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Title: Catholic World, Vol. XI, April 1870-September 1870 - A Monthly Magazine of General Literature and Science
Author: Various
Language: English
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Transcriber's Note:

    ^ indicates superscript of the letter that follows.

    _Underscores_ indicate italicized text.

    This volume included the entire text of the Dogmatic Decree on
    Catholic Faith with its English translation. The Decree was not
    in the original contents list, but appeared—out of normal
    pagination—after the New Publications section at the end
    of the June 1870 issue.

    Remaining notes are at the end of the text.

       *       *       *       *       *



    THE
    CATHOLIC WORLD.

    A
    MONTHLY MAGAZINE
    OF
    GENERAL LITERATURE AND SCIENCE.

    VOL. XI.
    APRIL, 1870, TO SEPTEMBER, 1870.


    NEW YORK:
    THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION HOUSE,
    9 Warren Street.

    1870.


    S. W. GREEN,
    PRINTER,
    16 and 18 Jacob St., N. Y.



CONTENTS.


    Adam of Andreini, The, 602.

    Brigand's God-child, The, 52.
    Bridemaid's Story, A, 232.
    Books, Old, 260.
    Brittany; its People and its Poems, 390.
    Boys, Reformatories for, 696.
    Blanchard, Claude, Journal and Campaign of, 787.

    Council of the Vatican, The First Œcumenical, 115, 270, 412, 546,
        701, 838.
    Church and State, 145.
    Children, The Association for Befriending, 250.
    Catholicity and Pantheism, 377.
    Catholicity of the Nineteenth Century, The, 433.
    Copernicus, Nicolaus, 806.
    Church beyond the Rocky Mountains, The, 812.
    Church of Christ, Dogmatic Decree on, 848.

    Dion and the Sibyls, 15, 160, 306, 446, 623, 733.
    Development of Religious Belief, Gould's, 70.
    Dogmatic Decree on the Church of Christ, 848.

    Emerson's Prose Works, 202.
    England, Froude's History of, 289, 577.
    Education, Religion in, 782.
    Emigrant, The, 800.

    Fénelon, 613.

    Gould's Origin and Development of Religious Belief, 70.
    Gordian Knots, Untying, 77.
    Griffin, Gerald, 398, 667.
    Greenwood, In the, 589.
    Griffin, Gerald, The works of, 398, 667.
    Genius, Hereditary, 721.
    Girls, The Willian, 775.

    Havana, Holy Week in, 58, 212.

    Iron Mask, The, 87.
    Ireland's Mission, 193.
    Irish Farmers and Mr. Gladstone, 242.
    Irish Churches, The Ancient, 472.
    Invitation Heeded, The, 542.

    Literary Notes, Foreign, 130, 424, 714.
    Lothair, 537.
    Lourdes, Our Lady of, 752.

    Mary, Queen of Scots, 32, 221.
    Mechanics, Molecular, 54.
    "Moral Results of the Romish System," The _New Englander_ on the,
        106.
    Maundeville, Sir John, 175.
    Mary Stuart, 32, 221.
    Matter and Spirit in the Light of Modern Science, 642.

    _New Englander_, The, On the Moral Results of the Romish System,
        106.
    New England, Home Scenes in, 183.
    Nazareth, 653.

    Ochino, Fra Bernardino, 253.

    Pope and the Council, by Janus, 327, 520, 680.
    Pole, Cardinal, 346.
    Protestantism, Phases of English, 482.
    Paradise Lost of St. Avitus, The, 771.
    Plutarch, 826.

    Religious Liberty, 1.
    Rome, Ten Years in, 518.

    School Question, The, 91.
    Science, Matter and Spirit in the Light of Modern, 642.
    St. Francis, Miracle of, 834.

    Unbelief, The Superstition of, 691.
    Untying Gordian Knots, 77.

    Vatican Council, The, 115, 270, 546, 701, 838.
    Vermonters, The Young, 364, 509, 658.

    Wooden Shoe, The Little, 343.
    Wig, The Sagacious, 495.


POETRY.

    A May Carol, 174, 376.

    Exultent, Sion Filiæ, 241.

    Hymn of St. Paul's Christian Doctrine Society, 536.

    Lines, 397.
    Legend of the Infant Jesus, A, 480.

    Mary, 201.

    Our Lady's Nativity, 825.

    Prayer, The Unfinished, 411.
    Plange, Filia Sion, 76.

    Rainbow, To the, 115.
    Reading Homer, 666.

    Stabat Mater, 49.
    Sonnet, 193.

    Thorns, 220.


NEW PUBLICATIONS.

    Alger's End of the World, 136.
    Assent, Grammar of, 144, 283, 426.
    Arithmetics, Felter's, 575.
    Architecture, Wonders of, 700.

    Brownson's Conversations on Liberalism and the Church, 135.
    Borromeo, St. Charles, Life of, 430.
    Botany, Youman's First Book of, 431.
    Beech Bluff, 720.

    Catholic Church, Rhodes's Visible Unity of, 140.
    Charlestown Convent, The, 429.
    Cæsar's Commentaries, 572.
    Criminal Abortion, 574.
    Catholic Church, History of, 860.
    Clymer's Notes on the Nervous System, 859.

    Dickens, Dialogues from, 288.
    Day Sanctified, The, 572.
    Dall's Alaska, 719.

    Eclipse of 1869, Sands's Reports on, 142.
    Economy, Bowen's American Political, 571.
    Earth, Paradise of, 720.

    Ferryman of the Tiber, The, 144.
    Flemmings, The, Mrs. Dorsey's, 431.
    Fasciculus Rerum, 576.

    Geology and Revelation, Molloy's, 142.
    Grammar of Assent, Newman's, 144, 283, 426.
    Geographical Series, Guyot's, 286.
    Glass-Making, 288.
    Goodwin's Out of the Past, 860.

    Health and Good Living, Hall's, 143.
    Holy Influence, 432.
    Home Communion, Reflections and Prayers for, 572.
    Hawthorne's Note-Books, Passages from, 718.
    Hidden Saints, 718.

    Italian Art, Wonders of, 432.

    Liberalism and the Church, Brownson, 135.
    Lindsay's Evidence for the Papacy, 141.
    Lacordaire's Conferences, 574.
    Lifting the Veil, 718.

    Marcy's Life Duties, 139.
    Molloy's Geology and Revelation, 142.
    Medicine, Niemeyer's Book of, 143.
    Modern Europe, Shea's History of, 143.
    Missale Romanum, 432.
    Marriage, Evans's Treatise of the Christian Doctrine of, 573.
    Marion, 719.
    Meagher, Thomas F., Life of, 719.
    Miles's Loretto, 720.

    Nature, The Sublime in, 288.
    Natural History of Animals, Tenney's, 283.
    Noble Lady, A, 574.
    Noethen's History of the Catholic Church, 860.

    Papacy, Lindsay's Evidence for the, 141.
    Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ, Veith's Life Pictures of, 143.
    Paradise, Morris's Earthly, 144.
    Pilgrimages in the Pyrenees and Landes, 575.

    Rhodes's Visible Unity of the Catholic Church, 140.
    Ramière's De l'Unité dans l'Enseignement de la Philosophie, etc.,
        284.

    Sacrifice, the Double, 144.
    Statutes of the Second Synod of Albany, 287.
    Stanislas Kostka, Life of, 575.
    Stations of the Cross, Album of, 576.
    Sacred Heart, Devotion to, 720.

    The Sun, 288.

    Visible Unity of the Church, 140.
    Visitation, History of the Order of, 719.
    Vénard, Théophane, Life of, 858.

    Waldenses, Melia on the, 428.
    Wise Men, and who they were, Upham's, 431.



THE CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. XI., No. 61.--APRIL, 1870.


RELIGIOUS LIBERTY.[1]

LAST ARTICLE.


In our third article on the Abbé Martin's exhaustive work on
the future of Protestantism and Catholicity, we disposed of the
pretension of Protestants that the Reformation created and has
sustained civil and political liberty in modern society. We proceed
in the present and concluding article to dispose, as far as we
can, of the pretension that it has founded and sustained religious
liberty, or the freedom of conscience.

No fact is more certain than that the Reformation has the credit
with non-Catholics, if not even with some half-instructed Catholics
themselves, of having originated religious liberty and vindicated
the freedom of the mind. Here as elsewhere the formula of the age,
or what claims to be enlightened in it, is, Protestantism and
freedom, or Catholicity and slavery; and it is to its _prestige_ of
having founded and sustained religious liberty that Protestantism
owes its chief ability in our times to carry on its war against the
church. Protestantism, like all false religions or systems, having
no foundation in truth and no vital energy of its own, lives and
prospers only by availing itself of the so-called spirit of the
age, or by appealing to the dominant public opinion of the time and
the place. In the sixteenth century, the age tended to the revival
of imperialism or cæsarism, and Protestantism favored monarchical
absolutism, and drew from it its life, its force, and its sustenance.

The spirit or dominant tendency of our age, dating from the middle of
the last century, has been and is the revival of the pagan republic,
or, as we call it, democratic cæsarism, which asserts for the people
as the state the supremacy which under imperialism is asserted for
the emperor. Protestantism lives and sustains itself now only by
appealing to and representing this tendency, as we may see in the
contemporary objections to the church, that she is "behind the age,"
"does not conform to the age," "is hostile to the spirit of the
age," "opposed to the spirit of the nineteenth century."

