was _impossible_, although he might
linger for a few days. The doctor, too, had pronounced the same solemn
doom. Her thoughts as she hastened toward Shanvilla were full of awe
and _determination_. She had spent the night, the entire night, for
she had never closed an eye, in laying down a broad short map of her
future life, and it was already engraven on her mind. She had been
clever in drawing such things at the school where she had him been
educated, and her thoughts now took that form.

Her poor father while he lived; herself before and after his death;
the Lennons one and all; Kate Mulvey, Phil M'Dermott, Jamesy Doyle,
Biddy Murtagh, and Bully-dhu were the only spots marked upon the map;
but they were conspicuous, like the capital towns of counties. There
was but one river on the map, and it could be traced by Winny's tears.
It was the great river of "the Past," and rose in the distant
mountains of her memory which hemmed in this map of her fancy. It
flowed first round old Ned and the Lennons, who were bounded by Winny
on the north, south, east, and west. It passed by Kate Mulvey and Phil
M'Dermott, and thence passing by Jamesy Doyle, Biddy Murtagh, and
Bully-dhu, it emptied itself into the Irish ocean of Winny's
affectionate heart.

Winny knew that she would meet Father Farrell at Emon's bedside; he
scarcely ever left it; and she knew {250} that he would not deceive
her as to his real state. She knew, too, that he would not refuse her
a sincere Christian advice and counsel upon the sudden resolve which
had taken possession of her heart.

Father Farrell saw her coming from Emon's window, and went to meet her
at the door. They stood in the kitchen alone. The poor father and
mother had been kept out of Emon's room by the priest, and were
bewailing their fate in their own room.

"I am glad you are come, Winny, dear," said he. "The poor fellow has
not ceased to speak of you and pray for you from the first, when he
does transgress his orders not to speak at all."

"How is he, oh, how is he, Father Farrell?"

"Stronger just now, but dying, Winny Cavana. Let nothing tempt you to
deceive yourself. He has been so much stronger for the last hour or so
that I was just going to send my gig for yon. He said it would soothe
his death-bed, which he knows he is on, Winny, to see you and have
your blessing."

"He shall have my blessing, and I shall claim every right to give it
to him. Father Farrell," she added, solemnly, but with a full,
untrembling tone, "will you marry me to Edward Lennon?"

The priest almost staggered back from her for a moment.

"Yes, Father Farrell, you have heard aright, and I solemnly and
sincerely repeat the question. Listen: You must know that never on
this earth will I wed any other. I shall devote myself and the greater
portion of any wealth I may possess to the church for charitable
purposes after Edward Lennon, my future husband--future here and
hereafter--is dead. I wish to call him husband by that precious right
which death will so soon rob me of. Even so, Father Farrell; give me
that right, short though it be. It will enable me legally to provide
for his honest, stout-hearted father and his broken-hearted mother,
without the lying lips of slander doubting the motive. Oh, Father
Farrell, it is the only consolation left me now to hope for, or in
your power to bestow."

The priest was struck dumb. Her eyes, her breath, pleaded almost more
than her words.

Father Farrell sat down upon a form.

"Winny Cavana," he said, "do not press me--that is, I mean, do not
hurry me. The matter admits of serious consideration, and may not be
altogether so unreasonable or extraordinary as it might at first
appear. But I say that it requires consideration. Walk abroad for a
few minutes and let me think."

"No, father. You may remain here for a few minutes and think. Let me
go in and see my poor Emon."

"Yes, yes, you shall; but I must go in along with you, Winny. I can
come out again if I find that more consideration is necessary."

Winny saw that she had gained her point. They then entered the room,
and Emon cast such a look of gratitude and love upon Winny as calmed
every doubt upon the priest's mind, for he was afraid that Emon
himself would object, and that the scene would injure him.

Winny was soon at Emon's side, with his hand clasped in hers.

"You are come, Winny dear, to bid me a final good-by--in this world,"
he murmured. "God bless you for your goodness and your love for me!"

"I am come, Emon dear, to fulfil that love in the presence of heaven,
and with Father Farrell's sanction--am I not, Father Farrell?"

"I never doubted it, Winny dear."

"And you shall not doubt it now. You shall die declaring it. Emon--
Emon, my own Emon-a-knock, I am come to claim the promise you gave me
to make me your wife."

"Great God, Winny I are you mad?--she not mad. Father Farrell?"


"No, Emon dear, she really is not mad. She will devote herself and her
whole future life to charity and the love of a better world than this.
She can do that not only as well, but better, in some respects, as
your widow than otherwise. I have considered the matter, and I cannot
see that there are any just reasons to deny her request."

"Then I shall die happy, though it be this very night. But oh, Winny,
Winny, think of what you are about; time will soften your grief, and
you may yet be happy with ano--"

"Stop, Emon dear--not another word; for here, before heaven and Father
Farrell, I swear never shall I marry any one in this world but you.
Here, Father Farrell, begin; here is a ring you gave me yourself,
Emon, and although not a wedding-ring it will do very well--we will
make one of it."

Father Farrell then brought in Emon's father and mother, and married
Winny Cavana to the dying man.

She stooped down and kissed his pallid lips. Big drops of sweat burst
out upon his forehead, and Father Farrell saw that the last moment was
at hand. Winny held his hand between both hers, and said, "Emon, you
are now mine--mine by divine right, and I resign you to the Lord." And
she looked up to heaven through the roof, while the big tears rolled
down her pale cheeks.

"Winny," said Emon, in a solemn but distinct voice, "I now die happy.
For this I have lived, and for this I die. I cannot count on even
hours now; my moments are numbered. I feel death trembling round my
heart. But you have calmed its approach, Winny dear. Your love and
devotion at a moment like this is the happiest pang that softens my
passage to the grave. I can now claim a right to what you promised me
as a favor--my portion of your space in Rathcash chapel-yard. God
bless you, Winny dear!--Good-by--my--wife!"

Yes, Emon had lived and had died for the love of her who was _now his

As Emon had ceased to speak, a bright smile broke over his whole
countenance, and he rendered his last sigh into the safe-keeping of
his guardian angel, until the last great day.

Winny knew that he was dead, though his breath had passed so gently
forth that he might have been only falling asleep. She continued to
hold his hand, and to gaze upon his still features, while Father
Farrell's lips moved in silent prayer, more for the living than the

"Come, Winny," he at last said, "you cannot remain here just at
present. Come along with me, and I will bring you in my gig to your
father's house, where I will tell him all myself."

"Oh, thank you, thank you, Father Farrell," she said, turning
resignedly with him. "Tell poor Pat Lennon what has happened; their
pity for me as a companion in their grief may help to soften their
own. Tell him, of course, Father Farrell, that I shall take all the
arrangements of the funeral upon myself--God help them and me!"

As they came from the dead man's room they met Pat Lennon in the
kitchen, and Winny, throwing her arms round his neck, caught the big
salt tears which were rolling down his face upon her quivering lips.

"I have a right to call you father now," she exclaimed. "You have lost
a son, but I will be your daughter," and she kissed him again and


On their way to Rathcash, Winny in the first instance told the priest
that "of course her poor husband should be buried in Rathcash
chapel-yard, and, as a matter in which she could not interfere, by
Father Roche." Here she stopped, but the kind-hearted priest took her
up at once.


"Of course, my dear child," he said, "that will be quite right.
Indeed, Winny, I should not wish to be the person so soon to add that
sad ceremony to the still sadder one I was engaged in to-day."

"Before God or man, Father Farrell, you will never have cause to
regret that act. It was my own choosing after deliberate
consideration, and I was best judge of my own feelings. I _can_ be
happy now. I never _could_ be happy if it were otherwise."

"God grant it, my love," said the priest.

"But still, Father Farrell," she continued, "I have something more for
you to do for me. Will you not, like a good man, take all the
arrangement of the funeral upon yourself? I will pay every penny of
the expenses, and let them not be niggardly. Thank God, Father
Farrell, I can do so now without reproach."

The kind, sympathizing priest engaged to do everything which was
requisite in the most approved of manner. The more he reflected upon
what he had done, the less fault he had to find with himself. There
was a calm, resigned tone about all that Winny now said very different
from what he might have anticipated from his knowledge of her temper
and disposition, had the fatal moment taken place when the shot was
fired, or even subsequently before she became Edward Lennon's wife.
Bitter revenge, he thought, would have seized her soul toward the man
who had deprived her of all hope or source of happiness in this world.
Now the only time she trusted her tongue to speak of him was an
exclamation--"May God forgive him!"

They soon arrived at Rathcash house, where Father Farrell paid a long
visit to old Ned Cavana. His kindness quite gained upon the old man,
and, before he left, he acquainted him with the facts of his
daughter's position and the death of her husband.

The old man sat silent for some time after the truth had been made
known to him. Winny stood hoping for a look of encouragement and
forgiveness; but the old man gave it not. At length, with that
impatience habitual to her disposition, she rushed into his arms and
wept upon his breast.

"Oh, father!" she exclaimed, "I could never be the wife of any man
living after poor Emon's death in defence of my life; ay, more than my
life, of my honor."

"But oh, Winny, Winny! to sacrifice yourself for a man so near the
grave! There was no hope for him, I heerd."

"None, father. I was aware of that. Had there been, I should have
waited patiently. I told Father Farrell here my plans, and the same
thing as swore that I would not alter them. He will now tell them to
you, father dear; and I shall lie down for a couple of hours, for
indeed I want rest of both body and mind."

She then kissed her father again and again, and blessed him, or rather
she prayed God to do so, and went to her room.

Father Farrell then explained all Winny's views to her distracted
father, observing, as he had been enjoined to do, the tenderest love
and respect for the old man; taking nothing "for granted;" but at the
same time showing the utmost confidence that all matters would still
be arranged for his daughter in the same manner he had often explained
to her to be his intention. "One step she was determined on," Father
Farrell said; "and that was to join a religious sisterhood of charity
in the north. Nothing should ever tempt her to marry."

"I'll sell this place at wance," said old Ned. "It's not a month since
I had a rattlin' bid for it; but my landlord--and he's member for the
county, you know--tould me with his own lips, that if ever I had a
mind to part with it, he'd give me a hundred pounds more for it than
any one else."

"That was Winny's wish, Ned; and that you should remove with her to
the north, where she would settle you comfortably, and where she could
{253} see you almost every day in the week."

"Almost," repeated old Ned, sorrowfully.

"Well, perhaps every day, Ned, for that matter."

"Well, Father Farrell, I would not wish to stay here any longer afther
what has happened. I'll sell the place out an' out at wance. I have
nothing to do but to write to my landlord. I could not bear to be
lookin' across at Mick Murdock's afther what tuck place. I think my
poor Winny is right; an' that it was the Lord put it all into her
head. Athen, Father Farrell, maybe it was yourself laid it down for
the little girl?"

"No, Ned; she laid it all down for me. I was going to reason with her
at first, but she put her hand upon my mouth, and told me to stop;
that nothing should alter her plans. I considered her words, Ned, for
a while, and I gave in; not on account of her determination, but
because I thought she was right. And I think so still; even to the
marrying of Emon on his death-bed."

"Indeed, Father Farrell, you have aised my mind. Glory be to God that
guided her!"

"Amen," said the priest.

Father Farrell had now in the kindest manner dealt with old Ned
Cavana, according to Winny's wishes and instructions; so that it was
an easy matter for Winny herself on that evening, when she had joined
her father after a refreshing sleep, to explain more in detail her
intentions as regarded herself, and her wishes as regarded her
friends--those capitals of counties which were marked on the map of
her imagination.

Old Ned was like a child in her hands; and no mother ever handled her
first-born babe more fondly than Winny dealt with her poor old father.

"Ducks an' dhrakes iv it, Winny asthore; ducks an' dhrakes iv it,
Winny dear! Isn't it all your own; what do I want with it, mavrone,
but to see you happy? an' haven't you laid out a plan for both
yourself an' myself that can't be bet, Winny mavoureen?"

The old man was perfectly satisfied with the map, and studied it so
well that he had it by heart before he went to bed, and could have
told you the boundaries of all Winny's wishes to the breadth of a
hair, as he kissed her for the last time that night.

I will spare the reader a detail of the melancholy _cortège_ of poor
Emon-a-knock's funeral, which proceeded from Shanvilla to Rathcash
chapel-yard the day but one after.

Winny had expressed a wish to attend it, but had yielded to the joint
advice of Father Farrell and Father Roche to resist the impulse.

Emon-a-knock had been well and truly loved in life, and was now
sincerely regretted in death. Father Farrell, at the head of the
procession, was met by Father Roche bare-headed at the chapel-gate of
Rathcash, and the melancholy ceremony was performed amidst the silent
grief of the immense crowd around. Poor Emon's last wish was complied
with, and he now occupied his last resting-place with the Cavanas of


It was still about an hour after noon when Winny beheld from the
parlor window at which she stood a very exciting cavalcade upon the
road, slowly approaching the house. At once she became acquainted with
the whole concern. "The chief" had fore-warned her that she might
expect a visit from the magistrate the moment he returned; and her
intelligence at once recognized the addition of the police and
prisoners some distance in rear of the car.

Winny's heart beat quick and high as she saw them draw nigh and turn
up the lane. It would be mock heroism to say that it did not. She knew
{254} that Tom Murdock, the murderer of her husband, must be one of
the prisoners, but she did not know why they were bringing him
there--for the police had now made the turn. She thought the
magistrate might have spared her that fresh excitement--that renewal
of her hate. But the magistrate was one of those who had anticipated
the law by his sense of justice and his practice. He was one who gave
every one of his majesty's subjects fair play, and it was therefore
his habit to have the accused face to face with the accuser when
informations were taken and read.

Poor Winny was rather fluttered and disturbed when they entered,
notwithstanding "the chief" had considerately prepared her for the
visit. She did not lose her self-possession, however, so much as to
forget the respect and courtesy due to gentlemen, beside being
officers of the law. She asked them down into the parlor, and
requested of them to be seated. They accepted her civility in silence,
seeing enough in her manner to show them that she was greatly
distressed, and required a little time to compose herself'. She was,
however, the first to speak.

"I suppose, gentlemen, you are come respecting this sad affair. I told
this gentleman here all I knew about it yesterday."

"Yes, but matters are still worse today, although there was no hope
even then that they would be better. Of course it will relieve you so
far at once to tell you that we are aware of the position in which you
now stand toward the deceased."

"Yes, sir. It was with a wish that the world might know it I took the
step I did. I had Father Farrell's approval of it, and my own
parish-priest's as well; but subsequently--"

"My good girl, we did not come here to question the propriety or
otherwise of either your actions or your motives. Nor do I for one
hesitate to say that I believe both to have been unexceptionable. But
it will be necessary that you should make an information upon oath as
to what took place from the first moment the men came to the door,
until the shot was fired by which Edward Lennon came by his death."

"I suppose, sir, you must have much better evidence than mine as to
the firing of the shot. I can only swear to the fact of two men having
tied me up and carried me away on a cart, and that there was a third
man on horseback with a mask upon his face; that when we came to Boher
bridge, the deceased Edward Lennon and his father came to our rescue;
that there was a long and distracting struggle at the bridge, which
lasted with very doubtful hopes of success for my deliverance until
Jamesy Doyle, our servant-boy, came up with the police; that the man
on horseback with the mask, whom I verily believe to have been Thomas
Murdock, turned to fly; that the deceased Edward Lennon fastened in
his horse's bridle to prevent him; that a deadly struggle ensued
between them, and that the man on horseback fired at the deceased, who
fell, I may say, dead on the road. The sight left my eyes, sir, and
except that we brought the dying man home on the cart, I know no more
about it of my own knowledge, sir."

"A very plain, straightforward, honest story as I ever heard," said
the magistrate. "But it will be necessary for you, when upon your
oath, to state whether you know, that is, whether you recognized, the
man on horseback at time."

"I could not recognize his features, sir, on account of the mask he
wore; but I did recognize his voice as that of Tom Murdock, and I know
his figure and general appearance."

"That will do now, Mrs. Lennon. I shall only trouble you to repeat
slowly and distinctly what you have already said, so that I can write
it down."

The magistrate then unlocked his leather writing-case, took out the
necessary forms for informations, and was {255} not long embodying
what Winny had to say in premier shape.

He then went through the same form with old Ned, with Biddy Murtagh,
and with Jamesy Doyle.

When the magistrate had all the informations taken and arranged, he
directed Sergeant Driscoll to bring in the prisoners, that he might
read them over and swear the several informants in their presence.
Winny became very nervous and fidgety, and would have left the room,
but the magistrate assured her that it was absolutely necessary that
she should remain, at least while her own informations were being
read. He would read them first, and she might then retire. He
regretted very much that it was necessary, but he would not detain her
more than a couple of minutes at most.

Tom Murdock and the other prisoner were then brought in; and Winny
having identified the other man, her informations were read in a loud,
distinct voice by the magistrate, and she acknowledged herself bound,
etc, etc.

"You may now retire, Mrs. Lennon," said the magistrate; and she
hastened to leave the room.

Tom Murdock stood near the door out of which she must pass, his hands
crossed below his breast in consequence of the handcuffs. He knew that
there was no chance of escape, no hope of an alteration or mitigation
of his doom in this world. Everything was too plain against him. There
were several witnesses to his deed of death, and the damning words by
which it was accompanied, and he knew that the rope must be his end.
Well, he had purchased his revenge, and he was willing to pay for it.
He determined, therefore, to put on the bravado, and glut that revenge
upon his still surviving victim.

"Emon-a-knock is dead. Miss Cavana," said he, as Winny would have
passed him to the door, her eyes fastened on the ground; "but not
buried yet", he added, with a sardonic smile. "I wish I were free of
these manacles, that I might follow his _remains_ to Shanvilla

"You would go wrong," she calmly reply. "He is indeed dead, but not
buried yet. But he is my dead husband, and will lie with the Cavanas
in the chapel-yard of Rathcash, and rise again with them; and I would
rather be possessed of the inheritance of the six feet of grass upon
his grave than be mistress of Rathcash, and Rathcashmore to boot.
Where will you be buried, Tom Murdock? Within the precincts of--the
jail? To rise with-but no! I shall not condemn beyond the grave; may
God forgive you! I cannot."

Even Tom Murdock's stony heart was moved. "Winny Cavana, do you think
God can?" he said, turning toward her; but she had passed out of the

The magistrate then read the informations of the other witnesses,
while Tom Murdock and the other prisoner, stood apparently listening,
though they heard not a word.

Jamesy Doyle's informations were word for word characteristic of
himself. He insisted upon having the flash of lightning inserted
therein, as an undoubted fact, "if ever he saw one knock a man down in
his life."

The magistrate and "the chief" had then some conversation with old Ned
and Winny, who had returned at their request to the parlor. It was of
a general character, but still respecting the melancholy occurrence,
or indeed occurrences, the magistrate said, for he had heard of the
death of the man who had been killed by the "watch-dog." Ere they left
they took Jamesy aside upon this subject, as the only person who knew
anything of this part of the business, and the magistrate requested
him to state distinctly what he knew of the transaction.

Jamesy was _distinct_ enough, as the reader will believe, from the
specimens he has already had of his style of communicating facts.

"Tell me, my good boy," said the magistrate, "did you _set_ the dog at
{256} the deceased?" laying a strong emphasis on the word.

"Beghorra, your honor, Bully-dhu didn't want any settin' at all. The
minnit he seen the man inside in the kitchen, he stuck in his thrapple
at wanst. I knew he'd hould him till I come back, an' I med off for
the police."

"Are you aware, my young champion, that if you set the dog at the
deceased you would be guilty of manslaughter at least, if not murder?"

"Of murdher, is id? Oh, tare anages, what's this for? Begorra, af that
be law it isn't justice. Didn't they tie th' ould masther neck an'
heels? Didn't they tie Miss Winny and carry her off to murdher her, or
maybe worse? Didn't they tie Biddy Murtagh? and wouldn't they ha' tied
me af they could get hoult of me? an' would you want Bully-dhu to sit
on his boss, lookin' on at all that, your honor?"

"That may be all true, Jamesy, but I do not think the law would
exonerate you, for all that, if you set the dog at the deceased man."

"Well, begorra, I pointed at the man, your honor; but I tell you
Bully-dhu wanted no settin' at him at all; af he did I'd have given it
to him; and I think the law would onerate me for that same. See here
now, your honor. Af th' ould masther had a double-barrel gun, an' shot
the two men as dead as mutton that was goin' to tie him up, wouldn't
the law be well plaised wid him? and if I had a pistol, an' shot every
man iv 'em, wouldn't your honor make a chief iv me at least, instead
of sending me to jail? and why wouldn't Bully-dhu, who had on'y a pair
of double-barrel tusks, do his part an' help us? I'm feedin' an'
taichin' that dog, your honor, since he was a whelp, an' he never
disappointed me yet--there now!"

There was certainly natural logic in all this, which the magistrate,
with all his experience of the law, found it difficult to contradict.
A notion had come into his head at one time that if Jamesy Doyle had
set the dog at John Fahy, he might be guilty of his death,
notwithstanding the said John Fahy had been committing a felony at the
time. But there was no proof that he had set the dog at the man beyond
his own admission, and the question had not been raised. Jamesy was
willing to avow his responsibility, as far as it went, in the most
open and candid manner, and not only that, but to _justify_ it, which
he had indeed done in a most extraordinary, clever manner. Then what
had been his conduct all through? Had it not been that of a
courageous, faithful boy, who had risked his own life in obstructing
the escape of the murderer? and was he not the most material witness
they had--the only one who had never lost sight of the man who had
shot Edward Lennon, until he himself had secured him for the police?
"No, no," reflected the magistrate; "it would be absurd to hold Jamesy
Doyle liable for anything, but the most qualified approbation of his
conduct from first to last."

"Well, Jamesy," said he, out of these thoughts, "we will take your own
opinion in favor of yourself for the present. There is no doubt of
your being forthcoming at the next assizes?"

"Begorra, your honor, I'll stick to the ould masther and Miss Winny,
an' I don't think they're likely to lave this."

"That will do, Jamesy. Come, Mr.----, I think we have taken up almost
enough of these poor people's time. We may be going."

A word or two about old Mick Murdock ere we close this chapter, as the
reader, not having seen or heard of him for some days, will no doubt
be curious to know what he had been doing, and how he comported
himself during so trying and exciting a scene.

During the period which Tom had spent in the obscure little
public-house {257} upon the mountain road in the county Cavan, his own
report that, he had gone to the north had done him no service; for the
addition which he had tacked to it, about "going to get married to a
rich young lady," was not believed by a single person for whose
deception it had been spread abroad. That sort of thing had been so
often repeated without fulfilment that people reversed the cry of the
wolf upon the subject.

There was nothing now for it with those to whom Tom was indebted but
to go to his father, in hopes of some arrangement being made to even
secure them in their money. Several bills of exchange--some overdue,
and some not yet at maturity--with his name across them, were brought
to old Mick for sums varying from ten to fifteen and twenty pounds.
Old Mick quietly pronounced them one and all to be _forgeries_. Tom
and he had had some very sharp words before he went away. He had
called the poor old man a "----old niggard" to his face, and he heard
the words "cannot lost very long," as Tom slapped the door behind him.

Old Mick would have only fretted at all this had his son returned in a
reasonable time to his home, and, as usual, made promises of
amendment, or had even written to him. It was the first time that ever
a forged acceptance had been presented to him for payment, and Tom's
prolonged absence without any preconcerted object to account for it
weighed heavily upon the old man's heart as to his son's real
character. Tom was all this time, as the reader is aware, planning a
bold stroke to secure Winny Cavana's fortune to pay off these
forgeries. But we have seen with what a miserable result.

It was impossible to hide the glaring fact of Tom Murdock's
apprehension and committal to jail upon the dreadful charge of murder
from his father. It rang from one end of the parish to the other. But
instead of rushing to meet his son, clapping his hands, and
exclaiming, "Oh! wiristhrue, wiristhrue! what's this for?" poor old
Mick was completely prostrated by the news; and there he lay in his
bed, unable to move hand or foot from the poignancy of his grief and

If Tom Murdock has broken his poor old father's heart, and he never
rises from that bed, it is only another item in his great account.


The reader will recollect that the incidents recorded in the two last
chapters took place toward the latter end of June. We will, therefore,
have time, before the assizes come on, to let him know how far Winny's
fancy map was perfected.

For herself, then, first. She had determined to become a member of a
convent in the north of Ireland, giving up the world with all its
vanities--she knew nothing of its pomps--and devoting her time, her
talents, and whatever money she might finally possess, to religious
and charitable purposes. She had not delayed long after the magistrate
and "the chief" had left, and she had experienced a refreshing sleep,
in taking her father into her confidence to the fullest extent of her
intuitions, not only as regarded herself, but with respect to those
friends whom she had set down upon the map to be provided for.

"Father," she said, continuing a conversation, "there is no use in
your moving such a thing to me. It is no matter at what time you
project it for me; my mind is made up beyond even the consideration of
the question. I will never marry. Do not, like a dear good father that
you have ever been, move it to me any more."

"Indeed, Winny, I could not add a word more than I have already sed;
an' if that fails to bring you round, {258} share I'm dumb, Winny
asthore. God's will be done! I'm dumb."

"It is his will I am seeking, father. What matter if we are the last
of the Cavanas, as you say? Beside, my children would not be Cavanas;
recollect that, father."

"I know that, Winny jewel; but they'd be of th' ould stock all the
same. Their grandfather would be a Cavana, if he lived to see them."

"Be thankful for what you have, father dear. There never was a large
clan of a name but some one of them brought grief to it."

"Ay, Winny asthore; but there is always wan that makes up for it by
their superior goodness. Look at me that never had but the wan, an'
wasn't she, an' isn't she, a threasure to me all the days of my life?
Look at that, Winny."

"And there is your next-door neighbor, father, never had but the one,
and instead of a treasure, has he not been a curse? Look you at that,

Old Ned was silent for some moments, and Winny did not wish to
interrupt his thoughts. She hoped he was coming quite round to her way
of thinking with respect to her never "getting married;" and she was

"Well, Winny asthore," he said, after a pause, "shure you're doin' a
good turn for your sowl hereafther at any rate; an' I'll be led an'
sed by your own sinse of goodness in the matther. For myself, Winny,
wheresomever you go I'll go, where I'll see you sometimes--as often as
you can, Winny. Be my time long or short, I know that you will never
see me worse, if not betther nor what I always was. But it isn't aisy
to lave this place, Winny asthore, where I'm livin' since I was the
hoith of your knee with your grandfather an' your grandmother--God
rest their sowls! There isn't a pebble in the long walk in the garden,
nor a pavin'-stone in the yard, that I couldn't place upon paper
forenent you there this minnit, and tell you the color of them every
wan. There's scarcely a blade of grass in the pasthure-fields that I
couldn't remember where it grows in my dhrames. There isn't a
furze-blossom in the big ditch but what I'd know it out iv the bud it
cum from. There isn't a thrush nor a blackbird about the place but
what I know themselves an' their whistles as well as I know your own
song from Biddy Murtagh's or Jamesy Doyle's. Not a robin-redbreast in
the garden, Winny, that doesn't know me as well as I know you; an' I
could tell you the difference between the very chaffinches--I could,
Winny, I could."

"I know all that, father dear, and I know it will not be easy to break
up all them happy thoughts in your mind. But then you know, father
dear, I could not stop here looking across at the house where that man
lived. God help me, father, I do not know what to do!"

Poor old Ned saw that she was distressed, and was sorry he had drawn
such a picture of his former happiness at Rathcash. The recollection
of these little matters had run upon his tongue, but it was not with
any intention of using them as an argument to change Winny's plans.