Every age, nation, or community understands by liberty, freedom to
follow unrestrained its own dominant tendency; we might say, its own
dominant passion. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, liberty
meant the freedom of temporal sovereigns to govern according to their
own good pleasure, unrestrained by the church, on the one hand, and
estates, diets, or parliaments, on the other. Liberty means now the
freedom of the people, unrestrained either by the rights of God or
the rights of princes, to govern as they or the demagogues, their
masters, judge proper. Hence, liberty, as the world understands it,
varies in its meaning from age to age, and from nation to nation,
and, indeed, from individual to individual. Whatever favors or is in
accordance with the dominant tendency or passion of an age, nation,
community, or individual, favors or is in accordance with liberty;
and whatever opposes or impedes it is opposed to liberty--is civil,
political, or spiritual despotism. Protestantism never resists, but
always follows, and encourages and echoes the dominant tendency of
the age or nation. The church, having a life and force derived from
a source independent of the age or nation, seeks not support in that
dominant passion or tendency, does not yield or conform to it, but
labors unceasingly and with all her energy to conform it to herself.
Hence, in the estimation of the world, Protestantism is always on the
side of liberty, and the church on the side of despotism and slavery.

The attempt to deny this, and to prove that the church favors
liberty in this sense, is perfectly idle; and to seek to modify her
position and action, so as to force her to accept and conform to the
dominant or popular tendency or passion of the age or nation, is to
mistake her essential character and office, and to forget that her
precise mission is to govern all men and nations, kings and peoples,
sovereigns and subjects, and to conform them to the invariable and
inflexible law of God, which she is appointed by God himself to
declare and apply, and therefore to resist with all her might every
passion or tendency of every age, nation, community, or individual,
whenever and wherever it deviates from that law of which she is the
guardian and judge. The church is instituted, as every Catholic who
understands his religion believes, to guard and defend the rights of
God on earth against any and every enemy, at all times and in all
places. She therefore does not and cannot accept, or in any degree
favor, liberty in the Protestant sense of liberty, and if liberty in
that sense be the true sense, the Protestant pretension cannot be
successfully denied.

But we have already seen that liberty in the Protestant sense is
no liberty at all, or a liberty that in the civil and political
order is identified with cæsarism--the absolutism of the prince in
a monarchy, the absolutism of the people or of the ruling majority
for the time in a democracy. This last might be inferred from the
ostracism practised in democratic Athens, and is asserted and
defended, or rather taken for granted, by almost the entire secular
press in democratic America. The most conservative politicians
among us recognize the justice of no restrictions on the will of
the people but such as are imposed by written constitutions, and
which a majority or three fourths of the voters may alter at will
and as they will. It is the boast of our popular orators and writers
that there are with us no restrictions on the absolute will of the
people but such as the people voluntarily impose on themselves,
which, as self-imposed, are simply no restrictions at all. It is
evident, then, if liberty means any thing, if there is any difference
between liberty and despotism, freedom and slavery, the Protestant
understanding of liberty is not the true one.

Nor is the Protestant understanding of _religious_ liberty a whit
more true. We have found that the basis or principle of all civil
and political liberty is religious liberty, or the freedom and
independence of religion--that is to say, the spiritual order;
but from the point of view of Protestantism there is no religion,
no spiritual order, to be free and independent. According to
Protestantism, religion is a function, not a substantive existence
or an objective reality. It is, as we have seen, on Protestant
principles, a function of the state, of the community, or of the
individual, and whatever liberty there may be in the case, must
be predicated of one or another of these, not of religion, or the
spiritual order. With Protestants the freedom and independence of
religion or the spiritual order would be an absurdity, for it is
precisely that which they began by protesting against. It is of the
very essence of Protestantism to deny and make unrelenting war on the
freedom and independence of religion, and the only liberty in the
case it can assert is the freedom of the state, the community, or the
individual from religion as law, and the right of one or another of
them to adopt or reject any religion or none at all as they choose,
which is irreligious or infidel, not religious liberty.

Protestantism, under its most favorable aspect, is not, even in the
estimation of Protestants themselves, religion, or a religion; but
the view of religion which the reformers took, or which men take
or may take of religion. At best it is not the objective truth or
reality, but a human doctrine or theory of it, which has no existence
out of the mind that forms or entertains it. Hence, Protestants
assert, as their cardinal doctrine, justification by faith alone; and
which faith is not the truth, but the mind's view of it. Hence, too,
they deny that the sacraments are efficacious _ex opere operato_,
and maintain that, if efficacious at all, they are so _ex opere
suscipientis_. They reject the Real Presence as a "fond imagination,"
and make every thing in religion depend on the subjective faith,
conviction, or persuasion of the recipient. The church they recognize
or assert is no living organism, no kingdom of God on earth, founded
to teach and govern all men and nations in all things pertaining to
eternal life or the spiritual end of man, but a simple association of
individuals, with no life or authority except what it derives from
the individuals associated, and which is not hers, but theirs.

Some Protestants go so far as to doubt or deny that there is any
truth or reality independent of the mind, and hold that man is
himself his own teacher and his own law-giver; but all concede,
nay, maintain, that what is known or is present to the mind is
never the reality, the truth, or the divine law itself, but the
mind's own representation of it. Hence their Protestantism is not
something fixed and invariable, the same in all times and places, but
varies as the mind of Protestants itself varies, or as their views,
convictions, or feelings change, and they change ever with the spirit
of the age or country. One of their gravest objections to the church
was, in the sixteenth century, that she had altered the faith; and
in the nineteenth century is, that she does not alter it, that she
remains inflexibly the same, and absolutely refuses to change her
faith to suit the times. They hold their own faith and doctrine
alterable at will, and are continually changing it. Evidently, then,
they do not hold it to be the truth; for truth never changes: nor to
be the law of God, which they are bound to obey; for if the law of
God is alterable at all, it can be so only by God himself, never by
man, any body of men, or any creature of God. There is no Protestant
ignorant or conceited enough to maintain the contrary.

This fact that Protestantism is a theory, a doctrine, or a view of
religion, not the objective reality itself, not the recognition and
assertion of the rights of God, but a human view or theory of them,
proves sufficiently that it is incompatible with the assertion of
_religious_ liberty. All it can do is to assert the right or liberty
of the state to adopt and ordain any view of religion it may take;
of the community to form and enforce its own views, convictions, or
opinions; or of the individual to make a religion to suit himself, or
to go without any religion at all, as he pleases. In none of these
cases is there any religious liberty; and in them all religion is
subjected to a purely human authority--the authority of the state,
of the community, or of the individual, one as human as another.
Protestantism is really in its very nature and essence an earnest and
solemn protest against religious liberty, and for it to assert the
freedom and independence of religion, or the spiritual order--that
is, of religion as law to which all men are bound to conform--would
be to commit suicide. Even the supremacy of the spiritual order,
which our old Puritans asserted, was only the assertion of the
authority of their interpretation of the written word against the
divine authority to interpret it claimed by the church, and against
the human authority of the civil magistrate claimed by Anglicanism,
from which they separated, while it subjected it to the congregation,
the brotherhood, or to the ministers and elders, no more spiritual
than the civil magistrate himself.

In the beginning Protestantism made religion in nearly all Protestant
nations a function of the state, as it is still in Great Britain,
Prussia, the several Protestant German states, in Norway, Denmark,
Sweden, Holland, and the Protestant cantons of Switzerland. The
progress of events, and the changes of opinion, have produced a
revolt among Protestant nations against this order, and Protestants
now make, or are struggling to make, it a function of the community
or the sect, and the more advanced party of them demand that it
be made a function of the individual. This advanced party do not
demand the freedom of religion, but the freedom of the individual
from all religious restraints, from all obligations of obedience to
any religious law, and indeed of any law at all, except the law he
imposes on himself. Dr. Bellows, of this city, a champion of this
party, proves that it is not the freedom of religion, nor the freedom
of the individual to be of any religion he chooses; for he denies
that he is free to be a Catholic, though he is free to be any thing
else. He tells Catholics they are only tolerated; and threatens them
with extermination by the sword, if they dare claim equal rights with
Protestants, and insist on having their proportion of the public
schools under their own control, or on not being taxed to support
schools to which they cannot with a good conscience send their
children.

Evidently, then, the pretension that the Reformation has founded
or favored religious liberty is as worthless as we have seen is
the pretension that it has founded or favored civil and political
liberty. It has, on the contrary, uniformly opposed it, and asserted
only the liberty of its contradiction. To assert the liberty of the
state, the people, or the individual to control religion, or to
assert the liberty of infidelity or no-religion, surely is not to
assert the liberty of religion. Protestantism yields always to the
spirit of the age, and asserts the right of that spirit to modify,
alter, or subject religion to itself. There can be no religious
liberty where religion must follow the spirit of the times, and
change as it changes. Religion, if any thing, is the supreme law
of conscience, and conscience is a mere name if obliged to obey
as its supreme law the dominant passion or tendency of the age or
nation. The freedom of conscience is not in the emancipation of
conscience from all law, for that were its destruction; but in its
being subjected to no law but the law of God, promulgated by divine
authority, and declared to the understanding by God himself, or a
court appointed, enlightened, and assisted by the Holy Spirit. Under
Protestantism there is and can be no freedom of conscience; for under
it conscience is either destroyed by being subjected to no law, or
enslaved by being subjected to another law than the law of God.

This conclusion, which we obtain by a simple analysis of
Protestantism, is confirmed by all the facts in the case. Every
student of the history of Protestantism knows that the reformers
never made the pretension now put forth in their name. No man was
ever farther from proposing the emancipation of the mind from what is
called spiritual thraldom than Martin Luther, and no man ever showed
less respect for human reason. His aim was to emancipate the church
from the authority of the pope; and in this laudable work he engaged
the princes of the empire, who were ready to assist him, because
in doing so they could also emancipate themselves, make themselves
pontiffs as well as princes, and enrich themselves with the spoils
of the church. But Luther substituted for the authority of the pope
and councils that of the written word, as amended and interpreted
by himself. He never recognized the so-called right of private
judgement, and never asserted the right of every man to interpret
the written word for himself. The Bible as interpreted by himself,
Martin Luther, was to be taken in all cases as the supreme and only
authority, and he would tolerate no dissent from his interpretation.
He assumed for himself more than papal authority; for he confessedly
assumed authority to alter the written word, which assuredly no pope
ever did. He never admitted any right of dissent from his dicta, and
wherever he could, he suppressed it by the strong arm of power.