"Winny," he said, "I didn't mane to fret you; shure I know what you
say is all thrue. I could not stop here myself no more nor what you
could, Winny, afther what has happened. Dear me, Winny jewel, how soon
you seen through that fellow, an' how glad I am that you didn't give
in to me! But now, Winny asthore, let us quit talking of him, and
listen to what I have to say to you. 'Tis just this. My landlord, who
you know is member for the county, tould me any time I had a mind to
sell my intherest in Rathcash, that he'd give me a hundred pounds more
for it than any one else. I'll write to him tomorrow, plaise God,
about it. You know Jerry Carty? Well, he is afther offerin' me seven
hundred {259} pounds into my fist for my good-will of the place. As
good luck would have it, I did not put any price upon it when my
landlord spoke to me about sellin' it. I can tell him now that I have
a mind to sell it, an' I won't hide the raison aidher. I can let him
know what Carty is willin' to give me for it, an' he's sure to give me
eight hundred pounds. You know, Winny, that your six hundred pounds is
in the bank b'arin' intherest for you, an' what you don't dhraw is
added to it every half year. But that's naidher here nor there, Winny,
for it will be all your own the very moment this place is sould, an',
as I sed before, you may make ducks and dhrakes iv it. Shure I know,
Winny, that'll you never see me want for a haporth while I last, be it
long or short. But, Winny dear, let us live in the wan house; that's
all I ax, mavourneen macree."

"That will be about fourteen hundred pounds in all, father."

"A thrifle more nor that, I think, Winny. Maybe you did not know how
much or how little it was, when you laid it out the way you tould me."

"No, not exactly, father; but I knew I must have been very much within
the mark; I took care of that."

"Go over it again for me, Winny dear, af it wouldn't be too much

"Not in the least, father. You know I took Kate Mulvey first, and
determined to settle three hundred pounds upon her for a fortune
against 'she meets with some young man,' as the song says. And I
believe, father, Phil M'Dermott, the whitesmith, will be about the
man. He is very fond of Kate, but he would not marry any woman until
he had saved enough of money to set up a house comfortly and decently
upon. Three hundred pounds fortune with Kate will set them up in good
style, and I shall see the best friend I ever had happy. Then, father,
there are the Lennons, my poor dear husband's parents, whom I shall
next consider. Pat Lennon, poor Emon's father, risked his life most
manfully in my defence. Were it not for his resolute attack upon the
two men with the cart, and the obstruction he gave them, they would
have carried me through the pass long before the police and Jamesy
Doyle came up; and the probability is that you would never have seen
your poor Winny again. I purpose purchasing the good-will of that
little farm and house from which the Murphys are about to emigrate,
and settle a small gratuity upon them during their lives."

"Annuity, I suppose you mane, Winny; but it's no matther. How much
will that take, Winny?"

"About two hundred pounds, father, including the--what is it you call
it, father?'

"Annuity, Winny, annuity; I didn't think you were so--"

"Annuity," she repeated before he had got the other word out, and he
was glad afterward.

"Well, Winny, that's only five hundred out of somethin' over six."

"Then I'll give Biddy Murtagh a hundred pounds, and she must live as
cook and house-maid with Kate; and I'll lodge twenty pounds in the
savings-bank for Jamesy Doyle. Perhaps I owe him more than the whole
of them put together."

"That will be the first duck, Winny."

"How is that, father?'

"Why, it's well beyant the six hundred, Winny, which was all you were
goin' upon at first; but you may now begin with whatever we get by the
sale of Rathcash."

"Well, father, I would only wish to suggest the distribution of that,
for you know I have no call to it, and God grant that it may be a long
day until I have."

"Faix, an' Winny, af that be so, you've left yourself bare enough. But
don't be talkin' nonsense, child. What would I want with it? Won't
{260} you take care iv me, Winny asthore? an' won't you want the most
iv it where you are agoin? an' didn't you tell me already that you'd
like me to let you give it to the charities of that religious
establishment? Shure, there's no use in my askin' you any more not to
go into it."

"None indeed, father, for I am resolved upon it. But you shall live in
the town with me, and I can take care of you the same as if I was in
the house with you. There shall be nothing that you can want or wish
for that you shall not have, and no day that it is possible that I
will not see you."

"What more had I here, Winny, except the crops coming round from the
seed to the harvest, an' the cattle, an' the grass, an' the birds in
the bushes? Dear, oh dear, yes! Hadn't I yourself, Winny asthore,
forenent me at breakust, dinner, an' supper; an' warn't you for ever
talkin' to me of an evenin', with your stitchin' or your knittin'
across your lap; an', Winny jewel, wasn't your light song curling
through the yard, an' the house, afore I was up in the mornin'? But
now--now--Winny--oh, Winny asthore, mavourneen macree! but your poor
old father will miss yourself, no matther how kind your plans may be
for his comfort. Shure, the very knowledge that you were asleep in the
house with me was a blessin'."

"Father," she said, "God bless you! I will be back with you in a few
minutes--do not fret;" and she left him, and shut herself up in her

But he did fret; and he was no sooner alone than the big tears burst
uncontrollably forth into a pocket-handkerchief, which he continued to
sop against his face.

Winny had thrown herself upon her knees at the bedside, and prayed to
God to guide her. Her thoughts and prayers were too dignified and holy
for tears. But they had made a free course to the pinnacle of the
mercy-seat, and she rose with her soul refreshed by the glory which
had responded to her cry for guidance.

She returned to her father, a radiant smile of anticipated pleasure
playing round her beautiful lips. There was no sign of grief, or even
of emotion, on her cheeks.

"Father," she said, "I have been seeking guidance from the Almighty in
this matter; and the old saying that 'charity begins at home'--that is
moral charity in this instance--has been suggested to my heart. We
shall not part, father, even temporarily. Where you live, I shall
live. I have been told, father, just now, while upon my knees, that to
do all the good I have projected need not oblige me to join as an
actual member of any charitable or religious society. No, father, I
can carry out all my plans without the necessity of living apart from
you; we will therefore, father dear, still live together. But let us
remove when this place is sold to B----, where the establishment I
have spoken of is situated, and there, with my knitting or my
stitching on my lap before you in the evenings, I can carry on all my
plans in connection with the institution without being an actual
member, which might involve the necessity of my living in the house.
But, father dear, I hope you do not disapprove of any of them, or of
the distribution of the money, so far as I have laid it out."

It was then quietly and finally arranged between them that as soon as
Rathcash was sold, and the stock and furniture disposed of, they would
remove to B----, in a northern county. They there intended to take a
small house, either in the town or precincts--the latter old Ned
preferred--where Winny could join the Sisters of Charity, at least in
her acts, if not as a resident member. The money was to be disposed of
as Winny had laid out, and legal deeds were to be prepared and
perfected; and poor Winny, notwithstanding the sudden cloud which had
darkened the blue heaven of her {261} life, was to be as happy as the
day was long.


Within a month from the scene between Winny and her father described
above, Rathcash bad been purchased and paid for. There had been "a
great auction" of the stock, crops, and furniture. The house was shut
up, the door locked, and the windows bolted. No smoke curled from the
brick chimneys through the poplars. No sleek dark-red cows stood
swinging their tails and licking their noses, while a fragrant smell
of luscious milk rose through the air. No cock crew, no duck quacked,
no Turkey gobbled, and no goose gabbled. No dog bayed the moon by
night. Bully-dhu was at the flitting. The corn-stands and haggard were
naked and cold, and the grass was beginning to grow before the door.
The whole place seemed solitary and forlorn, awaiting a new tenant, or
whatever plans the proprietor might lay out for its future occupation.
Winny and her father had torn themselves from the spot hallowed to the
old man by years of uninterrupted happiness, and to the young girl by
the memory of a blissful childhood and the first sunshine of the
bright hope which is nearest to a woman's heart, until that fatal
night when vengeful crime broke in and snapt both spells asunder.
Rathcash and Rathcashmore had been a byword in the mouths of young and
old for the nine days limited for the wonder of such things.

If the goodness of his only child had broken the heart of one old man
from the reflection that her earthly happiness had been hopelessly
blighted, and his fond plans and prospects for her crushed for ever,
the villany and wickedness of another had not been less certain in a
similar result. Old Mick Murdock--ere his son stood before an earthly
tribunal to answer for his crimes--had been summoned before the court
of heaven.

The assizes came round, "the charge was prepared, the judge was
arrayed--a most _ter_rible show." Old Cavana and his daughter were, as
a matter of course, summoned by the crown for the prosecution, as were
also Pat Lennon, Jamesy Doyle, Biddy Murtagh, and the policemen who
had come to the rescue.

Old Ned was the first witness, Winny the second, Jamesy Doyle the
third. Then Biddy Murtagh and Pat Lennon, and finally, before the
doctor's medical evidence was given, the policemen who came to the
rescue, particularly he who had seen the shot fired and the man fall.

This closed the evidence for the Crown. There was no case, there could
be no case, for the prisoner, beyond the futile cross-examination of
the witnesses, by an able and tormenting counsellor, old Bob B----y,
whose experience in this instance was worse than useless.

The reader need hardly follow on to the result. Tom Murdock was
convicted and sentenced to death; and ere three weeks had elapsed he
had paid the penalty of an ungovernable temper and a revengeful
disposition upon the scaffold.

Poor Winny had pleaded hard with the counsel for the crown, and even
with the attorney-general himself--who prosecuted in person--that Tom
Murdock might be permitted to plead guilty to the abduction, and be
sentenced to transportation for life. But the attorney-general, who
had all the informations by heart, said that the animus had been
manifest all through, from even prior to the hurling-match, which was
alluded to by the prisoner himself as he fired the shot, and that he
would most certainly arraign the prisoner for the murder. And so he
was found guilty; and Winny, with her heart full of plans of peace and
charity, was obliged to forge the first link in a chain the {262}
succeeding ones of which dragged Tom Murdock to an ignominious grave.

Old Ned and Winny, accompanied by faithful Bully-dhu, had returned to
B----, where the old man read and loitered about, watching every
figure which approached, hoping to see his angel girl pass on some
mission of holy charity, dressed in her black hood and cape.

Accompanied by Bully-dhu, he picked up every occurrence in the street,
and compiled them in his memory, to amuse Winny in the evenings, in
return for her descriptions of this or that case of distress which she
had relieved. Thus they told story about, not very unlike tragedy and

A sufficient time had now elapsed, not only for the deeds to have been
perfected, but for the provisions which they set forth to have been
carried out. Pat Lennon had already removed to the comfortable cottage
upon the snug little farm which had been purchased for him by Winny,
and the "annuity" she had settled upon him was bearing interest in the
savings-bank at C. O. S.

Phil M'Dermott was one of the best to do men in that side of the
country, and his wife (if you can guess who she was) was the nicest
and the handsomest he (now that Winny was gone) that you'd meet with
in the congregation of the three chapels within four miles of where
she lived. Jamesy Doyle had been transferred--head, body, and
bones--to the establishment, where he excelled himself in everything
which was good and useful and--_handy_. Many a figary was got from
time to time after him in the forge, filed up bright and nice, and if
he does not "sorely belie" his abilities and aptitude, he will one day
become a "whitesmith" of no mean reputation.

Biddy Murtagh was to have gone as cook and thorough servant to _Mrs.
M'Dermott;_ but the hundred pounds which had been lodged to her credit
in the bank soon smoothed the way between her and Denis Murrican--a
Shanvilla boy, you will guess--who induced her to become cook, but not
thorough servant, I hope, to himself; so Kate M'Dermott--how strange
it seems not to write 'Kate Mulvey'!--was obliged to get somebody

Poor Winny, blighted in her own hopes of this world's happiness, had
turned her thoughts to a surer and more abiding source. She had seen
her plans for the happiness of those she loved carried out to a
success almost beyond her hopes. Her poor old father, getting whiter
and whiter as the years rolled on, attained a ripe and good old age,
blessed in the fond society of the only being whom he loved on earth.
Winny herself found too large a field for individual charity and good
to think of joining any society, however estimable, during her
father's lifetime, and was emphatically _the_ Sister of Charity in the
singular number.

But poor old Ned has long since passed away from this scene of earthly
cares, and sleeps in peace in his own chapel-yard, between _two
tombs_. Long as the journey was, Winny had the courage and
self-control to come with her father's bier, and see his coffin laid
beside that of him who had been so rudely snatched away, and whom she
had so devotedly loved. Poor Bully-dhu was at the funeral, and gazed
into the fresh-made grave in silent, dying grief. When all was over,
and the last green sod slapped down upon the mound, he could nowhere
be found. He had suddenly eluded all observation. But ere a week had
passed by, he was found dead upon his master's grave, after the whole
neighborhood had been terrified by a night of the most dismal howling
which was ever heard.

Winny returned to the sphere of her usefulness and hope, where for
many years she continued to exercise a course of unselfish charity,
which made many a heart sing for joy.


But she, too, passed away, and was brought home to her last
resting-place in Rathcash chapel-yard, where the three tombs are still
to be seen. Were she now alive she would yet be a comparatively young
woman, not much past sixty-four or sixty-five years of age. But it
pleased God, in his inscrutable ways, to remove her from the circle of
all her bounty and her love. Had it not been so, this tale would not
have yet been written.




  Lo! another pilgrim, weary
    With his toils, hath reached the goal.
  And we lift our "_Miserere_"
    For the dear departed soul;
  God of pity and of love!
  May he reign with thee above!

  By the pleasures he surrendered,
    By the cross so meekly borne.
  By the heart so early tendered.
    By each sharp and secret thorn,
  And by every holy deed--
  For our brother's rest we plead!

  'Mid the throng who rest contented,
    Earth to him was but a waste.
  And the sweets this life presented,
    Were but wormwood to his taste.
  Faith had taught him from the first
  For the fount of life to thirst

  Faith, the sun that rose to brighten
    All his pathway from the font:
  Then no phantom e'er could frighten,
    Nor the sword of pain or want:
  "For," he said, "though pain be strong,
  Time shall vanquish it ere long."

  When he spoke of things eternal,
    How the transient seemed to fade!
  And we saw the goods supernal
    Stand revealed without a shade:
  "Surely 'twas a spirit spoke,"
  Was the thought his language woke.


  Thought prophetic! _now_ a spirit
    Speaketh from the world unseen:
  And the faith we, too, inherit
    Telleth what the tidings mean:
  "Friend and stranger! oh, prepare--
  Make the wedding garment fair."

  Yet our brother's strength was mortal;
    Bore he naught of earthly taint?
  Did he pass the guarded portal
    In the armor of a saint?
  Lord of holiness! with dread
  On this awful ground we tread.