John Calvin was not more tolerant, as the burning of Michael Servetus
over a slow fire made of green wood, and his pamphlet justifying
the burning of heretics, amply prove. Henry VIII. of England put
to death Catholics and Lollards, beheaded Cardinal Fisher and Sir
Thomas More, because they refused to take the oath of the royal
supremacy, except with the qualification, "as far as the law of
Christ permits." In Sweden, the peasants were entrapped into the
support of the Reformation by the infamous Gustavus Vasa, under
pretence of recovering and reëstablishing the national independence;
and after the prince had regained by their aid his throne and been
crowned king, were massacred by thousands because they wished still
to adhere to the Catholic Church, and resisted its abolition. In
Geneva, Protestantism gained a footing in much the same way.
Protestants came from Berne and other places to assist the citizens
in a political rebellion against their prince, who was also their
bishop, and afterward drove out the Catholics who could not be forced
to accept the Reformation.

We need not pursue the history of the establishment of Protestantism,
which is written in blood. Suffice it to say, that in no country was
the Reformation introduced but by the aid of the civil power, and in
no state in which it gained the mastery did it fail to be established
as the religion of the state, and to obtain the suppression by force
or civil pains and penalties of the old religion, and of all forms
even of Protestant dissent. The state religion was bound hand and
foot, and could move only by permission of the temporal sovereign,
and no other religion was tolerated. We all know the penal laws
against Catholics in England, Ireland, and Scotland, reënacted with
additional severity under William and Mary, almost in the eighteenth
century. James II., it is equally well known, lost the crown of his
three kingdoms by an edict of toleration, which, as it tolerated
Catholics, was denounced as an act of outrageous tyranny. The penal
laws against Catholics were adopted by the Episcopalian colony of
Virginia, and the Puritan colony of Massachusetts made it an offence
punishable with banishment from the colony for a citizen to harbor a
Catholic priest for a single night, or to give him a single meal of
victuals. It was only in 1788 that the Presbyterian Assembly of the
United States expunged from their confession of faith the article
which declares it the duty of the civil magistrate to extirpate
heretics and idolaters--an article still retained by their brethren
in Scotland, and by the United Presbyterians in this country.

Indeed, toleration is quite a recent discovery. Old John Cotton, the
first minister of Boston, took care to warn his hearers or readers
that he did not defend "that _devil's_ doctrine, toleration."
Toleration to a limited extent first began to be practised among
Protestants on the acquisition of provinces whose religion was
different from that of the state making the acquisition. The example
was followed of the pagan Romans, who tolerated the national religion
of every conquered, tributary, or allied nation, though they
tolerated no religion which was not national, and for three hundred
years martyred Christians because their religion was not national,
but Catholic. It is only since Voltaire and the Encyclopædists
preached toleration as the most effective weapon in their arsenal,
as they supposed, against Christianity, or the beginnings of the
French Revolution of 1789, that Protestants have taken up the strain,
professed toleration, and claimed to be, and, in the face and eyes of
all history, always to have been, the champions of religious liberty
and the freedom of conscience. It was not till 1829 that the very
imperfect Catholic Relief Bill passed in the British parliament,
and the complete disestablishment of Congregationalism as the state
religion in Massachusetts did not take place till 1835, though
dissenters had for some time previous been tolerated.

Yet in no Protestant state has complete liberty been extended to
Catholics. The French Revolution, with its high-flown phrases of
liberty, equality, brotherhood, and religious freedom, suppressed
the Catholic religion, and imprisoned, deported, or massacred the
bishops and priests who would not abandon it for the civil church
it ordained. We ourselves, though very young at the time, remember
the exultation of our Protestant neighbors when the first Napoleon
dragged the venerable and saintly Pius VII. from his throne and held
him a prisoner, first at Savona, and afterward at Fontainebleau.
"Babylon is fallen," they cried; "the man-child has slain the beast
with seven heads and ten horns." The revolutions, ostensibly social
and political, which have been going on in the Catholic nations of
Europe, and are still in process, and which everywhere are hostile to
the church, have the warm sympathy of Protestants of every nation,
and in Italy and Spain have been aided and abetted by Protestant
associations and contributions, as part and parcel of the Protestant
programme for the abolition of the papacy and the destruction of our
holy religion.

Protestants now tolerate Protestant dissenters, and allow Jews and
infidels equal rights with themselves; but they find great difficulty
in regarding any outrage on the freedom of the church as an outrage
on religious liberty. She is Catholic, not national, over all
nations, and subject to none; therefore no nation should tolerate
her. Even in this country Protestants very reluctantly suffer her
presence, and the liberal Dr. Bellows, a Protestant of Protestants,
warns, as we have seen, Catholics not to attempt to act as if they
stood on an equality with Protestants. It is only a few years since
the whole country was agitated by the Know-Nothing movement, got up
in secret lodges, for the purpose, if not of outlawing or banishing
Catholics, at least of depriving them of civil and political
citizenship. The movement professed to be a movement in part
against naturalizing persons of foreign birth, but really for the
exclusion of such persons only in so far as they were Catholics. The
controversy now raging on the school question proves that Protestants
are very far from feeling that Catholics have equal rights with
themselves, or that the Catholic conscience is entitled to any
respect or consideration from the state. Public opinion proscribes
us, and no Catholic could be chosen to represent a purely Protestant
constituency in any legislative body, if known to be such and to be
devoted to his religion. Our only protection, under God, is the fact
that we have votes which the leaders of all parties want; yet there
is a movement now going on for female suffrage, which, if successful,
will, it is hoped, swamp our votes by bringing to the polls swarms
of fanatical women, the creatures of fanatical preachers, together
with other swarms of infidel, lewd, or shameless women, who detest
Catholic marriage and wish to be relieved of its restraints, as
well as of their duties as mothers. This may turn the scale against
us; for Catholic women have too much delicacy, and too much of that
retiring modesty that becomes the sex, to be seen at the polls.

But the imperfect toleration practised by Protestants is by no
means due to their Protestantism, but to their growing indifference
to religion, and to the conviction of Protestant and non-Catholic
governments, that their supremacy over the spiritual order is so
well established, their victory so complete, that all danger of its
renewing the struggle to bring them again under its law is past.
Let come what may, the spiritual order can never regain its former
supremacy, or Cæsar tremble again at the bar of Peter. Cæsar fancies
that he has shorn the church so completely of her Catholicity, except
as an empty name, and so fully subjected her to his own or the
national authority, that he has no longer any need to be intolerant.
Why not, indeed, amnesty the poor Catholics, who can no longer be
dangerous to the national sovereign, or interfere with the policy of
the state?

For ourselves, we do not pretend that the church is or ever has been
tolerant. She is undeniably intolerant in her own order, as the law,
as truth is intolerant, though she does not necessarily require
the state to be intolerant. She certainly is opposed to what the
nineteenth century calls religious liberty, which, we have seen, is
simply the liberty of infidelity or irreligion. She does not teach
views or opinions, but presents the independent truth, the reality
itself; proclaims, declares, and applies the law of God, always and
everywhere one and the same. She cannot, then, while faithful to
her trust, allow the truth to be denied without censuring those who
knowingly deny it, or the law to be disobeyed without condemning
those who disobey it. But always and everywhere does the church
assert, and, as far as she can, maintain the full and perfect liberty
of religion, the entire freedom and independence of the spiritual
order, to be itself and to act according to its own laws--that is,
religious liberty in her sense, and, if the words mean any thing,
religious liberty in its only true and legitimate sense.

The nineteenth century may not be able to understand it, or, if
understanding it, to accept it; yet it is true that the spiritual
is the superior, and the law of the temporal. The supremacy belongs
in all things of right to God, represented on earth by the church
or the spiritual order. The temporal has no rights, no legitimacy
save as subordinated to the spiritual--that is, to the end for which
man is created and exists. The end for which all creatures are made
and exist is not temporal, but spiritual and eternal; for it is
God himself who is the final cause as well as the first cause of
creation. The end, or God as final cause, prescribes the law which
all men must obey, or fail of attaining their end, which is their
supreme good. This law all men and nations, kings and peoples,
sovereigns and subjects, are alike bound to obey; it is for all men,
for states and empires, no less than for individuals, the supreme
law, the law and the only law that binds the conscience.

Now, religion is this law, and includes all that it commands to
be done, all that it forbids to be done, and all the means and
conditions of its fulfilment. The church, as all Catholics hold, is
the embodiment of this law, and is therefore in her very nature and
constitution teleological. She speaks always and everywhere with
the authority of God, as the final cause of creation, and therefore
her words are law, her commands are the commands of God. Christ,
who is God as well as man, is her personality, and therefore she
lives, teaches, and governs in him, and he in her. This being so,
it is clear that religious liberty must consist in the unrestrained
freedom and independence of the church to teach and govern all men
and nations, princes and people, rulers and ruled, in all things
enjoined by the teleological law of man's existence, and therefore in
the recognition and maintenance for the church of that very supreme
authority which the popes have always claimed, and against which
the Reformation protested, and which secular princes are generally
disposed to resist when it crosses their pride, their policy, their
ambition, or their love of power. Manifestly, then, religious liberty
and Protestantism are mutually antagonistic, each warring against the
other.

The church asserts and vindicates the rights of God in the
government of men, and hence is she called the kingdom of God on
earth. The rights of God are the foundation of all human rights; for
man cannot create or originate rights, since he is a creature, not
his own, and belongs, all he is and all he has, to his Creator. God's
rights being perfect and absolute, extend to all his creatures; and
he has therefore the right that no one of his creatures oppress or
wrong another, and that justice be done alike by all men to all men.
We can wrong no man, deprive no man of life, liberty, or the pursuit
of happiness, without violating the rights of God and offending our
Maker. "Inasmuch as ye did it to the least of my brethren, ye did it
unto me." Hence, the church in asserting and vindicating the rights
of God, asserts and protects in the fullest manner possible the
so-called inalienable rights of man, opposes with divine authority
all tyranny, all despotism, all arbitrary power, all wrong, all
oppression, every species of slavery, and asserts the fullest
liberty, political, civil, social, and individual, that is possible
without confounding liberty with license. The liberty she sustains is
true liberty; for it is that of which our Lord speaks when he says,
"If the Son makes you free, ye shall be free indeed." The church
keeps, guards, declares, and applies the divine law, of which human
laws must be transcripts in order to have the force or vigor of laws.
Man has in his own right no power to legislate for man, and the state
can rightfully govern only by virtue of authority from God. Hence,
St. Paul says, _Non est potestas nisi a Deo_. "There is no power
except from God."

The church in asserting the supremacy of the law of God or of the
spiritual order, asserts not only religious liberty, but all true
liberty, civil, political, social, and individual; and we have
seen that liberty, the basis and condition of civilization, was
steadily advancing in all these respects during the middle ages till
interrupted by the revival of paganism in the fifteenth century and
the outbreak of Protestantism in the sixteenth. The Reformation
did not emancipate society from spiritual thraldom, but raised it
up in revolt against legitimate authority, and deprived it of all
protection, on the one hand, against arbitrary power, and, on the
other, against anarchy and unbounded lawlessness, as the experience
of more than three centuries has proved. There is not a government
in Europe that is not daily conspired against, and it requires five
millions of armed soldiers even in time of peace to maintain internal
order, and give some little security to property and life. To pretend
that the authority of the church, as the organ of the spiritual
order, is despotic, is to use words without understanding their
meaning. Her authority is only that of the law of God, and she uses
it only to maintain the rights of God, the basis and condition of the
rights of individuals and of society. Man's rights, whether social
or individual, civil or political, are the rights of God in and over
man, and they can be maintained only by maintaining the rights of
God, or, what is the same thing, the authority of the church of God
in the government of human affairs. Atheism is the denial of liberty,
as also is pantheism, which denies God as creator.

There is no liberty where there is no authority competent to assert
and maintain it, or where there is no authority derived from God,
who only hath dominion. The men who seek to get rid of authority as
the condition of asserting liberty are bereft of reason, and more
in need of physic and good regimen than of argument. Liberty is not
in being exempt from obedience, but in being held to obey only the
rightful or legitimate authority. God's right to govern his creatures
is full and perfect, and any authority he delegates or authorizes to
be exercised in his name, is legitimate, and in no sense abridges
or interferes with liberty--unless by liberty you mean license--but
is the sole condition of its maintenance. God's dominion over man
is absolute, but is not despotic or tyrannical, since it is only
his absolute right. The authority of the church, however extended
it may be, and she is the judge of its extent and its limitations,
as the court is the judge of its own jurisdiction, is not despotic,
tyrannical, or oppressive, because it is the authority of God
exercised through her.

The pretension of Protestants that Protestantism favors liberty, and
the church despotism, is based on the supposition that authority
negatives liberty and liberty negatives authority, that whatever is
given to the one is taken from the other; a supposition refuted some
time since, in the magazine for October last, in an article entitled
_An Imaginary Contradiction_, and need detain us no longer at
present. Just or legitimate authority, founded on the rights of God,
and instituted to assert and maintain them in human affairs, confirms
and protects liberty instead of impairing it.

Yet there is no doubt that the church condemns liberty in the sense
of the Reformation, and especially in that of the nineteenth century.
Protestantism denies infallibility to the church and assumes it for
the age, for the state, for public opinion--that is, for the world.
The most shocking blasphemy in its eyes is to assert that the age
is fallible and cannot be relied on as a safe or sure guide. We
differ from the Protestant; we attribute infallibility to the church,
and deny it to the age, even though the age be this enlightened
nineteenth century. We do not believe it is always wise or prudent
to suffer one's self to be carried away by the dominant tendency or
passion of this or any other age. It is characteristic of every age
to fix upon one special object or class of objects, and to pursue
them with an exclusiveness and a concentrated passion and energy that
render them practically evil, even though good when taken in their
place and wisely pursued. Even maternal affection becomes evil and
destructive, if not guided or restrained by wisdom and prudence.
Philanthropy is a noble sentiment; yet men and women in our own age,
carried away, dazzled, and blinded by it, only produce evils they
would avoid, defeat the very good they would effect. The spirit of
our age is that of the production, accumulation, and possession of
material goods. Material goods in their proper measure and place
are needed; but when their production and accumulation become with
an individual or an age an engrossing passion that excludes the
spiritual and the eternal, they are evil, and lead only to ruin, both
spiritual and material, as daily experience proves.

The church, then, instituted to teach the truth and to secure
obedience to the law of God, directed always by her divine ideal,
is forced to resist always and everywhere the age, that is, the
world, instead of following its spirit, and to labor for its
correction, not for its encouragement. Hence always is there more
or less opposition between the church and what is called the spirit
of the age, and their mutual concordance is never to be looked for
so long as the world stands. Hence the church in this world is the
church militant, and her normal life one of never-ending struggle
with the world--spirit of the age, _der Welt-Geist_--the flesh, and
the devil. It is only by this struggle that she makes conquests
for heaven, and prevents civil governments from degenerating into
intolerable tyrannies, and society from lapsing into pagan darkness
and superstition.

We have, we think, sufficiently disposed of the Protestant
pretension, and if any of our readers think we have not fully done
it, we refer them to the work before us. There is no doubt that the
boldness, not to say impudence, with which the Protestant pretension
is urged, and the support it receives from the rationalistic
journalism and literature which form contemporary public opinion
in Catholic nations, coupled with the general ignorance of history
and the shortness of men's memories, accounts for the chief success
of Protestant missions in unmaking Catholics, which, though very
limited, is yet much greater than it is pleasant to think. Yet
gradually the truth will find its way to the public; even Protestants
themselves will by and by tell it, piece by piece, as they are now
doing. They have already refuted many of the falsehoods and calumnies
they began by inventing and publishing against the church, and in due
time they will refute the rest.

The abbé shows very clearly that the toleration now accepted and to
some extent practised, and the liberty now allowed to the various
sects, will most likely have a disastrous effect on the future of
Protestantism. It must sooner or later, he thinks, lead to the
demolition of the Protestant national establishments. National
churches cannot coexist with unlimited freedom of dissent. The
English Church must soon follow the fate of the Anglican Church in
Ireland. Its disestablishment is only a question of time. So it
will be before long in all Protestant nations that have a national
church. The doctrine of toleration and freedom for all sects and
opinions not only tends to produce indifference to dogmatic theology,
but is itself a result of that indifference; and indifference
to dogmatic truth is a more formidable enemy to deal with than
out-and-out disbelief or positive infidelity. A soul breathing
forth threatenings, and filled with rage against Christians, can be
converted, and became Paul the apostle and doctor of the Gentiles;
but the conversion of a Gallio, who cares for none of these things,
is a rare event.

With the several sects, doctrinal differences are daily becoming
matters of less and less importance. Who hears now of controversies
between Calvinists and Arminians? Even the New School and the Old
School Presbyterians, though separated by grave dogmatic differences,
unite and form one and the same ecclesiastical body; Presbyterians
and Methodists work together in harmony; Orthodox Congregationalists
show signs of fraternizing with Unitarians, and Unitarians fraternize
with Radicals who reject the very name of Christian, and can hardly
be said to believe even in God. One need not any longer believe any
thing, except that Catholicity is a gross superstition, and the
church a spiritual despotism, the grand enemy of the human race,
in order to be a good and acceptable Protestant. A certain inward
sentiment, emotion, or affection, which even a pantheist or an
atheist may experience, suffices. The dread presence of the church,
hatred of Catholicity, the zeal inspired by party attachment, and
the hope of finally arriving at some solid footing, may keep up
appearances for some time to come; the eloquence, the polished
manners, the personal influence, and the demagogic arts and address
of the preacher may continue for a while to fill a few fashionable
meeting-houses; but when success depends on the personal character
and address of the minister, as is rapidly becoming the fact in all
Protestant sects, we may take it for granted that Protestantism has
seen its best days, is going the way of all the earth, and soon the
place that has known it shall know it no more for ever.

Protestantism, with all deference to our author, who pronounces it
imperishable, we venture to say, has well-nigh run its course. It
began by divorcing the church from the papacy and subjecting religion
to the national authority, subordinating the spiritual to the
temporal, the priest to the magistrate, the representative of heaven
to the representative of earth. It constituted the national sovereign
the supreme head and governor, the pontifex maximus, after the manner
of the Gentiles, of the national religion, or the national church,
and punished dissent as treason against the prince. It was at first,
and for over two centuries, bitterly intolerant, especially against
Catholics, whom it persecuted with a refined cruelty which recalled,
if it did not surpass, that practised by paganism on Christians in
the martyr ages.