  He was merciful and tender
    To the erring and the weak;
  Therefore will thy pity render
    Unto him the grace we seek.
  Whilst we bring to mercy's fount
  Pledges uttered on the Mount.

  He remembered the departed
    As we now remember him:
  Bright, and true, and simple-hearted.
    Till the lamp of life grew dim:
  Friend was he of youth and age--
  Now a child--and now a sage.

  If those footsteps unreturning
    Leave on earth no lasting trace:
  If no kindred heart be yearning
    Tearful in his vacant place:
  If oblivion be his lot
  Here below, we murmur not;
  Only let his portion be
  Evermore, dear Lord, _with thee!_


Beaver, PA.



From The Dublin University Magazine.



Notwithstanding that Madeira enjoys an imperishable distinction for
its matchless scenery, its sunny skies, and its healthful climate, yet
the character of its inhabitants seems to have been but little
studied, and still less the singular usages and customs which indicate
their nationality. Impressed with the idea that to supply some
information on these particulars might heighten the interest
experienced for the Madeirans as an isolated little community, I have
compiled a few pages descriptive of their social and domestic life,
intending them, however, merely as supplementary to the valuable
information afforded by others.

Passing over the novel and amusing circumstance of landing at Funchal,
which has already been so often described, I find myself in a
boi-caro, or ox-car, traversing narrow and intricate streets; the
murmur of waters and soft strains of instrumental music saluting my
ear, while a faint perfumed breeze stirs the curtains of my caro. By
some travellers the boi-caro has been likened to the body of a calèche
placed on a sledge, but to me it neither had then, nor has it assumed
since, any other appearance than that of a four-post bed, curtained
with oil-cloth, lined with some bright-colored calico, and having
comfortably cushioned seats. It is made of light, strong timber,
secured on a frame shod with iron. A pair of fat, sleek oxen are yoked
to this odd-looking carriage, while from thongs passed through their
horns bits of carved ivory or bone hang on their foreheads to protect
them from the influence of Malochio or Evil-eye.

Half an hour brought me to my destination, No.--,  Rua San Francisco.
This house in its structure resembles the generality of the better
class of houses in the island, the sleeping-rooms being sacrificed to
the magnificence of the reception-rooms, the vastness of which appears
to mock the ordinary wants of daily life. The walls are pure white,
lined with prints, paintings, and mirrors; the floors are either
covered with oil-cloth or highly polished; and the windows are shaded
by lace curtains and Venetian blinds; the furniture is modern, and of
English manufacture. I have been thus minute because the interiors of
all the superior dwellings have the same general character. I cannot,
however, say the same with regard to the tastes and habits of the
occupants. The British prince-merchant, with his spirit, his
intelligence, and his philanthropy, gives his days to the busy cares
of life, and his evenings to the quiet enjoyments of home; while the
Madeiran gentleman passes his days in luxurious indolence, and his
evenings in crowded rooms. The ladies present an equally strong
contrast, and yet, during one short period in each day, their tastes
and purposes seem to assimilate: when the brief and beautiful
twilight, with its freshness, its odors, and its music, induces even
the exclusive English-women to appear in the shaded balcony, and find
amusement in the passing scenes.

At this hour the peasantry may be seen returning to their homes in
little parties of four or five, each group being accompanied by a
musician playing on the national instrument, the machêtes, or
guitarette, and singing some plaintive air in which, occasionally, all
join. No sooner has one group passed, than the sweet, soft intonations
of other songsters are heard {266} approaching. Sometimes two or even
more parties will enter the street at the same time, when they at once
take up alternate parts, and that with such perfect taste and harmony
that when the notes begin to die away in the distance the listener's
car is aching with attention. These songs are usually of their own
composition, and are improvised for the occasion. They have but few
national ballads, and of these the subjects are either the
mischief-loving Malochio, or Macham and the unhappy Lady Anna, or the
fable of Madeira's having been cast up by the sea covered with
magnificent forests of cedar, which afterward, catching fire from a
sun-beam, burned for seven years, and then from the heated soil
produced the luxuriant vegetation with which it is now clothed.

It must not be supposed, however, that the peasantry are of a
melancholy disposition because it is their custom to make choice of
plaintive music to time their footsteps when returning at the close of
a golden day to their homes by the sea or on the rugged mountain
heights. On the contrary, the character of their minds combines all
the variety of the scenes amongst which they were nurtured, though the
leading trait is a desire for the gay and fanciful, whether in dress
or amusement; While they regard neither money nor time in comparison
with the gratification of witnessing the numerous ceremonies and
pageants which every other day fill the streets with richly-dad trains
of ecclesiastics, flashing cavalcades, and troops of youths and
maidens in festive wreaths and gay attire. The season of Lent affords
them almost daily opportunities for the indulgence of this taste.

At an early hour of the Monday morning in the first week in Lent the
ordinary stillness of the town is interrupted by loud and clamorous
sounds, such as sometimes assail the ear in a European town, at
midnight, when bands of revellers are reeling toward their homes.
Laughter, song, instrumental music, and the unsteady tramp of a crowd
meet the startled ear, suggesting the idea of the proximity of a
disorderly multitude. Opening the window cautiously you look down into
the street, and behold bands of men in masks and habited in every
variety of strange and ridiculous costume. Some few, however, display
both taste and wealth in the choice of their disguises, but the
generality of the crowd in their tawdry attire and hideous masks
appear to have studied only effectual concealment. For some hours
party after party continue to pass through the street, and as they
knock loudly at the doors, and even call on the inhabitants by name,
you discover that a feeling of impatience to have the shops opened and
the ordinary routine of business commenced is common to all, and, if
not gratified, may manifest itself in some open act of aggression.
Slowly and with evident reluctance the houses are opened, while the
curious and amused faces of children and servants may be seen peeping
from the trellised balconies down on the noisy crowd. After a time a
few men in ordinary costume begin to appear in the street, trying to
look unconscious and unsuspicious of any danger, and hurrying forward
with the important pre-occupied air of men of business. But neither
their courage nor cunning avails them anything. A shower of stale eggs
breaking on the stalwart shoulders of one merchant reminds him that
the more grave and English-like is his demeanor, the more is he
regarded as the proper subject for mirth; while a plate of flour
thrown over another would send a dusty miller instead of a dandy
flying into some open door for shelter, followed by the derisive
laughter of the insolent crowd.

Amazed at such an exhibition of unchecked violence, the stranger
inquires the meaning of the scene, and learns that it is merely the
customary way of celebrating in Funchal the day known as Shrove
Tuesday, the people having from time immemorial {267} enjoyed an
established license to indulge on that day in such rude practical
jokes as are warranted by the usages of all carnival seasons.

I may here observe that the Madeirans reckon their days from noon to
noon, instead of from midnight to midnight, though their impatience
for frolic and mischief frequently leads them, as on the present
occasion, into the error of beginning the day some hours too soon.
When, however, celebrating religious festivals, or on days set apart
for fasting and invoking of their patron saints--Nossa Senhora do
Monte and Sant Jago Minor--they carefully adhere to the established

As the day advances the crowd becomes bolder, and no one, no matter
what his age, rank, or nation, is suffered to pass unmolested. These
coarse carnival jests are continued not only through the day but
through the night, and until noon the next day, when the firing of
cannon from the fort announces the cessation of the privilege of
outraging society with impunity. Although, however, practical joking
is prohibited from that moment until the next anniversary of the same
day, masquerading is allowed from Shrove Tuesday till the week after
Easter, the English being the chief, if not the only, objects for
raillery and ridicule.

In general the most amicable feelings exist between the Madeirans and
all foreigners, yet the lower classes of the natives appear to derive
the utmost satisfaction in being openly permitted to caricature the
English, and under favor of their privileged disguise to display
John's eccentricities and weaknesses in the most ludicrous light,
while the jealousy of the authorities prohibits on his part the most
distant approach to retaliation.

As the last echo of the warning gun died away amongst the hills, the
sun's position in the heavens indicated the hour of noon, and
instantly the musical peals of numerous bells came floating to the ear
from every direction, while above their sweet harmonious sounds is
heard the booming of cannon from the vessels anchored in the roads,
and the loud blasts of trumpets from the fort and the barracks. A
stranger might be excused for supposing that the people were about to
renew the carnival, whereas they were only announcing, in conformity
with ecclesiastical law, the commencement of the season of Lent. This
was the first day, or Ash Wednesday, though by our manner of computing
time it was still the noon of Tuesday. At one o'clock the roar of
artillery from the Loo Rock and the shipping was silent, the martial
strains ceased, but the bells at short intervals continued to ring out
their melodious summons, which was responded to by hundreds of persons
in ordinary costume, all moving in the direction of the sé, or
cathedral, in the Praca Constitutionel. Mingling with this decorous
portion of the crowd were many of the most grotesquely attired masques
of the previous day, whose antics and buffoonery, jests and laughter,
formed the oddest contrast to the costume and bearing of the others.

Meanwhile, by one of those sudden changes so common in tropical
climates, the sky, which a short time before was so blue and serene,
began to show signs of a gathering storm. There was an ominous
stillness in the atmosphere, the dull leaden color overhead was
shedding its gloom everywhere, and I heard voices from the crowd
exclaiming, "Hasten forward there, the rain is coming--hasten!" A few
big drops just then fell with a plashing sound, and in a second or two
afterward down, with a terrific noise, poured the fierce wild rain,
coming on the streets with the noise of a waterfall, while on the
house-tops it fell with a sharp rattle, as if every drop was a

In a few moments from the commencement of the rain the people had all
disappeared, the streets had assumed the appearance of rushing
streams, while the three fiumeras traversing the town kept up an {268}
unceasing roar, as the swollen waters rushed plunging toward the sea.

Formerly these fiumeras were uninclosed, and consequently after heavy
rains the torrents would enlarge their borders, spreading out on every
side and encompassing the town, until it assumed the appearance of
having been built in the midst of waves and currents. Now, however,
walls of strong masonry attest the wisdom and industry of the modern
Madeirans, and between these the rivers flow in shallow musical
streams in summer, or sweep on in deep, sullen floods during the rainy
seasons in spring and autumn. It sometimes, however, happens that,
though the rivers can no longer overleap their boundaries to career
round pillared edifices and lay bare their foundations, or, sweeping
up into their fierce embrace cottages and their inmates, inclosures
and their stalled cattle, hurry with them into the blue depths of the
bay of Funchal, they still, when increased by these mountain torrents,
which on leaving the heights are but whispering streamlets, gathering
depth and strength in their descent, will send boulders of many tons
weight over the high broad walls, followed by giant trees, planks of
timber, and jagged branches, as if from the heaving bosom of the angry
waters rocks and withered boughs are flung off with equal ease.


From the period alluded to in the last chapter, namely, the beginning
of Lent, processions and public ceremonies become of such frequent
recurrence that I must either pass over a period of some weeks or fill
a volume in describing them. Believing the former course to be the
wisest, I shall pass on to the fourth Sunday in Lent. From an early
hour in the morning every bell-tower had been awakening the echoes
with its musical clamor, and every hamlet and village had responded to
the summons by sending forth crowds of hardy inhabitants in their best
attire, to join the gaily dressed multitudes thronging through the
narrow, angular streets of Funchal toward the Praca, in which, as I
have said, stands the sé, or cathedral. This building is
quaint-looking and massive, proclaiming the liberality, if not the
taste, of its founders. It is somewhat more than three centuries old,
having been completed in the year 1514, and is only now beginning to
assume that mellow and sombre hue which comports so well with the
character of such piles. By the hour of noon the Praca presented a sea
of human faces. The long seats beneath the shade of trees had been
resigned to the children, while the platform in the centre of the
square, occupied on ordinary occasions by the military bands, now
presented a waving parterre of the smiling and observant faces of
peasant girls, who, notwithstanding their proverbial timidity and
gentleness, had managed to secure that elevated position. Meantime the
balconies were filling fast with the families of the English and
German residents, all intent on seeing the remarkable pageant of the
day known as the "Passo."

Having obtained a front seat in the balcony of the English
reading-room, I had a full view of the animated and picturesque scene
beneath, the latter feature being heightened by the striking contrasts
exhibited between the costumes of the peasant women and those of the
same grade residing in the town. As one looked at the latter it was
not difficult to imagine they had just come from Europe with the tail
of the fashions. Bonnets, feathers, flowers, ballooned dresses, all
were foreign importations; while the women who had come down from
those cottages on the heights, which, on looking up at, appear like
pensile nests hanging from the crags, wore dresses of masapuja--a
mixture of thread and bright wools manufactured by themselves--small
shawls woven {269} in bright stripes, and on their heads the graceful
looking lenco, or handkerchief, in some showy, becoming color. Others
from the fishing villages wore complete suits of blue cloth, of a
light texture, even to the head-dress, which was the carapuca, or
conical shaped cap, ending in a drooping horn and a golden tassel;
while a few wore cotton dresses, and covered their heads with the
barrettea, a knitted cap in shape like an elongated bowl, and having a
woollen tuft at the top glittering with gold beads. The elder women
covered their shoulders with large bright shawls, while the younger
wore tightly-fitting bodices, fastened with gold buttons, and over
these small capes with pointed collars. All, whether old or young,
wore their dresses full, and sufficiently short to display to
advantage their small and beautifully formed feet.

In singular contrast with this simplicity of taste in their apparel,
is their desire for a profusion of ornaments. Accordingly, you will
find adorning the persons of the peasant women of Madeira rings and
chains and brooches of intrinsic value and much beauty, such as in
other countries people of wealth assume the exclusive right to wear.
An instance of this ruling passion came under my notice a short time
since, which I may mention here.

Through a long life of toil and poverty a peasant woman had regularly
laid by, from her scanty earnings, a small sum weekly. Her neighbors
commended her forethought and prudence, not doubting but that the
little hoard so persistently gathered was meant to meet the
necessities of the days when the feeble hands would forget their
cunning. At length the sum amounted to some hundreds of testatoes, or
silver five-pences, and then the poor woman's life-secret was
discovered. With a step buoyant for her years, and a smile which for a
moment brought back the beauty of her youth, she entered a jeweller's
shop, and exchanged the contents of her purse for a pair of costly
earrings. Had she been remonstrated with, she would have betrayed not
only her own but the national feeling on the subject, by saying--"I
lose nothing by the indulgence. At any moment I can find a purchaser
for real jewelry."