Tired of persecution, or finding it impotent to prevent dissent,
Protestantism tried after a while its hand at civil toleration.
The state tolerated, to a greater or less extent, at first only
Protestant dissenters from the established church; but at last,
though with many restrictions, and with the sword ever suspended over
their heads, even Catholics themselves. From civil toleration, from
ceasing to cut the throats and confiscate the goods of Catholics, and
of Protestant recusants, it is passing now to theological tolerance,
or what it calls complete religious liberty, though as yet only its
advanced-guard have reached it.

The state, unless in the American republic, does not, indeed,
disclaim its supremacy over the church; but it leaves religion to
take care of itself, as a thing beneath the notice of the civil
magistrate, so long as it abstains from interfering with state
policy, or meddling with politics. To-day Protestantism divorces,
or is seeking to divorce, the church from the state, as it began
by divorcing both her and the state from the papacy; it divorces
religion from the church and from morality, Christianity from
Christ, faith from dogma, piety from reason, and it resolves into an
affection of man's emotional or sentimental nature. We find persons
calling themselves Christians who do not believe in Christ, or regard
him as a myth, and godly, who do not even believe in God. We have
men, and women too, who demand the disruption of the marriage tie in
the name of morality, and free love in the name of purity. Words lose
their meaning. The churl is called liberal, things bitter are called
sweet, and things profane are called holy. Not many years since,
there was published in England, and republished here, an earnest
and ingenious poem, designed to rehabilitate Satan, and chanting
his merits as man's noblest, best, and truest friend. In the mean
time, every thing regarded as religion loses its hold on the new
generations; moral corruption of all sorts in public, domestic, and
private life is making fearful progress throughout the Anglo-Saxon
world, the mainstay of Protestantism; and society seems tottering on
the verge of dissolution. Such is the career Protestantism has run,
is running, or, by the merciless logic to which it is subjected,
will be forced to run. What hope, then, can Protestants have for its
future?

As to the future of Catholicity, we are under no apprehensions.
We know that never can the church be in this world the church
triumphant, and that she and the world will always be in a state of
mutual hostility; but the hostility can never harm her, though it
may cause the spiritual ruin of the individuals and nations that
war against her. The Protestant world have for over three hundred
years been trying to get on without her, and have succeeded but
indifferently. Sensible and earnest-minded men among Protestants
themselves boldly pronounce that the experiment has failed, which
most Protestants inwardly feel, and sadly deplore; but like the poor
man in Balzac's novel, who has spent his own patrimony, his wife's
dower, the portion of his daughter, with all he could borrow, beg,
or steal, and reduced his wife, his children, and himself to utter
destitution, in the _recherche d'absolu_, they are buoyed up by the
feeling that they are just a-going to succeed. But even this feeling
cannot last always. Hope too long "deferred maketh the heart sick."
It may be long yet, and many souls for whom Christ has died be
lost, before the nations that have apostatized learn wisdom enough
to abandon the delusive hope, and turn again to Him whom they have
rejected, or look again, weeping, on the face of Him whom they have
crucified. But the church will stand, whether they return or not; for
she is founded on a rock that cannot be shaken, on the eternal truth
of God, that cannot fail.

The Protestant experiment has demonstrated beyond question that
the very things in the Catholic Church which are most offensive to
this age, and for which it wages unrelenting war against her, are
precisely those things it most needs for its own protection and
safety. It needs, first of all, the Catholic Church--nay, the papacy
itself--to declare and apply the law of God to states and empires,
to sovereigns and subjects, kings and peoples, that politics may no
longer be divorced from religion, but be rendered subsidiary to the
spiritual, the eternal end of man, for which both individuals and
society exist and civil governments are instituted. It needs the
church to declare and enforce the law, by such means as she judges
proper, that should govern the relation of the sexes; to hallow
and protect marriage, the basis of the family, as the family is of
society, that great sacrament or mysterious union, typical of the
union of Christ with the church, which is indissoluble; to take
charge of education, and to train up, or cause to be trained up, the
young in the nurture and admonition of the Lord, or in the way they
should go, that when old they shall not depart from it; to teach
maidens modesty and reserve, and wives and mothers due submission
to their husbands and proper care of their children; to assert and
protect the rights of women; to train them to be contented to be
women, and not to aspire to be men, or to usurp the functions of men,
and to bid them stay at home, and not be gadding abroad, running over
the country and spouting nonsense, free love, infidelity, impiety,
and blasphemy, at suffrage conventions and other gatherings, at which
it is a shame for a woman to open her mouth, or even to be present;
and, most of all, to exercise a vigilant censorship over ideas,
whether vented in books, journals, or lectures, and to keep from the
public those which tend to mislead the mind or corrupt the heart, as
a prudent father strives to keep them from his children.

The age needs for this the _Catholic_ Church. A national church
cannot do it; far less can the sects do it. These all depend on the
public opinion of the age, the nation, or the sect, and have no
power to withstand that opinion. This is perhaps better understood
here than elsewhere. The sects, being creatures of opinion, have
no power to control it, and their tendency is invariably to seize
upon every opinion, excitement, or movement that is, or is likely
to be, popular, and help it on as the means of swelling, when it
is at flood-tide, their own respective numbers. A national church
has undoubtedly more stability, and is not so easily wrested from
its moorings. But it has only the stability of the government that
ordains it, and the most absolute government must sooner or later
yield to the force of opinion. Opinion has disestablished and
disendowed the state church in Ireland, and will, as is most likely,
do it ere long in both England and Scotland. The Protestant sects
have no alternative; they must either yield to the dominant opinion,
tendency, or passion of the times and move on with it, or be swept
away by it.

It is only a church truly catholic, that depends on no nation, that
extends to all, and is over all, that derives not its being or its
strength from the opinion of courts or of peoples, but rests on
God for her being, her law, and her support, that can maintain her
integrity, or have the courage to stand before an age or a nation,
denounce its errors, and condemn its dominant passion or tendency, or
that would be heeded, if she did. It was only the visible head of the
Catholic Church, the vicar of Christ, that could perform the heroic
act of publishing in this century the Syllabus; and if, as we are
confident they have, the prelates assembled in the Council of the
Vatican have some share of the courage of their chief, their decrees
will not only draw the attention of the world anew to the church, but
go far to prove to apostate nations and truculent governments that
she takes counsel of God, not of the weakness and timidity of men.

A few more such acts as the publication of the Syllabus and the
convocation of the council now sitting at Rome, joined to the
manifest failure of Protestantism, will serve to open the eyes of the
people, disabuse non-Catholics of the delusions under which they are
led away to their own destruction. The very freedom, though false in
principle, which is suffered in Protestant nations, while it removes
all restraints from infidelity, immorality, and blasphemy, aids the
victory of the church over her enemies. It ruins them by suffering
them to run into all manner of excesses; but she can use it without
danger and with advantage where there are minds to be convinced or
hearts to be won; for she can abide the freest examination, the most
rigid investigation and scrutiny, while the indwelling Holy Ghost
cannot fail to protect her from all error on either side. The present
delusions of the loud-boasting nineteenth century must give way
before her as she once more stands forth in her true light, and her
present enemies be vanquished.

FOOTNOTE:

[1] _De l'Avenir du Protestantisme et du Catholicisme._ Par M. l'Abbé
F. Martin. Paris: Tobra et Haton. 1869. 8vo, pp. 608.



DION AND THE SIBYLS.

A CLASSIC, CHRISTIAN NOVEL.

BY MILES GERALD KEON, COLONIAL SECRETARY, BERMUDA, AUTHOR OF "HARDING,
THE MONEY-SPINNER," ETC.


DEDICATION.

I dedicate the following work to Edward Bulwer, Lord Lytton, not
only in appreciation of one of the most searching, comprehensive,
independent, and indefatigable thinkers, and one of the truest and
highest men of genius, of whom it has ever been the lot of his own
country and of the English-speaking races to be proud, and the fate
of contemporary nations to feel honorably jealous; not only in
admiration of a mind which nature made great, and which study has to
the last degree cultivated, whose influence and authority have been
steadily rising since he first began to labor in literary fields more
varied than almost any into which ONE person had previously dared to
carry the efforts of the intellect; but still more as an humble token
of the grateful love which I feel in return for the faithful and
consistent friendship and the innumerable services with which a great
genius and a great man has honored me during twenty years.

                                          MILES GERALD KEON.
    PARIS, Jan. 18, 1870.


INTRODUCTION.

The historical romance of Mr. Keon, now republished with the author's
most cordial permission and his latest corrections, was first printed
in London, in 1866, by Mr. Bentley, publisher in ordinary to the
Queen. The edition was brought out in a very handsome style, and
sold at the high price of a guinea. Notwithstanding the heavy price
at which the work was furnished to our transpontine kinsfolk, (or at
least to the "upper ten thousand" of them,) it is at this moment out
of print, and an effort made about two years ago to procure copies
for sale in this country was unsuccessful. The copy kindly sent
us by the author was accidentally mislaid for several months, and
this circumstance, together with the desire to give our readers the
opportunity of perusing the work as soon as their attention should be
directed to it by a notice such as its high merit demands, caused
us to delay the proper public acknowledgment to the author until the
present moment. Its success in England, in spite of the nationality
and religion of the writer, is no slight proof of its intrinsic
excellence, especially when we consider that he ventured into a field
which the subject-matter of the book would turn into the very home
and headquarters of English prejudice.

To every effect adequate cause; and, in this instance, to those who
take up the story of _Dion_, one cause of its success will, before
they have gone half way through its events and adventures, speak for
itself. Yet, however light to read, the work has, we feel convinced,
been in the last degree laborious both to plan and to execute.
"Easy writing," said Thomas Moore, "very often makes fearfully hard
reading." We believe the converse has often proved equally true.

We are glad to learn that Mr. Keon has recently received a far more
gratifying recognition of his distinguished merit than any other to
which a Catholic author can aspire. At a private audience granted
him by Pius IX., His Holiness complimented him on his services to
literature and religion, and gave him a beautiful rosary of pearl as
a token of his august favor.

One word more, and we shall let the story itself begin to be heard.
The epoch of _Dion_ was the turning-point of all human history--the
hinge of the fateful gates, the moment of the mightiest and most
stupendous transition our world has ever known, the transition
of transitions; the moment on this earth of a superplanetary,
supercosmic drama. There were two suns in the heavens; one rising,
never to set; the other going down to rise no more. At no epoch had
human genius blazed so luminous, or human pride poised itself on
wings so wide, in a sphere so sublime; but this genius was for the
first time confronted in its own sphere by divine inspiration and a
supernatural authority. The setting of a classic though pagan day
saw the dawning day of Christianity. There were two suns in one sky
at the same moment. The doubtful cross-lights of two civilizations
over-arched the world with a vault of shifting, contending, contrary,
and awful splendors--those of one order in the utmost intensity
of their radiance, those of the other in their first, glimmering
beginnings; a seeming confusion; an internecine war; a hazy mingling
of embattled glories as full of meaning as it was of mystery.

                                            ED. CATH. WORLD.


CHAPTER I.

It was a fair evening in autumn, toward the end of the year eleven
of our Lord. Augustus Cæsar was a white-haired, olive-complexioned,
and somewhat frail-featured, though stately man of more than
seventy-three. At the beginning of the century in which this was
written, the face of the first Napoleon recalled to the minds of
antiquaries and students of numismatic remains the lineaments,
engraved upon the extant coins of Augustus. Indeed, at this moment
there is in the Vatican a beautiful marble bust in excellent
preservation, representing one of these two emperors as he was while
yet young; and this bust almost invariably produces a curious effect
upon the stranger who contemplates it for the first time. "That is
certainly a beautiful artistic work," he says, "but the likeness is
hardly perfect."

"Likeness of whom?" replies some Italian friend. "Of the emperor,"
says the stranger. "_Sicuro!_ But which emperor?" asks the Italian,
smiling. "Of course, the first," says the visitor; "_not this_ one."
"But that represents Augustus Cæsar, not Napoleon Bonaparte," is
the answer. Whereupon the stranger, who, a moment before had very
justly pronounced the resemblance to Bonaparte to be hardly perfect,
exclaims, not less justly, What an amazing likeness to Napoleon!
That sort of admiring surprise is intelligible. Had the bust been
designed as an image of the great modern conqueror, there had been
something to censure. But the work which, at one and the same time,
delineates the second Cæsar, and yet now after 1800 years recalls to
mind the first Napoleon, has become a curious monument indeed.

The second Roman emperor, however, had not a forehead so broad
and commanding nor so marble smooth as Napoleon's, and the whole
countenance, at the time when our narrative begins, offered a more
decisively aquiline curve, with more numerous and much thinner lines
about the mouth. Still, even at the age which he had then reached--in
the year eleven of our Lord--he showed traces of that amazing beauty
which had enchanted the whole classic world in the days of his youth.
Three years more, and his reign and life were to go down in a great,
broad, calm, treacherous sunset together.

After the senate had rewarded the histrionic and purely make-believe
moderation of its master--and in truth its destroyer--by giving to
one who had named himself _Princeps_ the greater name of Augustus,
the former title, like a left-off robe, too good to be thrown away,
was carefully picked up, brushed into all its gloss, and appropriated
by a second performer. We allude, of course, to Drusus Tiberius
Claudius Nero, the future emperor, best known by his second name
of Tiberius. The first and third names had belonged to his brother
also. Tiberius was then "Prince and Cæsar," as the new slang of
flattery termed him; he was stepson of Augustus and already adopted
heir, solemnly _designatus_. He was verging upon the close of his
fifty-third year of cautious profligacy, clandestine vindictiveness,
and strictly-regulated vices. History has not accused him of
murdering Agrippa Vespasianus; but had Agrippa survived, he would
have held all Tiberius's present offices. Ælius Sejanus, commander of
the prætorian guards, was occupied in watching the monthly, watching
even the daily, decay of strength in the living emperor, and was
pandering to the passions of his probable successor. Up to this time
Sejanus had been, and still was, thus employed. More dangerous hopes
had not arisen in his bosom; he had not yet indulged in the vision
of becoming master of the known world--a dream which, some twenty
years afterward, consigned him to cruel and sudden destruction.
No conspirator, perhaps, ever exercised more craft and patience
in preparing, or betrayed more stupidity at last in executing, an
attempt at treason on so great a scale. It was forty-six years since
Sallust had expired amid the luxuries which cruelty and rapine
accumulated, after profligacy had first brought him acquainted with
want.

Ovid had just been sent into exile at Temesvar in Turkey--then
called Tomos in Scythia. Cornelius Nepos was ending his days in the
personal privacy and literary notoriety in which he had lived. Virgil
had been dead a whole generation; so had Tibullus; Catullus, half a
century; Propertius, some twenty years; Horace and Mæcenas, about
as long. The grateful master of the _curiosa felicitas verborum_
had followed in three weeks to--not the grave, indeed, but--the
urn, the patron whom he had immortalized in the first of his odes,
the first of his epodes, the first of his satires, and the first of
his epistles; and the mighty sovereign upon whose youthful court
those three characters--a wise, mild, clement, yet firm minister, a
glorious epic poet, and an unsurpassed lyrist--have reflected so much
and such enduring lustre, had faithfully and unceasingly lamented
their irreparable loss. Lucius Varius was the fashionable poet,
the laureate of the day; and Mæcenas being removed, Tiberius sought
to govern indirectly, as minister, all those matters which he did
not control directly and immediately, as one of the two Cæsars whom
Augustus had appointed. Velleius Paterculus, the cavalry colonel,
or military tribune, (chiliarch,) a prosperous and accomplished
patrician, was beginning to shine at once in letters and at the
court. The grandson of Livia, grandson also of Augustus by his
marriage with her, but really grand-nephew of that emperor--we mean
the son of Antonia, the celebrated _Germanicus_, second and more
worthy bearer of that surname--a youth full of fire and genius, and
tingling with noble blood--was preparing to atone for the disgraces
and to repair the disasters which Quintilius Varus, one year before,
amidst the uncleared forests of Germany, had brought upon the
imperial arms and the Roman name. Germanicus, indeed, was about to
fulfil the more important part of a celebrated classic injunction;
he was going to do things worthy to be written, "while the supple
courtier of all Cæsars, Paterculus, was endeavoring to _write
something worthy to be read_." Strabo had not long before commenced
his system of geography, which, for about thirty years yet to come,
was to engage his attention and dictate his travels. Livy, of the
"pictured page," who doubtless may be called, next to Tacitus, the
most eloquent without being set down as quite the most credulous
of classic historians--I venture to say so, _pace Niebuhr_--was
over sixty-eight years of age, but scarcely looked sixty. He was
even then thoroughly and universally appreciated. No man living had
received more genuine marks of honor--not even the emperor. His
hundred and forty-two books of Roman history had filled the known
world with his praises, a glory which length of days allowed him
fully to enjoy. Modern readers appreciate and admire the thirty-five
books which alone are left, and linger over the beauties, _quasi
stellis_, with which they shine. Yet who knows but these may be
among the poorest productions of Livy's genius? A very simple sum in
arithmetic would satisfy an actuary that we must have lost the most
valuable emanations of the Paduan's great mind. Given a salvage of
five-and-thirty out of a hundred and forty-two, and yet the whole of
this wreck so marvellous in beauty! surely that which is gone for
ever must have included much that is equal, probably something far
superior to what time has spared.

There is a curious fact recorded by Pliny the younger, which speaks
for itself. A Spaniard of Cadiz had, only some five months before
the date of our story, journeyed from the ends of the earth to Rome
merely to obtain a sight of Livy. There were imperial shows in the
forum and hippodrome and circus at the time; there were races on
foot, and on horseback, and in chariots; fights there were of all
kinds--men against wild animals, men against each other; with the
sword, with the deadly cestus; wrestling matches, and the dreadful
battles of gladiators, five hundred a side; in short, all the glitter
and the glories and the horrors of the old classic arena in its
culminating days. There was also a strange new Greek fence, since
inherited by Naples, and preserved all through the middle ages down
to this hour, with the straight, pliant, three-edged rapier, to
witness which even ladies thronged with interest and partisanship.
But the Spaniard from Gades (Cervantes might surely have had such an
ancestor) asked only to be shown Titus Livius. Which in yonder group
is Livy? The wayfarer cared for nothing else that Roman civilization
or Roman vanity could show him. The great writer was pointed out, and
then the traveller, having satisfied the motive which had brought
him to Rome, went back to Ostia, where his lugger, if I may so call
it, lay, (I picture it a kind of "wing-and-wing" rigged vessel;)
and, refusing to profane his eyes with any meaner spectacle, set
sail again for Spain, where his youth had been illumined with the
visions presented to a sympathetic imagination by the most charming
of classical historians. The Spaniards from an immemorial age are
deemed to have been heroes and appreciators of heroes; and no doubt
this literary pilgrim, once more at home, recurred many a time, long
pondering, to the glorious deeds of the _Fabia Gens_.

How many other similar examples Livy may have recorded for him we
moderns cannot say. Before his gaze arose the finished column from
the fragments whereof we have gathered up some scattered bricks and
marbles. Niebuhr had to deal with a ruin, and he who ought to have
guessed at and reconstructed the plan of it, has contented himself
with trying to demolish its form.