An hour passed, and signs of impatience were becoming visible in the
crowd, when the sounds of distant music caused a sudden and deep
silence. A feeling of awe seemed to have fallen at once on the
multitude, and every bronze-colored face was turned with a reverential
expression toward the street by which it was known the procession
would enter the Praca. Slowly the music drew near, now reaching us in
full strains, then seeming to die away in soft cadences. Meantime the
guns from the forts and shipping renewed their firing, and the bells
swung out their grandest peal. Curiosity was at its height, when the
foremost row of the procession met our view--four men walking abreast,
wearing violet-colored silk cassocks, with round capes reaching to the
girdles, and holding in their hands wax candles of an enormous size. A
long train, habited in the same way, followed these, and then came
four ecclesiastics in black silk gowns and Jesuits' caps, bearing
aloft a large and gorgeous purple banner, in the centre of which were
four letters in gold, "S.Q.P.R," being the initials of a sentence, the
translation of which is, "To the Senate and People of Rome."

After this followed another long line of men in violet, and then again
four clothed in black, carrying a wax image, large as life, on a
platform, meant to represent the garden of Gethsemane. Round the edge
were artificial trees about a foot and a half in height, having their
foliage and fruit richly gilt. The figure was clothed in a purple
robe, and on the brow was a crown of thorns. It was in a kneeling
position, and the face was bowed so low you could not distinguish the
features, but the attitude {270} gave you the impression that it was
making painful attempts to rise, which the weight of the huge cross on
the shoulders rendered ineffectual. Another train of candle-bearers
followed this, and then, in robes of rich black silk, and having on
their shoulders capes of finest lawn trimmed with costly lace, came
four priests holding up a gorgeous canopy, having curtains of white
silk and silver, which glittered and flashed as the faint breeze,
sweet with the perfume of flowers and fruit-trees, dallied amidst the
rich folds. From the centre of the canopy was suspended a silver dove,
its extended wings overshadowing the head of the bishop, who walked
beneath, robed in his most gorgeous sacerdotal habiliments. Between
his hands he carried the host, and as he passed along thousands of
prostrate forms craved his blessing. Following the canopy were more
men with tapers, and dressed in violet silk; then another purple
banner of even greater expansion than the first; then a lovely train
of little girls dressed to represent angels; then the band playing the
Miserere; and lastly a regiment of Portuguese soldiers. As soon as the
last of the men in violet had entered the cathedral, the door was
closed; the soldiers formed in lines on each side; the band was
silent; and, at the command of an officer, all uncovered their heads,
and stood in an attitude expressive of deep humiliation. This scene
was meant to represent that sorrowful yet glorious one enacted
eighteen centuries ago in the judgment hall of Pontius Pilate. The
little girls remained outside as well as the soldiery.

The dress of these children was tasteful and picturesque. They wore
violet-color velvet dresses, very short and full, and profusely
covered with silver spangles; white silk stockings and white satin or
kid shoes; rich white and silver wreaths, and bright, filmy, white

For an hour the cathedral door was kept closed, the soldiers remaining
all that time with bowed heads, motionless as statues. At length the
door was slowly opened, and one of the men wearing violet, having in
his hand a long wand, at the end of which appeared a small bright
flame, passed out, and proceeded to light up numerous tapers which had
been placed on the front of different houses in the Praca. As soon as
this was done, a command from an officer caused the men to resume
their caps and their upright attitude. Presently the rich, expressive
music of a full band was again heard playing the Miserere, and the
procession passed out between the glittering and bristling lines, its
numbers and its images increased.

Following close after the garden of Gethsemane, there was now an image
of the Virgin, attired in an ample purple robe and a long blue veil,
worked in silver. The exquisite taste and skill of the Madeiran
ladies, exerted upon the richest materials, had given to this figure a
lifelike appearance far surpassing that which usually distinguishes
other draped statues. Over the clasped hands the velvet seemed rather
to droop than lie in folds, while the expression of the attitude,
which was that of earnest supplication, as if craving sympathy for
some crushing woe, was heightened by the artistic arrangement of the
heavy plaits of the robe.

The men who carried this image, and those immediately preceding and
following it, wore blue instead of violet cassocks, while the little
angels who had brought up the van of the first procession were now
clustered about the bearers of the image of the Virgin.

From the cathedral the pageant passed on through the principal streets
into the country, the faint peal of the trumpets occasionally coming
back to the ear, mingled with the silvery sound of the bells, and the
deep boom of the minute-guns. At the foot of the Mount church,
however, various changes were effected. The little girls quietly
separated themselves from the crowd, and, being watched for by anxious
mothers and elder sisters, {271} were carried home. A deputy bishop
took the place of his superior beneath the canopy, other men relieved
the bearers of the banners and images, and other musicians released
those whose attendance had commenced with the dawn. All through the
day you could trace their course, only occasionally losing sight of
them, and all through the night too, by the light of the cedar-wood
torches borne by little boys, in snowy tunics, who had joined the
procession at the foot of the mount.

To understand how beautiful was the effect of this, you must look with
me on the unique and picturesque town of Funchal, running round the
blue waters of the bay, and rising up into the vineyards and groves
and gardens clothing the encircling hills. A golden light slumbers
over the whole scene, so pure and luminous that we can trace
distinctly every feature in the luxuriant landscape. The white houses
of the town crowned with terrinhas, or turrets, and having hanging
balconies glowing with flowers of rare beauty; the majestic palms
expanding their broad and beautiful heads over high garden walls; the
feathery banana waving gracefully on sunny slopes, where clumps of the
bright pomegranates display their crimson pomp; the shady plane-trees
running in rows along the streets; the snowy quintas or villas on the
hills, becoming fewer and more scattered toward the summit; the
churches and nunneries on higher elevations; and still further up the
white cottages of the peasantry, with their vine-trellised porches and
their gardens of pears, peaches, and apricots; while above and around
all these, forming a sublime amphitheatre as they tower to nearly six
thousand feet above the level of the sea, are the Pico Ruivo and Pico
Grande. A wreath of purple mist lay that day, as it almost always
does, on their topmost peaks, giving now and again glimpses of their
picturesque outline, as, like a soft transparent veil, it was folded
and unfolded by the breeze roaming over the solitudes of scented broom
and heather. Through such scenes, in view of all, moved the long,
glittering pageant just described.


Everywhere the grave declares its victory--in beautiful Madeira as
elsewhere. An old servant, whose business it was to cut up fire-wood
and carry it into the house, has performed his last earthly duty and
finished life's journey. He dwelt with his mother and sister in a
cottage at the extremity of the garden; and I was only apprised of the
circumstances of his death by hearing loud cries coming up from the
shady walks, and the exclamations: "Alas, my son, my son!" and "Oh, my
brother!" repeated over and over in accents of uncontrollable grief.

It is customary, as soon as a death occurs in the family of one of the
peasant class, for all the survivors to rush forth into the open air,
and, with cries and lamentations, to call on the dead by every
endearing epithet and implore of them to return once more. The
neighbors being thus made acquainted with what has occurred, gather
round the mourners, and try to steal away the bitterness of their
grief by reminding them that all living shall share the same fate, and
that one by one each shall depart in his turn to make his bed in the
silent chamber of the grave. By such simple consolations--untaught
nature's promptings--they induce the bereaved ones to re-enter the
house and prepare the body for interment.

The heat of the climate renders hasty burial necessary in Madeira, and
the authorities are strict in enforcing it. From ten to twelve hours
is the longest period allowed by law between death and the grave, and
the very poor seldom permit even so much time to elapse; they merely
wait to ascertain to a certainty that the hand of death has released
the imprisoned {272} soul before they wrap up the body and carry it
with hurrying feet to "breathless darkness and the narrow house."

In such instances coffins are rarely used, and when they are, they are
hired by the hour. The usual way is to roll the body up tightly in a
sere cloth, then place it in a "death hammock" (which resembles an
unbleached linen sheet, tied at the ends to an iron pole); and hurry
with it to an unhonored grave.

A few days subsequent to the death of the old servant, the remains of
a little girl were borne past; the sight was so singular I think it
worth describing.

Moving slowly and solemnly along the street were a number of men,
habited in deep blue home-made cloth, the two foremost of whom carried
a light iron bier, on which lay the body of a little girl, whose brief
period of life numbered not more than five summers. A robe of soft,
clear, snowy muslin enveloped the motionless form like a cloud; on the
tiny feet, crossed in rest at last, were white silk stockings and
white shoes; and her little hands, which must so lately have found
gleeful employment in scattering the fragments of broken toys, were
now meekly folded on her bosom over a bouquet of orange blossoms. A
heavy wreath of the same flowers, mingled with a few leaves of the
allegro campo, encircled her young brow, which, as may be supposed,
wore that lovely, calm expression described by poets as the impress of
"heaven's signet-ring."

In almost every one of the varied scenes of life orange blossoms are
made use of in Madeira, either as types or emblems. Wreaths of them
grace the bride's young head, as being emblematical of the beauty and
purity of her character; as typical of a grief which shall be ever
fresh, chaplets of them crown the pale brows of the dead. On the
anniversary of a birth-day they are presented to the aged as an
embodiment of the truth that they shall again renew their youth; while
the proud triumphal arch is adorned with their snowy bells, as an
assurance that the occasion for which it was erected shall be held in
ever-enduring remembrance.

The little child on the rude bier, who looked as fair in her
death-sleep as these fairest of flowers, was being carried to the
cemetery belonging to the resident Roman Catholics, and known as
Laranjeira. There a priest was awaiting its arrival. He was standing
by the open grave, and when the body was laid at his feet he read over
it in Latin a short burial service, placed some grains of dust on the
pulseless bosom, and departed. Being carefully wrapped in a sere doth,
it was then placed in a shallow grave (according to custom) and
lightly covered with three or four inches of earth.

Laranjeira is situated on the west of the town. Passing up the
Augustias Hill the stranger sees a large, handsome gate near the
empress's hospital; this is the entrance to the graveyard. Inside is a
small flower-garden, tastefully laid out and neatly kept, through
which you pass to the broad stone steps leading to the fine gravel
walk running quite through the cemetery. Another walk, also of
considerable width, leads round it, while several narrower ones,
shaded by hedges of geraniums, roses, and lavender, are cut through it
in different directions. Inclosing the whole is a high wall, studded
with monumental tablets, on some of which praise and grief are
charactered in deep, newly-cut letters, while from many others time
has either obliterated every trace of writing, or the pains and the
heat have washed and bleached them into meaningless, cloudy white
slabs. There are but few monuments or even tombstones of any
pretension, though many of the latter bear English inscriptions. Rows
of cypress trees border the centre walk, and almost every grave in the
inclosure is overshadowed by a weeping willow.



It was the last week in Lent, and, according to our manner of
computing time, it was eleven o'clock A.M. of the day known as "Holy
Thursday." Reckoning, however, as the Madeirans do, it was the last
hour of that day, and the next would be the first of Good Friday.

An unusual silence had reigned in the town since the first streaks of
purple light appeared in the east, as if to render more remarkable the
din which at the hour above-named assailed the ears of the inhabitants
of Funchal. Strains of military music filled the air, mingled with the
tolling of bells and the firing of guns, which found a hundred echoes
in the adjoining hills. These sounds were the signals to the people of
Madeira that the time was drawing near when the most imposing
ceremonial of their religion would be celebrated. With the first
trumpet-notes the streets began to fill, every house sending forth its
inmates, whether rich or poor, old or young, either to witness or take
part in the spectacles of the day. As on all like occasions, the
peasantry, in their best attire, poured in with astonishing rapidity;
while crowding in with them were ladies in hammocks, clad in robes of
rainbow hues, and partially concealed from curious eyes by silken
curtains of pink or blue, which were matched in color by the vests of
the bearers, and the ribbons with long floating ends adorning their
broad-brimmed straw hats; and gentlemen on horseback, whom you at once
would recognize as natives by their short stature, their bright vests,
neckties, and hat-ribbons, and their profusion of rich, showy
ornaments. Quietly making their way on foot through this throng were
the English merchants, with their wives and daughters, distinguished
from those by whom they were surrounded by an air of severe reserve
and a studied simplicity of dress. A few handsome wheeled carriages
also appeared on the scene, and one or two of the awkward looking
boi-cars. All were taking the same direction, the Praca da
Constitutionel, and the common object was to gain admission to the
cathedral. At every turn the crowd augmented, and even masquers joined
in considerable numbers--but these latter brought neither jest nor
laughter with their presence; the ceremonies of the day had subdued
even them, causing them to abandon the vacant gaiety appertaining to
their attire for a demeanor more fitting the time and occasion.

Arrived at the cathedral, each party, no matter how exalted their
rank, encountered a delay in obtaining an entrance. The throng around
the door was great, and it was in vain that the soldiers endeavored to
keep the general crowd at a distance. Trained as the Madeirans are to
habits of deference to both military and ecclesiastical authority,
they become, like other people, audacious and headstrong when
assembled in large multitudes, and, in spite of both church and state,
they now sought an entrance by the exertion of physical force, and
some hundreds succeeded.

While, however, the struggle and contention at the door remained
unabated, the ceremonial which all were so anxious to witness had been
enacted within. To describe it is needless. The hour when the God-man
poured forth his soul even unto death is a sad and awful memory
familiar to us all. Let us, therefore, look at the scene which the
cathedral presents at two o'clock on that day.

The windows are boarded up on the outside, and within are covered with
curtains of heavy black cloth. The walls all round are hung with fine
stuff of the same color, concealing the paintings and other ornaments,
and the altar is hidden behind drapery of black velvet with
ghastly-looking borders of silver. Between this gloomy vail and the
cancelli, or railings, you see a magnificent catafalque, and on it
{274} a coffin covered and lined with rich black velvet. A pale,
corpse-like figure, wearing a crown of thorns, lies within, blood
flowing from the wounded brow (or appearing to flow) and from the
hands which lie outside the winding-sheet of snowy linen. Numerous
tapers surround the catafalque, but from some cause they carry such
weak, glimmering flames, that a dim, uncertain light pervades the
immediate precincts of the altar, leaving the rest of the building in
deep shadow. Habited in close-fitting black silk robes, and with heads
bowed down as in unspeakable sorrow, several priests stand round the
coffin, while fitful wails and sobs from the multitude show that the
scene is not without its effect.

An hour passed thus, and was succeeded by a sudden and dismal silence,
as if the great heart of the multitude had become exhausted with
sorrow, when the melancholy cadences of the Miserere coming down from
the huge organ as if rolling from the clouds, awoke up anew the grief
of the people, and low cries and half-stifled groans mingled freely
with the long-drawn, plaintive notes. Meantime the bishop, habited in
his most simple sacerdotal robes, came from the sacristy and stood at
the foot of the coffin, while four priests raised it from the
catafalque by means of loops of black silk and silver cord. The bishop
then moved forward, the dense crowd opening a lane for him as he
passed slowly round the church, followed by the four priests carrying
the coffin, and by others bearing the dim tapers. As He returned
toward the altar the people's sorrow seemed to increase, and every
head was stretched forward to catch a last glimpse of the coffin, when
just as the procession got within the cancelli a heavy curtain was let
fall, shutting in altar, catafalque, and tapers, and leaving the
cathedral in utter darkness.

This scene was meant to represent the burial in the tomb of Joseph of
Arimathea, and while the greater portion of the congregation were
weeping aloud, a voice was heard proceeding from the pulpit, and
pronouncing that preliminary sentence to a sermon known as the

In an instant the sounds of grief were hushed, and the mute audience
seemed to suppress their very breathing while they anxiously listened
to the words of the preacher.

Spoken in a tongue with which few visitors to the island are
acquainted, the discourse took to the ears of strangers the shape of a
varied murmur, whose tones and cadences played on the very
heart-strings of the auditors, awakening at will feelings of fear,
agony, remorse, and repentance. As he proceeded, the passion and
pathos of his accents increased, and when he ceased to speak a
desolate stillness pervaded the whole multitude. Presently two men
entered from a side door bearing dim tapers, and at the same moment
the great door leading into the Praca was opened, and the congregation
poured like a tide into the open air, while low, soft sighs and
murmurs falling on the ear told of feelings of relief which words were
powerless to express.

For a moment the throng leaving the church mingled with the multitude
without. The solid mass swayed like a troubled sea, and then quietly
broke up and scattered widely. Men in trade turned their faces
homeward, the business of life being, in their judgment, of more
importance than any further participation in the day's proceedings.
Elderly men and women of the lower classes sought out those houses and
temporary sheds, over the doors of which the four golden letters,
"P.V.A.B.," served the same purpose as the less mysterious British
announcement of "entertainment for man and horse;" while the young
peasants and artisans, forming an immense concourse, went shouting
toward the Mount road, leaving the streets leading to the beach free
from all obstacles, a circumstance of which the more respectable and
even aristocratic {275} portion of the multitude eagerly availed
themselves. Mingling with all parties were ragged-looking vendors of
curiosities, clamorous old beggars, and younger ones whose brilliant,
laughing black eyes contradicted the earnest appeal of the lips.

Should our taste or curiosity lead us to follow the mob to the Mount
road we behold one of those singular exhibitions which excite almost
to frenzy--a hideous, straw-stuffed figure, or effigy, of Pontius
Pilate, tied on the back of a poor, miserable, lean donkey. Amidst the
wildest shouts and fiercest turmoil this creature is dragged forward,
every one taxing his inventive faculties to discover new indignities,
by which to express his feelings of horror and disgust for the
original. While the tumultuous throng thus parade through the
principal streets of the town, the bay is seen covered by hundreds of
boats, people of almost every nation in Europe reclining beneath their
awnings as they sweep slowly over the blue waves toward the Loo Rock,
or idly glide in front of that well-known point, beneath which on the
sands a gallows had been erected in the morning.

Some hours passed, however, and there was no occurrence either to
gratify the taste or arouse the attention of the pleasure seekers. The
sun was drawing near the verge of the horizon, and the sea, assuming
the most intense shades of crimson, gold, and purple, differed only
from the magnificent canopy which it mirrored in that it gleamed with
a more wondrous splendor, as if a veil of diamonds floated and
trembled over its broad expanse. Not alone the sea, however, but the
whole landscape was bathed in the rich amber and purple floods of
light which on that evening streamed down from the ever changing
firmament. The sublime mountains of Pico Ruivo and Pico Grande were
crowned with radiance, the graceful hills, with their unnumbered giant
flowers, their gardens and vineyards, their rivulets and waterfalls,
glowed in the lustrous beams, while the brown sands on the
semi-circular beach, reaching from the picturesque basalts of Garajaô
to Ponta da Cruz, glittered as if a shower of diamond sparklets had
fallen on them.

At length loud and prolonged shouts, mingling with the music of
military bands, were heard approaching from the town, and immediately
after a riotous and excited crowd, amongst which appeared hundreds of
masquers, came pressing forward with extravagant gestures, and driving
before them toward the gallows the ill-used donkey and its foul and
hideous burthen.

A general movement at once took place among the boats, as the crew of
each sought to obtain the most favorable position for witnessing the
revolting spectacle of hanging the effigy, which was accomplished with
all the appalling ceremonies which might have been deemed necessary,
or which the law might have demanded, had the Governor of the Jews
been there in person.

The hatred of the exulting mob being at length satiated, the figure
was cut down and cast into the sea, calling forth a last volley of
execration as it rolled and floundered on the long blue swells, or
momentarily sunk out of sight in the troughs, while the ebbing tide
carried it out to the deep.


It may appear strange, perhaps even incredible, that the lower classes
of Madeirans should have leisure, from their humble duties and the
labors required by their daily necessities, to attend at so many
festas and public ceremonies as we shall have occasion to describe,
and to indulge beside in their extravagant fancy for golden ornaments.
But the seeming enigma is easily solved. In the first place, the men
of the peasant class leave home for Demara every year, remaining away,
at high wages, from six to eight months, and then returning with money
sufficient to enable them to indulge {276} their families daring the
remainder of the year in their oriental taste for festas and finery.
Secondly, almost all the manual occupations connected with agriculture
devolve on the women, so that the absence of either husbands, sons, or
brothers neither retards nor diminishes the autumn fruits. Added to
this, they employ themselves during the evening hours, and at other
seasons when out-door labor is either impossible or unnecessary, in
those arts to which female faculties are particularly appropriate.
Nothing can exceed the exquisite beauty of the embroidery on cambric
and lace executed by some of the peasant women, and which comes from
their skilful fingers so perfectly white and pure that it is fit for
the wear of a princess the moment it is freed from the paper on which
the design had been traced, and over which it had been worked. Others,
not possessing such delicate taste as the embroiderers, exert their
ingenuity in knitting shawls, and veils, and pin-cushion covers, in
black or white thread, drawing on their own imaginations for new and
curious patterns; while some few devote their leisure time to netting
black silk shawls and scarfs, for which they also invent the designs.

The earnings of the women by the sale of these articles to strangers
are considerable, and so completely at their own disposal that they
can independently indulge, whenever opportunities offer, in their
taste for ornament and emotional spectacles. The wear and tear,
however, of such a mode of life deprive them at an early period of
their native beauty, leaving them at twenty-five little more than that
grace and freedom of attitude which they retain to the close of the
longest life.

The men also have their handicrafts, and the emoluments arising from
their exercise; and those of them who are either too old or too young,
or too indolent, or too sincerely attached to home to seek the toils
of labor and their reward in Demara, employ themselves in making
articles of inlaid wood, such as writing-desks, work-boxes,
paper-cutters, and pen-trays. The designs on many of these give
evidence of refined and skilful taste, while others only indicate a
fantastic ingenuity. The most perfect of these manufactures are
eagerly secured for the Portuguese market by agents, who generally
make an honest estimate of their value, while those of less merit are
set aside till some of the visitors to Madeira proportion their worth
by their own abundant wealth.

This digression has been so long that, instead of returning now to the
midnight wanderers mentioned at the close of the lost chapter, I shall
request my readers to imagine it ten o'clock A.M. on Saturday morning,
and, consequently, two hours before the commencement of the Sabbath of
the Madeirans. Once more the Praca da Constitutionel is filled with an
eager and picturesque throng--peasants, artisans, aristocrats,
merchants, masqueraders, beggars, and curiosity-venders all mingled
together, and all, either from motives of piety or inquisitiveness,
once more seeking admission to the cathedral, whose fine proportions
and gorgeous ornaments are still veiled in thick darkness.

By some magic influence the wealthier portion of the multitude have
all obtained entrance, and then, the cathedral being full, the door is
forcibly closed. Directly this occurs the crowd disperse, and while
strangers are still trying to unravel the mystery of such unusual
self-denial, troops of little children and young girls are entering
the Praca dressed in white, wearing silver-tissue wings, snowy festive
wreaths, and carrying on their arms beautiful baskets of cane-work
filled with ranunculuses and lilies. Boys in embroidered tunics and
carrying silver censers follow these, and presently numbers of these
men who had left that the children might take up their proper
positions, now return, having in the meantime provided themselves with
fire-arms and rockets.


While all these changes take place without, preachers are succeeding
each other every half hour in the pulpit within the cathedral. At
length one loud sonorous stroke on a gong, or some other metallic
substance, is heard from the sacristy, announcing the hour of noon,
and then in an instant, as if by magic, the wooden blinds without and
the black curtains within are gone from the windows, the veil which
had concealed the altar disappears, and a blaze of light fills the
edifice, displaying a scene resplendent with gold and gems, tapers and
flowers; while simultaneously with the pouring in of the light,
thrilling and enthusiastic voices singing, "Christ is risen! Christ is
risen!" join the peal which, like a roar of triumph, had burst from
the organ.

When the multitude have sufficiently recovered the stunning effects of
this scene to separate cause and effect, they perceive that every
pillar and column from pedestal to chapiter is enwreathed with
gorgeous ranunculuses and snowy lilies, mingled with the rich green
leaves of the allegro campo, that crowns and garlands of silver leaves
and artificial dew-drops are scattered profusely, yet with artistic
taste, over the high altar and the various side altars; while pendent
from that masterpiece of art--the sculptured ceiling of native
juniper--are rich chaplets of gold leaves and gems, seeming as if
ready to fall on and crown the heads of the worshippers.

After a short interval, the bishop, in dazzling robes, wearing his
jewelled mitre, and followed by a train of priests in gorgeous
vestments, is seen standing in front of the high altar, which on this
occasion is covered with a white satin cloth, worked in silver, while
huge candelabras, inlaid with precious stones, gleam in front of the
recesses known as the diaconicum and the prothesis. In the former are
kept the vessels belonging to the altar, and in the other the bread
and wine used at the celebration of the mass.

A short mass having been performed by priests and choir, the great
door is opened, and the people crowding into the Praca are met by the
little children and young girls strewing flowers over the streets, by
the graceful youths swinging silver censers and filling the ambient
air with light columns of costly incense; by bands playing the most
inspiriting airs; by masquers and others in ordinary costume sending
off rockets and Roman candles, and by hundreds of artisans bearing
fire-arms, the sharp report of which, mingling with the booming of
cannon, the braying of trumpets, and the soft chimes of bells, filled
the air with a most indescribable din.

In a few moments, however, a cloud overshadows the scene--a cloud
which comes not silently but with a whirring, joyful noise, and with
the beat of fleet pinions. Every one looks up, and behold, there are
the doves--doves in hundreds, sent off by nuns, and monks, and other
devotees, to proclaim in their broad-winged flight the welcome news
that "Christ is risen!"

Having witnessed all this, and while the joyful excitement is still
unabated, you enter your home, imagining that nothing of the peculiar
usages or customs of a place in which you are a stranger can follow
you there, save the sounds which float in through your shaded windows;
but an agreeable surprise awaits you. The Madeirans are too gentle and
affectionate in their dispositions to forget in a time of such
universal joy even the stranger who may differ from them in religion,
and, accordingly, you find awaiting you a little girl, neatly dressed,
and bearing in her hands a dish covered with a white lace veil. She
has been sent by the nuns, and delivers her present with a suitable

Uncovering the dish you see a wreath of flowers round the edge, and in
the centre a little lamb made of sugar, lying amidst almond comfits of
{278} every delicate shade of Magenta, blue, and violet. A wreath of
sugar-flowers crowns the head of the lamb, and a similar one graces
its neck.

With this picturesque gift you may sometimes receive a present of
royal and heavenly bacon. These singularly-named dishes are composed
of eggs and sugar. The first is passed through a hair sieve, falling
in a heap of rings and curls on the dish; the other is made into thick
slices, and lies on the dish drowned in sweet syrup.




  [Footnote 46: Prospectus of The Catholic Publication Society. Tract
  No. 1, "Indifferentism in Religion and its Remedy." No. 2, "The Plea
  of Sincerity." No. 3, "The Forlorn Hope." No. 4, "Prisoner of

Nothing in the history of the human mind can be more obvious, even to
a superficial observer, than the fact that every age has possessed
intellectual features peculiar to itself, growing out of its own
particular need. Thus we find the mental activity of one period
setting in a strong current toward moral and metaphysical speculation
and of another toward scientific discovery. When one has obtained
predominance, the other has been measurably neglected.

At the present time, however, the fact is otherwise. The diligence
heretofore manifested in the conquest of special subjects is now
diffused over a greater area; and the energies of the mind, instead of
being concentrated upon the profound and exhaustive knowledge of a few
branches of learning, are directed to the acquisition of a general
knowledge of many. Hence, popular instruction today, to be successful,
must be simplified and condensed, rendered suitable to popular
apprehension and fixed at a point demanding the least amount of mental
labor and promising immediate and tangible results.

It would need but little argument to show how these conditions of
knowledge have been brought about. The vast development and wonderful
discoveries of science within the last century, the increase of
commercial and mechanical industry, the settlement and growth of
America with its vast resources of wealth, are sufficient to account
for a material change in the intellectual status of Christendom.
Science by increasing the means of human enjoyment has increased the
extent of human wants; these, by the force of habit in one class and
the stimulus of ambition in another, have become in time absolute
necessities. Thus men engage in eager strife to attain what all unite
in esteeming essential to human happiness.