Long previously to the date of our tale, Augustus, trembling
under the despotism of his wife Livia, had begun to repeat those
lamentations (with which scholars are familiar) for the times
when Mæcenas had guided his active day, and Virgil and Horace had
beguiled his lettered evenings. Virgil, as is well known, had been
tormented with asthma, and ought possibly to have lived much longer
but for some unrecorded imprudence. Horace, as is likewise well
known, had been tormented with sore eyelids--and with wine; he was
"blear-eyed," (_lippus_.) Augustus, therefore, used to say wittily,
as he placed them on each hand of him at the _symposium_, which had
been recently borrowed in Italy from the Greeks, but had not yet
degenerated into the debauchery and extravagance into which they
afterward sank more and more deeply during successive reigns, "I sit
between sighs and tears." _In suspiriis sedeo et in lachrymis._ But
he had long lost these so-called sighs and tears at either hand of
him. The sighs and tears were now his own.


CHAPTER II.

Our chronicle commences in Campania, with the Tyrrhenian Sea (now the
southerly waters of the Gulf of Genoa) on a traveller's left hand if
he looks north. It was a fair evening in autumn, as we have remarked,
during that age and state of the world the broad outlines of which we
have briefly given. Along the Appian, or, as it long afterward came
to be also called, the Trajan Way, the queen of roads, a conveyance
drawn by two horses, a carriage of the common hackney description,
not unlike one species of the _vettura_ used by the modern Italians,
was rolling swiftly northward between the stage of Minturnæ and
the next stage, which was a lonely post-house a few miles south of
the interesting town of Formiæ--not _Forum Appii_, or the _Three
Taverns_, a place more than fifty miles away in the direction of
Rome, and upon the same road.

Inside the carriage were a lady in middle life, whose face, once
lovely, was still sweet and charming, and a very pale, beautiful
female child, each dressed in a black _ricinium_,[2] or mourning
robe, drawn over the top of the head. The girl was about twelve
years old, or a little more, and seemed to be suffering much and
grievously. She faced the horses, and on her side sat the lady
fanning her and watching her with a look which always spoke love,
and now and again anguish. Opposite to them, with his back to the
horses, wearing a sort of dark _lacerna_, or thin, light great-coat,
of costly material, but of a fashion which was deemed in Italy at
that day either foreign or vulgar, as the case might be, sat a youth
of about eighteen. The child was leaning back with her eyes closed.
The youth, as he watched her, sighed now and then. At last he put
both hands to his face, and, leaning his head forward, suffered tears
to flow silently through his fingers. The _lacerna_ which he wore was
fastened at the breast by two _fibulæ_, or clasps of silver, and girt
round his waist with a broad, brown, sheeny leather belt, stamped
and traced after some Asiatic mode. In a loop of this belt, at his
left side, was secured within its black scabbard an unfamiliar,
outlandish-looking, long, straight, three-edged sword, which he had
pulled round so as to rest the point before his feet, bringing the
blade between his knees, and the hilt, which was gay with emeralds,
in front of his chest.

The Romans still very generally went bare-headed,[3] even out of
doors, except that those who continued to wear the toga drew it over
their heads as the weather needed, and those who wore the _penula_
used the hood of it in the same way. But upon the hilt of the sword
we have described the youth had flung a sort of _petasus_, or
deep-rimmed hat, with a flat top, and one black feather at the side,
not stuck perpendicularly into the band, but so trained half round
it as to produce a reckless, rakish effect, of which the owner was
unconscious.

"Agatha," said the lady, in a low, tender voice, the delicate Greek
ring of which was full of persuasion, "look up, beloved child!
Your brother and I, at least, are left. Think no more of the past.
The gods have taken your father, after men had taken his and your
inheritance. But our part in life is not yet over. Did not your
parents too, in times past--did not we too, I say, lose ours? Did you
not know you were probably to live longer than your poor father? Are
you not to survive me also? Perhaps soon."

With a cry of dismay the young girl threw her arms round the lady's
neck and sobbed. The other, while she shed tears, exclaimed:

"I thank that unknown power, of whom Dionysius the Athenian, my
young countryman, so sublimely speaks, that the child weeps at last!
Weep, Agatha, weep; but mourn not mute in the cowardice of despair!
Mourn not for your father in a way unbecoming of his child and mine.
Mourn not as though indeed you were not ours. My husband is gone
for ever, but he went in honor. The courageless grief, that canker
without voice or tears, which would slay his child, will not bring
back to me the partner of my days, nor to you your father. We must
not dishearten but cheer your brother Paulus for the battle which is
before him."

"I wish to do so, my mother," said Agatha.

"When I recover my rights," broke in the youth at this point, "my
father will come and sit among the _lares_, round the ever-burning
fire in the _atrium_ of our hereditary house, Agatha; and therefore
courage! You are ill; but Charicles, the great physician of Tiberius
Cæsar, is our countryman, and he will attend you. He can cure almost
any thing, they say. And if you feel fatigued, no wonder, so help me!
_Minime mirum mehercle!_ Have we not travelled without intermission,
by land and by sea, all the way from Thrace? But now, one more change
of horses brings us to Formiæ, and then we shall be at our journey's
end. Meantime, dear child, look up; see yonder woods, and the
garden-like shore."

And having first tried in vain to brighten the horn window at the
side of the vehicle, _specular corneum_, (glass was used only in the
private carriages of the rich,) he stood up, and calling over the
hide roof of the carriage, which was open in front--the horses being
driven from behind--he ordered the _rhedarius_, or coachman, to open
the panels. The man, evidently a former slave of the family, now
their freedman, quickly obeyed, and descending from his bench, pushed
back into grooves contrived to receive them the coarsely-figured and
gaudily colored sides of the travelling _carruca_.

"Is _parvula_ better?" he then cried, with the privileged
freedom of an old and attached domestic, or of one who, in the
far more endearing parlance of classic times, was a faithful
_familiaris_--that is, a member of the family. "Is the little one
better? The dust is laid now, little one; the evening comes; the
light slants; the sun smiles not higher than yourself, instead of
burning overhead. See, the beautiful country! See, the sweet land!
Let the breeze bring a bloom to your cheeks, as it brings the
perfumes to your mouth. Ah! the _parvula_ smiles. Fate is not always
angry!"

"Dear old Philip!" said the child; and then, turning to her mother,
she added,

"Just now, mother, you waked me from a frightful dream. I thought
that the man who has our father's estates was dead; but he came from
the dead, and was trying to kill Paulus, my brother there; and for
that purpose was striving to wrest the sword from Paulus's hand;
and that the man, or _lar_, laughed in a hideous manner, and cried
out, 'It is with his own sword we will slay him! Nothing but his own
sword!'"

The old freedman turned pale, and muttered something to himself, as
he stood by the side of the vehicle; and while he kept the horses
steady, with the long reins in his left hand, glanced awfully toward
Paulus.

"Brother," continued the child, "I forget that man's name. What _is_
the name?"

"Never mind the name now," said Paulus; "a dead person cannot kill a
living one; and that man is not in Italy who will kill me with my own
sword, if I be not asleep. Look at the beautiful land! See, as Philip
tells you, the beautiful land where you are going to be so happy."

The river Liris, now the Garigliano, flowed all gold in the western
sun; some dozen of meadows behind them, between rows of linden-trees,
oleanders, and pomegranates, with laurel, bay, and long bamboo-like
reeds of the _arundo donax_, varying the rich beauty of its banks:
"_Daphrones, platanones, et aëriæ cyparissi._" A thin and irregular
forest of great contemplative trees; flowerless and sad beech,
cornel, alder, ash, hornbeam, and yew towered over savannahs of
scented herbs, and glades of many-tinted grasses. Some clumps of
chestnut-trees, hereafter to spread into forests, but then rare,
and cultivated as we cultivate oranges and citrons, stood proudly
apart. A vegetation, which has partly vanished, gave its own physical
aspect to an Italy the social conditions of which have vanished
altogether; and were even then passing, and about to pass, through
their last appearances. But much also that we in our days have seen,
both there and elsewhere, was there then. The flower or blossom of
the pomegranate lifted its scarlet light amidst vines and olives;
miles of oleander trees waved their masses of flame under the tender
green filigree of almond groves, and seemed to laugh in scorn at the
mourning groups of yew, and the bowed head of the dark, widow-like,
and inconsolable cypress. All over the leaves of the woods autumn
had strewn its innumerable hues. In the west, the sky was hung with
those glories which no painter ever reproduced and no poet ever sang;
it was one of the sunsets which make all persons of sensibility who
contemplate them dumb, by making all that can be said of them worse
than useless. A magnificent and enormous villa, or _castellum_, or
country mansion--palace it seemed--showed parts of its walls, glass
windows, and Ionic columns, through the woods on the banks of the
Liris; and upon the roof of this palace a great company of gilt,
tinted, and white statues, much larger than life, in various groups
and attitudes, as they conversed, lifted their arms, knelt, prayed,
stooped, stood up, threatened, and acted, were glittering above the
tree-tops in the many-colored lights of the setting sun.

"Ah! let us stop; let us rest a few moments," cried the child,
smiling through her tears at the smiles of nature and the enchanting
beauty of the scene; "only a few moments under the great trees,
mother."

It was a group of chestnuts, a few yards from the side of the road;
and beneath them came to join the highway through the meadows, and
vineyards, and forest-land, a broad beaten track from the direction
of the splendid villa that stood on the Liris.

Paulus instantly sprang from the _carruca_, and, having first helped
his mother to alight, took his sister in his arms and placed her
sitting under the green shade. A Thracian woman, a slave, descended
meantime from the box, and the driver drew his vehicle to the side of
the highway.