Now since our nature has moral and intellectual longings--however
subdued by the engrossing occupations of active life--which are still
absolute and imperative, up to a certain point, it would seem that
instruction to suit the exigency of the times must be conveyed in such
a manner and by such means as the opportunities and inclinations of
mankind require. You may easily gain attention to truth by a concise,
simple mode of addressing the intellect, demanding but little time and
not very severe thought, when you cannot secure it by presenting the
subject in a more profound way, by more elaborate proofs or by more
subtle and comprehensive views. If knowledge, therefore, cannot be
imparted in such a way as to suit both the capacity and convenience of
men, it can rarely be communicated at all. {279} What is deemed the
most important pursuit of a man's life is that to which he will pay
the greatest attention. If he cannot attain mental improvement by
means he considers easy and agreeable, the probabilities are that in a
great majority of cases he will neglect it. Here, however, there is
but little difficulty. Whenever a public necessity is fully
recognized, the means of supplying it will not be long wanting. Hence,
we see at the present time every art and science reduced to its
elementary principles and presented to the public mind in plain
rudimentary lessons, so that, while comparatively few are deeply
versed in any one subject, the great mass of thinkers are well
informed in the general outlines of many.

What has been said with regard to matters more strictly intellectual
may be affirmed with almost equal truth of such as are purely moral.
You may instruct a hundred men in their duty by means of a tract of
ten pages, setting forth incentives to virtue in a cogent argument or
forcible appeal, where you would scarcely be able to obtain a hearing
from one by means of an elaborate essay on ethics, however able or
convincing. Now, it is evident that a duty, carrying all the weight of
deep obligation, rests upon those who have the higher interests of
mankind at heart to provide for them the means of moral and
intellectual improvement; and not only so, but to furnish it in such a
shape as shall be most acceptable and productive of the most hopeful
and lasting results. That such an obligation exists, is apparent from
the general establishment of public and common schools and from the
numerous efforts constantly made to disseminate knowledge among the
masses. The ends here proposed, however, are animated by a sentiment
of general benevolence or political expediency. If, then, we owe to
society the moral and intellectual advancement of the people from
motives of public interest, surely our obligations are not diminished
by those higher considerations which readily suggest themselves to a
religious mind.

We are now prepared for the question, Are we doing our duty in this
matter? But to bring it nearer home and to address the more immediate
circle of our readers, Are we Catholic Christians doing what we know
to be required of us in the education of our people with sufficient
faithfulness to satisfy an enlightened conscience? Engrossed in more
selfish pursuits, have we not rather neglected this business and
turned it over to others who are only more responsible than ourselves?
We speak to Catholic laymen when we say it is greatly to be feared
that we are not wholly blameless. And here one word as regards the
relative positions of clergy and laity in the church and their mutual
want of co-operation in such things as may fairly come under the
charge of both.

Every one knows that among all sects of Protestants the laity perform
no inconsiderable amount of labor and share no little responsibility
with the pastor. As teachers and superintendents of Sunday-schools,
leaders of Bible classes, heads of missionary societies and the like,
their influence is much felt and their usefulness highly appreciated
by their co-religionists. Among Catholics, where the priests have
generally three times the ministerial duty of Protestants to perform,
the pastor of a church gets little or no aid from the laity. His
mission may extend over twenty miles of territory, and he is expected
not only to administer the sacraments to both sick and well, but to do
all that is necessary in the religious training of the children. In
fact, the instruction of the young is generally looked upon as
belonging peculiarly to his office. And yet it cannot be denied that
well-disposed laymen of moderate intelligence can at times, acting
under his advice and counsel, very materially assist the overworked
priest without trenching in the least upon his {280} vocation. The
benefit of such assistance could not but be sensibly felt in those
parishes which receive the services of a priest in common with others.
In the more thinly populated districts of our country the want of
priests is a crying necessity, known and felt by every prelate in the
land. It is morally impossible after mass said on Sunday morning, at
two points perhaps fifteen miles apart, that the priest can preach a
sermon and attend to other duties arising from the urgent and
imperative wants of his cure. He cannot administer holy baptism, hear
confessions, visit the sick, bury the dead, say mass, recite his
office, attend to church temporalities (no small affair in some
instances of itself) and yet find time to give the requisite
instruction to his people.

We can but be aware that regular pulpit instruction is a most
effectual mode of promoting piety and one of which we ought not to be
deprived. We require at least all the agencies for this purpose
enjoyed by others. The people, too, are eager for it. Mark the strict
attention with which Catholic congregations follow every word of the
preacher, and mark, too, the effect of an earnest and appropriate
sermon! It is plainly visible upon the faces of old and young. In
addition to this, the command given in Holy Scripture to preach is
imperative. Are we not, then, bound to more than ordinary exertion to
comply with it?

Such, unfortunately, is the proneness of men to forget their religious
duties that they require precept upon precept, often renewed and
diligently urged upon their minds. Surrounded by temptation,
forgetfulness of the great practical truths of religion is not strange
in the absence of direct spiritual teaching. The sacraments of the
church, especially the holy sacrifice of the altar, undoubtedly do
much to arrest spiritual decline in the people; but no one will deny
that frequent appeals to the conscience, and judicious instruction in
the principles of Catholic faith and morality, however conveyed to the
understanding, are valuable aids even to the worthy reception of the

It is to supply the deficiencies here aimed at that this enterprise,
with the hearty approbation of several prelates, has been undertaken,
which, if it shall receive the cordial support of the Catholic public,
will produce results the extent of which is not to be easily foreseen.
Those persons who have attempted the task are actuated with a settled
determination that it shall succeed; and it is not to be believed, in
a matter of so great moment, that they are to be left without the
substantial help of Catholics throughout the country. A society has
been formed, and its work has already begun, styled "The Catholic
Publication Society," to which the attention of our readers was called
in our last number. This society proposes to issue short tracts and
pamphlets conveying that species of instruction required by Catholics
in the most entertaining form, so as to engage the attention, affect
the hearts, and suit the wants of all classes. To none would such a
blessing be more welcome than to the poor, who are in an especial
manner, from their very defencelessness, under our protection. These,
though they may not read themselves, can listen to their children,
taught at school, who can read for them. Thus, in a simple narrative
or dialogue some important practical truths may be impressed upon the
mind which shall do good service in a moment of temptation. It is by
these means that other denominations are instructing their people and
producing an influence on many outside of their own communions.

The number of Catholics in this country, already large, is constantly
increasing, and unless we do something of the kind here suggested,
others will attempt it in our stead. Religious tracts from Protestant
societies are flying over the country like leaves before the autumn
wind, and it {281} would not be remarkable if our own people were
brought within the range of their influence.

Beside this, there is another field in which we have not only the
right to work, but which we cannot, or at least ought not to, neglect.
There are thousands of young men in the land of fair education who,
impelled by necessity or ambition, flock to the great commercial
centres. These, careless in matters of religion, having no settled
principles of faith, often called upon to confront great dangers and
temptations, seldom attend any place of worship; or if so, only to
relieve the ennui of Sunday. These are souls to be cared for. They
need instruction upon cardinal points of the Christian faith. They may
have received something akin to it in early youth, but it has been
forgotten. They are difficult to reach, and in no way can access to
them be gained more readily than by the publications of this society.
A few words of earnest advice, a hint as to the end of a vicious
career, or a warning of the uncertainty of life, may excite
reflection, and reflection is the first step toward reformation.

At a time like the present of vast intellectual activity, when myriads
of books are produced on all subjects embracing every description of
teaching, there must be abroad not only a great mass of error, but a
great number of unstable minds ready to receive it. Men imperfectly
educated, striving to master subjects far beyond their comprehension,
trained to no logical modes of thought, restrained by no respect for
authority, confounding scepticism with freedom of inquiry, are often
led by a dangerous curiosity to examine certain fundamental questions
which lie at the root of all knowledge, and which can only be safely
handled by the most learned and profound. Such is the class of persons
peculiarly to be benefited by Catholic teaching. A theology positive
and satisfying to the soul, that sets wholesome limits to human
knowledge, and is able to give adequate answers to great social and
moral problems, is best adapted to impress minds of this class. The
reading of three pages has before now convinced a man of the error of
his whole philosophical system, and may do it again.

The spirit of Catholic charity takes in all sorts and conditions of
men. The mission of the church is well defined, and may be summed up
in one word, namely, to convert the world to God; and as every day
brings its blessings upon labors that have been already undertaken to
secure this object, we have reason to hope that new efforts and fresh
zeal, well directed, will produce abundant fruits.

We cannot close this notice of the Catholic Publication Society
without adverting to one means of usefulness which we think it is
especially fitted to promote.

Such has been the virulence of hostility to the Catholic religion in
days gone by, such the monstrous credulity and unreasoning prejudice
of its foes, that it is not surprising to find a true knowledge of the
Catholic faith exceedingly rare. Within the last twenty years,
however, a great change has taken place. The general blamelessness of
life in those who honor their religion, fidelity to social and
political duties, and charity toward our enemies, have not been
without precious results. At the present moment religious bigotry can
no longer animate the hatred alike of wise and simple. One who comes
prepared to censure, must come prepared also for the conflict of
truth. Statements, facts, and opinions are closely scrutinized.
Everything is not now taken upon trust. The attitude of controversy
begets caution. Now, what advantages may we not hope to reap from this
one isolated fact? A fair hearing for the true exposition of Catholic
doctrine; not doctrine carefully prepared with exterior show of
fairness and then imputed to us for the purpose of being more easily
{282} destroyed; but of the truths of Christianity as taught by the
church for ages. When we can gain the unprejudiced ear of the world,
truly we may begin to hope for the day of Christian unity.

To disarm prejudice is of itself a work worthy of special effort. We
can hope to make no great progress in persuading men to listen to the
voice of Christian truth until we can convince them that our teaching
rests upon the basis of sound reason. Those who have been told that to
embrace Catholic doctrine is to surrender at discretion all the powers
of the mind, and even the evidence of the senses, must be undeceived
before they can be expected to make any progress in the impartial
investigation of it. But it is chiefly among Catholics themselves that
we predict the greatest success for this association. Of our own
people there are very many who need that instruction which hitherto we
have not had the adequate means of providing for them. We all feel how
important it is that every Catholic should be thoroughly intelligent
upon all that he is required to believe, and the reasons that exist
for requiring it. In every class of society Catholics are called upon
to render an account of the faith that is in them, to explain the
doctrines and ceremonies of their religion, and when unable to do so,
they both suffer the evil consequences of this ignorance themselves
and, by it, retard the spread of the knowledge of the truth among
those whom the church is equally commissioned to enlighten, guide, and

We have advocated the aims of the Catholic Publication Society at
greater length than we at first intended, but feel that in
consideration of their importance we have not said too much. It is
impossible to over-estimate the good this society may, with God's
blessing, be made to accomplish. To make it effective, its
organization throughout the United States should be co-extensive with
the church itself. Our work in this country is getting ahead of us.
The religious needs of our people are rapidly increasing. If we are
not up and doing in proper season, we shall find that during our
repose the enemy has been sowing tares among the wheat. The harvest is
great, but the laborers few. Let us all, then, as God gives us grace
to know our duty, take this matter earnestly to heart, and let us not
suffer under the reproach of denying to our fellow-Christians all the
spiritual food they are willing to receive.

What is here proposed is truly a missionary work. Efforts of this kind
can only be successful by zealous labor and generous support; and we
sincerely hope, as the plan by which funds are to be raised becomes
generally known, the Catholic public will not deny liberal aid to so
worthy a cause. Almost every one can lend a helping hand. It will be
seen by reference to the Society's Prospectus that the sum of five
dollars constitutes a member for one year. Parents could hardly
gratify their children more than by subscribing for them. It gives
young folks the idea that they amount to something in this world when
they find their own names enrolled on the books of a religious
society. The sum of thirty dollars constitutes a member for five years
and of fifty dollars a life member. Patrons of one hundred and five
hundred dollars will not be wanting amongst so many generous and
appreciative Catholics as there are in the country. A number of these
last have already come forward in the city of New York, and subscribed
that amount to constitute a fund to enable the society to accomplish
its missionary work, and we are sure that this call will elicit a
similar ready response from many in other cities and towns who wait
only to know what to do for the advancement of their holy faith in
order to do it. Your parish priest is willing to spend and be spent in
your service. Show your gratitude by making him a member of one of the
above classes. He will accept it from you as a beautiful testimonial
of {283} your esteem and respect. It has also been suggested by an
eminent prelate and patron of the society that it would greatly
promote its success if a clergyman should be appointed in each diocese
by the ecclesiastical authority, to take charge of the society's
interests, and to act as its agent.

We trust as the enterprise becomes more extensively known that
generous hearts will be found to feel a voluntary interest in this
work and prompted to aid it without further solicitation. Let it not
be forgotten that one of the objects of this society is to supply
religious reading to the inmates of hospitals, almshouses, asylums,
and prisons--a class of persons whose spiritual welfare requires to be
specially looked after. Benevolence has no more sacred field than
among this unfortunate class; and we hope that those who have so often
proved themselves worthy of their faith by relieving the physical
wants of their fellow-creatures, will not be found indifferent to the
spiritual. In short, what we desire of our fellow-Catholics is, that
an interest in this matter should become general throughout the
country; and that each one should assist as he is able, either alone
or in conjunction with his neighbors. Several prelates have already
become patrons of this society, and the venerable Archbishop of
Baltimore has honored it by contributing the first tract.

While treating of the practical part of this subject, we desire to say
that priests residing in the remote parts of the country can be
furnished with the society's publications on precisely the same terms
as those living near at hand. They will be supplied at prices _never
exceeding cost_, postage prepaid. All Catholics, in every section of
our land, have an equal interest in its success.

Upon the co-operation of the clergy we, of course, confidently rely.
To aid them in their arduous duties is one of the objects of the
society. It will be a most powerful auxiliary to the priesthood in
spreading instruction among our own people and the truths of the
Catholic faith among all classes of our community. If they should ask
us what we would have them do, we reply--"Reflect upon the immense
importance of this enterprise to the souls of men; and, when you have
comprehended what a vast work of usefulness lies before this society,
your own intelligence and good dispositions will best suggest the
manner in which you can most successfully lend your aid."



An Eirenicon, in a Letter to the Author of "The Christian Year." By E.
B. Pusey, D.D., Regius Professor of Hebrew and Canon of Christ Church,
Oxford. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1866. (Reprint from the English

Dr. Pusey's "Eirenicon" has been extensively commented on by the
Catholic press both in England and on the Continent. Some of his
critics have regarded it with favorable eyes, as a sign of approach
toward the Catholic Church, and others with marked hostility, as an
evidence of determined opposition. We concur with the former class
most decidedly. The most remarkable of all the answers it has called
forth is that of Dr. Newman, republished in our April number, and
since then issued in a separate form, with all the notes, by Mr.
Kehoe. Dr. Newman confines himself to one point, however--the defence
of the {284} Catholic doctrine concerning the Blessed Virgin. The
"Dublin Review" has given a very able criticism on the portion which
relates to the attitude of the Church of England. An admirable article
has also appeared in the learned Jesuit periodical, "Etudes
Religieuses," published at Paris, which is especially valuable for its
exposition of the doctrinal authority of the Holy See. As a general
answer to Dr. Pusey's specific proposals concerning the way of
reconciliation with Rome, we consider P. Lockhart's article, in the
"Weekly Register," as the most judicious and satisfactory. The
following letter, from Dr. Pusey to the editor, shows how he himself
appreciated this answer:



  Sir: I thank you, with all my heart, for your kind-hearted and
  appreciative review of my "Eirenicon." I am thankful that you have
  brought out the main drift and objects of it, what, in my mind,
  underlies the whole, to show that, in my conviction, there is no
  insurmountable obstacle to the union of (you will forgive the terms,
  though you must reject them) the Roman, Greek, and Anglican
  communions. I have long been convinced that there is nothing in the
  Council of Trent which could not be explained satisfactorily to us,
  if it were explained _authoritatively--i.e._  by the Roman Church
  itself, not by individual theologians only. This involves the
  conviction, on my side, that there is nothing in our Articles which
  cannot be explained rightly, as not contradicting any things held to
  be _de fide_ in the Roman Church. The great body of the faith is
  held alike by both; in those subjects referred to in our Art. XXII.
  I believe (to use the language of a very eminent Italian nobleman)
  "your [our] _maximum_ and our [your] _minimum_ might be found to
  harmonize." In regard to details of explanation, it was not my
  office, as being a priest only, invested with no authority, to draw
  them out. But I wished to indicate their possibility. You are
  relatively under the same circumstances. But I believe that the hope
  which you have held out, that the authorities in the Roman communion
  _might_ hold that "a reunion on the principles of Bossuet would be
  better than a perpetual schism," will unlock many a pent-up
  longing--pent-up on the ground of the apparent hopelessness that
  Rome would accord to the English Church any terms which it could

  May I add, that nothing was further from my wish than to write
  anything which should be painful to those in your communion? A
  defence, indeed, of necessity, involves some blame; since, in a
  quarrel, the blame must be wholly on the one side or on the other,
  or divided; and a defence implies that it is not wholly on the side
  defended. But having smoothed down, as I believe honestly, every
  difficulty I could, to my own people, I thought that it would not be
  right toward them not to state where I conceive the real difficulty to
  lie. Nor could your authorities meet our difficulties unless they knew
  them. You will think it superfluous that I desired that none of this
  system, which is now matter of "pious opinion," should, like the
  doctrine of the immaculate conception be made _de fide_. But, in the
  view of a hoped-for reunion, everything which you do affects us. Let
  me say, too, that I did not write as a reformer, but on the
  defensive. It is not for us to prescribe to Italians or Spaniards
  what they shall hold, or how they shall express their pious
  opinions. All which we wish is to have it made certain by authority
  that we should not, in case of reunion, be obliged to hold them
  ourselves. Least of all did I think of imputing to any of the
  writers whom I quoted that they "took from our Lord any of the love
  which they gave to his mother." I was intent only on describing the
  system which I believe is the great obstacle to reunion. I had not
  the least thought of criticising holy men who held it.

  As it is of moment that I should not be misunderstood by my own
  people, let me add that I have not intended to express any opinion
  about a visible head of the church. _We readily acknowledge the
  primary of the Bishop of Rome; the bearings of that primacy upon
  other local churches we believe to be a matter of ecclesiastical,
  not of divine law; but neither is there anything in the supremacy in
  itself to which we should object._ Our only fear is that it should,
  through the appointment of one bishop, involve the reception of that
  practical _quasi_--authoritative system which is, I believe, alike
  the cause and (forgive me) the justification in our eyes of our
  remaining apart.

  But, although I intended to be on the defensive, I thank you most
  warmly for that tenderness which enabled you to see my aim and
  objects throughout a long and necessarily miscellaneous work. And I
  believe that the way in which you have treated this our _bonâtell
  you fide_ "endeavor to find a basis for reunion, on the principle
  debated between Archbishop Wake and the Gallican divines two
  centuries ago," will, by rekindling hope, give a strong {285}
  impulse toward that reunion. Despair is still. If hope is revived in
  the English mind that Christendom may again be united, rekindled
  hope will ascend in the more fervent prayer to him who "maketh men
  to be of one mind in an house," and our prayers will not return
  unheard for want of love. Your obedient servant,

   E. B. PUSEY.

This letter, with others which have appeared from time to time, and
the whole course of Dr. Pusey's conduct, prove, in our estimation,
that he is acting with sincere good faith and goodwill toward the
Catholic Church. The long list of objections and charges which his
book contains, and which has irritated some Catholics so much, proves
only that Dr. Pusey's mind is troubled and bewildered, but not that
his heart is malevolent. The doctor is a very learned man, and a very
deep thinker, but in the mystic or contemplative order. He is not
either rapid or clear in his intellectual conceptions, nor is he
precise and methodical in the arrangement of the subject of which he
treats. He represents the best school of English evangelical and
scriptural divines, with the addition of extremely high-church
doctrines. No one can question his devout and deeply religious spirit,
the extraordinary purity and goodness of his life, or the zeal and
ability with which he has labored for fifty years to propagate several
of the most fundamental Catholic dogmas. His essay on baptismal
regeneration is the most thorough and exhaustive one in our language,
and we have never met with anything equal to it in any other. It has
had an incalculable influence over the theological mind of the
Episcopalian communion in England and America, in laying the
foundation of a right belief in sacramental grace, and thus preparing
the way for the reception of the entire Catholic system. The same may
be said, in part, respecting the doctrine of the real presence, the
authority of tradition, and other points. We look on him as a kind of
_avant courier_ not only of high-churchmen, but of orthodox
Protestants generally, laboring his way with difficulty through
thickets and morasses back to the Catholic Church, by dint of study,
meditation, and prayer. That he has come so near, bringing with him
the sympathy of so large a number, is a sign that an extraordinary
grace of the Holy Spirit is drawing the most widely separated members
of the Christian family back to unity and integrity of faith and
communion. We request our readers to take note of the fact that Dr.
Pusey, boldly and without censure, maintains that the articles of his
church can and ought to be explained in conformity with the decrees of
the Council of Trent. He proposes these decrees as the basis of
reconciliation. That there should still remain certain difficulties,
prepossessions, and misconceptions in his mind, is not strange; and
while these exist as a bar to a complete and cordial reception of the
entire Catholic system, there is no other way for him to do but to
state them as strongly as possible, so as to bring them under
discussion. There are only two of these difficulties which are
formidable. One relates to the office of the Blessed Virgin as Mother
of the Incarnate Word and Queen of Saints; the other, to that of the
Pope as Vicar of Christ and supreme Bishop of the Catholic Church. A
critical notice gives no opportunity for discussing such great and
grave questions, which demand an elaborate volume. The prelates and
theologians of the church will no doubt give them the full and ample
treatment which they deserve. We simply note the fact that the whole
ground of discussion is reduced in fact, by Dr. Pusey, to the nature
and extent of the Papal supremacy, on which depends the definition of
the body actually constituting the _Ecclesia Docens_ or teaching
church, and the dogmatic value of the decisions made by the Roman
Church with the concurrence of the bishops in her communion. It is
evident that the concession of the supremacy claimed by the Roman
Church involves the admission of all the dogmatic decisions of the
councils ratified by the popes as ecumenical, from the Eighth Council
to the Council of Trent; together with the dogmatic definition of the
immaculate conception, and the condemnations of heretical propositions
which have issued from the Holy See and are universally acknowledged
and enforced by all bishops in her communion. There is but one point,
therefore, really in controversy with the party of Dr. Pusey, as there
is but one with the so-called Greek Church, viz.: the Papal supremacy.

It will be noticed by every attentive reader that Dr. Pusey partially
admits {286} this doctrine already, and shows himself open to argument
on the subject. On the other great question, respecting the
prerogatives of the Blessed Virgin Mary, he appears to show himself
also disposed to listen to explanations tending to remove his
misconceptions. In a letter to Dr. Wordsworth, published in the
"Weekly Register," of Jan. 27, Dr. Pusey says:

  "In regard to 'the immaculate conception,' . . . I may, however,
  take this opportunity of saying that I understand that Roman divines
  hold that all which is defined is, that the soul of the Blessed
  Virgin was infused pure into her body, and was preserved from both
  guilt and taint of original sin for those merits of our Lord, by
  whom she was redeemed, and that nothing is defined as to 'active
  conception,' i.e., that of her body. In this case, the words, 'in
  primo instanti conceptionis suae,' must be used in a different sense
  from that in which St. Thomas uses it of our Lord. The
  immaculateness of the conception would then differ in degree, not in
  kind, from that of Jeremiah, who was sanctified in his mother's

It must be borne in mind that Dr. Pusey finds no fault with the
language of the Latin or Greek missals and breviaries respecting the
Blessed Virgin. Let the quotations from the Greek books in the notes
to Dr. Newman's letter be carefully examined, and it will be seen that
they fully sustain the common Catholic belief and practice. We have
been ourselves fully acquainted with the doctrine and practice of the
children of St. Alphonsus Liguori, who are considered as having
carried devotion to the Blessed Virgin to the greatest extreme. We
can, therefore, give our testimony that there is nothing in it which
is not identical in principle with the prescribed devotions of the
missal and breviary. The notion of there being a substitution of the
Blessed Virgin for Christ, or an overshadowing of the supreme worship
and love of God, anywhere in the Catholic Church, is a mere chimaera,
a spectral illusion of an alarmed imagination. We know what St.
Bernard, St. Alphonsus, and other approved writers have said. There is
nothing there beyond the language of St. Ephrem, the fathers of
Ephesus, the Greek liturgies, the _Salve Regina, Regina Coeli, Ave
Domina_, and litany of Loretto.

The array of quotations which Dr. Pusey has made from Catholic writers
will be found, on critical examination, to contain nothing formidable.
One of the works from which he quotes, that of Oswald, was placed on
the Index in 1855, and retracted by the author. Some of the other
passages are from works of a highly imaginative character, and contain
figurative or poetic expressions easily susceptible of an erroneous
sense when read by persons not intimately acquainted with the Catholic
religion. We think with Dr. Newman, with the late Archbishop Kenrick,
and with many other wise and holy men, that it is very ill-judged to
adopt such phraseology when it is sure to beget bewilderment and
misunderstanding. We have more need to teach the solid dogmas of faith
than to propagate pious opinions, and cultivate exotic, hot-house
flowers of piety. Dr. Newman has done more to establish a solid
devotion to the Blessed Virgin, by his brief theological essay, than
all the fanciful and rhetorical rhapsodies ever penned. We can forgave
Dr. Pusey for getting bewildered in perusing such a quantity of
poetry, accustomed as he is to Hebrew and other dry studies; but we
regret that he has displayed such an assortment of obscure and dark
sayings to bewilder others. We acquit him cheerfully of all blame for
it, but we nevertheless cannot help giving our deliberate judgment
that he has put forth one of the most mischievous books, to ordinary
and imperfectly informed minds, that has ever proceeded from the
English press. We cannot by any means recommend it to general perusal,
but those who do read it will do well to take its statements, on many
points, with great caution. We will conclude our remarks upon it with
noting some of its serious, albeit unintentional, misstatements:

1. The correspondence between Archbishop Wake and Du Pin was not a
_bonâ fide_ negotiation between that prelate and orthodox Gallicans,
but with Jansenists, in view of a coalition against the Roman Church.

2. There is no proof of any ratification ever having been made by Rome
of any ordinations according to the Anglican ordinal.

3. It is a mistake to say that extreme unction is given only to those
whose life is despaired of. It may be given {287} in all cases where a
probable danger of death is feared.

4. It is not admitted by Catholic writers that Russia was converted by
missionaries separated from the communion of the Roman Church.

5. It is a mistake to suppose that the prelates of the United States
gave no response to the Holy See respecting the definition of the
immaculate conception. The question was discussed in a full council,
and the judgment of' the prelates was transmitted to Rome in favor of
the definition. The Blessed Virgin, under the title of the Immaculate
Conception, was proclaimed, by a decree of the prelates, the patroness
of the Church of the United States, and the Sunday within the octave
of the feast has been made one of the principal solemnities of the

Finally, a complete misconception of the whole question respecting
Papal infallibility and its limits underlies and vitiates all the
statements of the book on that subject. There is no dissension or
doubt existing in the Catholic episcopate in regard to any definition
of faith, or any doctrinal decisions whose acceptance is exacted by
the Holy See under pain of censure. The Pope and the bishops, as the
infallible _Ecclesia Docens_, are a unit. What one teaches and
requires to be believed, all teach alike. The unity of faith in the
episcopate was never so palpable a fact as it is at the present
moment. So far as relates to disciplinary authority over doctrinal
matters, the Roman Church is recognized in universal Catholic law as
the court of ultimate appeal, and all questions respecting the
interpretation of the definitions of the Council of Trent, which are
the great standard of orthodoxy, were expressly reserved to it by the
bull of confirmation, with the assent of the council itself, and by
the decree _De Recipiendis_, etc. There is no possibility, therefore,
of negotiating with the Catholic Church, or any portion of it, for
reconciliation, except through the head of the church. The conditions
of reconciliation are