While they thus reposed, with no sound about them, as they thought,
save the rustle of the leaves, the distant ripple of the waters, and
the vehement shrill call of the cicala, hidden in the grass somewhere
near, their destinies were coming. The freedman suddenly held up his
hand, and drew their attention by that peculiar sound through the
teeth, (_st_,) which in all nations signifies _listen!_

And, indeed, a distant, dull, vague noise was now heard southward,
and seemed to increase and approach along the Appian road. Every
eye in our little group of travellers was turned in the direction
mentioned, and they could see a white cloud of dust coming swiftly
northward. Soon they distinguished the tramp of many horses at the
trot. Then, over the top of a hill which had intercepted the view,
came the gleam of arms, filling the whole width of the way, and
advancing like a torrent of light. The ground trembled; and, headed
by a troop or two of Numidian riders, and then a couple of troops
or _turmæ_ of Batavian cavalry, a thousand horse, at least, of the
Prætorian Guards, arrayed, as usual, magnificently, swept along in
a column two hundred deep, with a rattle and ring of metal rising
treble upon the ear over the continuous bass of the beating hoofs, as
the foam floats above the roll of the waves.

The young girl was at once startled from the sense of sickness and
grief, and gazed with big eyes at the pageant. Six hundred yards
further on a trumpet-note, clear and long, gave some sudden signal,
and the whole body instantly halted. From a detached group in the
rear an officer now rode toward the front; a loud word or two of
command was heard, a slight movement followed, and then, as if the
column were some monstrous yellow-scaled serpent with an elastic
neck and a black head, the swarthy troops which had led the advance
wheeled slowly backward, two instead of five abreast, while the main
column simultaneously stretched itself forward on a narrower face,
and with a deeper file, occupying thus less than half the width of
the road, which they had before nearly filled, and extending much
further onward. Meantime the squadrons which had led it continued
to defile to the rear; and when their last rank had passed the last
of those fronting in the opposite direction, they suddenly faced to
their own right, and, standing like statues, lined the way on the
side opposite to that where our travellers were reposing, but some
forty or fifty yards higher up the road, or more north.

In front of the line of horsemen, who, after wheeling back, had been
thus faced to their own right, or the proper left of the line of
march, was now collected a small group of mounted officers. One of
them wore a steel corselet, a casque of the same metal, with a few
short black feathers in its crest, and the _chlamys_, or a better
sort of _sagum_, the scarlet mantle of a military tribune, over
a black tunic, upon which two broad red stripes or ribbons were
diagonally sewn. This costume denoted him one of the _Laticlavii_, or
broad-ribboned tribunes; in other words--although, to judge by the
massive gold ring which glittered on the forefinger of his bridle
hand, he might have been originally and personally only a knight--he
had received either from the emperor, or from one of the two Cæsars
then governing with and under Augustus, the senatorial rank.

The chlamys was fastened across the top of his chest with a silver
clasp, and the tunic a little lower down with another, both being
open below as far as the waist, and disclosing a tight-fitting
chain-mail corselet, or shirt of steel rings. The chlamys was
otherwise thrown loose over his shoulders, but the tunic was belted
round the corselet at his waist by a buff girdle, wherein hung the
intricately-figured brass scabbard of a straight, flat, not very
long cut-and-thrust sword, which he now held drawn in his right
hand. In his belt were stuck a pair of _manicæ_ or _chirothecæ_, as
gloves were called, which seemed to be made of the same material as
the girdle; buffalo-skin greaves on his legs and half-boots (the
_calcei_, not the _soleæ_ or sandals) completed his dress. He was a
handsome man, about five-and-thirty years old, brown hair, an open
but thoughtful face, and an observant eye. He it was who had ridden
to the front, and given those orders the execution of which we have
noticed. He had now returned, and kept his horse a neck or so behind
that of an officer far more splendidly attired, who seemed to pay no
attention whatever to the little operation that had occurred, but,
shading his eyes with one hand from the rays of the setting sun,
gazed over the fields toward the villa or mansion on the Liris.

He was clad in the _paludamentum_, the long scarlet cloak of
a _legatus_ or general, the borders being deeply fringed with
twice-dyed Tyrian purple, (_Tyria bis tincta_, or _dibapha_, as it is
called by Pliny;) the long folds of which flowed over his charger's
haunches. This magnificent mantle was buckled round the wearer's neck
with a jewel. His corselet, unlike that of the colonel or tribune
already mentioned, was of plate-steel, (instead of rings,) and shone
like a looking-glass, except where it was inlaid with broad lines of
gold. He wore a chain of twisted gold round his neck, and his belt
as well as the hilt of his sword, which remained undrawn by his side
in a silver scabbard, glittered with sardonyx and jasper stones. He
had no tunic. His gloves happening, like those of his subordinate,
to be thrust into the belt round his waist, left visible a pair of
hands so white and delicate as to be almost effeminate. His helmet
was thin steel, and the crest was surmounted by a profuse plume of
scarlet cock's feathers. But perhaps the most curious particular of
his costume was a pair of shoes or half-boots of red leather, the
points of the toes turned upward. These boots were encrusted with
gems, which formed the patrician crescent, or letter C, on the top of
each foot, and then wandered into a fanciful tracery of sparkles up
the leg. The _stapedæ_, or stirrups, in which his feet rested, were
either of gold or gilt.

The countenance of the evidently important personage whose dress
has been stated was remarkable. He had regular features, a handsome
straight nose, eyes half closed with what seemed at first a languid
look, but yet a look which, if observed more closely, was almost
startling from the extreme attention it evinced, and from the
contrast between such an expression and the indolent indifference
or superciliousness upon the surface, if I may so say, of the
physiognomy. There was something sinister and cruel about the
mouth. He wore no whiskers or beard, but a black, carefully-trimmed
moustache.

After a steady gaze across the fields in the direction we have
already more than once mentioned, he half turned his head toward
the tribune, and at the same time, pointing to our travellers, said
something. The tribune, in his turn, addressed the first centurion,
(_dux legionis_,) an officer whose sword, like that of the legatus,
was undrawn, but who carried in his right hand a thin wand made
of vine-wood. In an instant this officer turned his horse's head
and trotted smartly toward our travellers, upon reaching whom he
addressed Paulus thus:

"Tell me, I pray you, have you been long here?"

"Not a quarter of an hour," answered Paulus, wondering why such a
question was asked.

"And have any persons passed into the road by this pathway?" the
centurion then inquired.

"Not since we came," said Paulus.

The officer thanked him and trotted back.

Meanwhile, Paulus and his mother and the freedman Philip had not
been so absorbed in watching the occurrence and scene just described
as to remove their eyes for more than a moment at a time from their
dearly-loved charge, the interesting little mourner who had begged
to be allowed to rest under the chestnut-trees. It was not so with
Agatha herself. The child was at once astonished, bewildered, and
enraptured. Had the spectacle and review before her been commanded
by some monarch, or rather some magician, on purpose to snatch
her from the possibility of dwelling longer amidst the gloom, the
regrets, and the terrors under which she had appeared to be sinking,
neither the wonder of the spectacle, nor the amenity of the evening
when it occurred, nor the loveliness of the landscape which formed
its theatre, could have been more opportunely combined. She had not
only never beheld any thing so magnificent, but her curiosity was
violently aroused.

Paulus exchanged with his mother and the old freedman a glance of
intelligence and of intense satisfaction, as they both noted the
parted lips and dilated eyes with which the child, half an hour
ago so alarmingly ill, contemplated the drama at which she was
accidentally assisting.

"_That's a rare doctor_," whispered Philip, pointing to the general
of the Prætorian Guards.

"No doctor," replied Paulus in the same low tones, "could have
prescribed for our darling better."

"Paulus," said Agatha, "what are these mighty beings? Are these the
genii, and the demons of the mistress-land, the gods of Italy?"

"They are a handful of Italy's troops, dear," he said.

She looked from her brother to the lady, and then to the freedman,
and this last, with a healing instinct which would have done honor
to Hippocrates, began to stimulate her interest by the agency of
suspense and mystery.

"Master Paulus, and Lady Aglais, and my little one too," he said, in
a most impressive and solemn voice, "these be the genii and these be
the demons indeed; but I tell you that you have not yet seen all the
secret. _Something is going to happen._ Attend to me well! You behold
a most singular thing! Are you aware of what you behold? Yonder,
Master Paulus, is the allotted portion of horse for more than three
legions: the _justus equitatus_, I say, for a Roman army of twenty
thousand men. Yes, I attest all the gods," continued Philip in a low
voice, but with great earnestness, and glancing from the brother to
the sister as if his prospects in life were contingent upon his being
believed in this. "I was at the battle of Philippi, and I aver that
yonder is more than the right allotment of horse for three legions.
Observe the squadrons, the _turmæ_; they do not consist of the same
arm; and instead of being distributed in bodies of three or four
hundred each to a legion, they are all together before you without
their legions. Why is that, Master Paulus?"

"I know not," said Paulus.

"Ah!" resumed the freedman, "you know not, but you _will_ know
presently. Mark that, little Mistress Agatha, and bear in mind that
Philip the freedman has said to your brother that he will know all
presently."

The child gazed wonderingly at the troops as she heard these
mysterious words. "Who are those?" asked she, pointing to the
squadrons of those still in column. "Who are those in leather
jerkins, covered with the iron scales, and riding the large, heavy
horses?"

"Batavians from the mouths of the Rhine and the Scheldt," answered
the freedman, with a mysterious shake of the head.

"And those," pursued she, with increasing interest; "who are those
whose faces shine like dusky copper, and whose eyes glitter like the
eyes of the wild animals in the arena, when the proconsul of Greece
gives the shows? I mean those who ride the small, long-tailed horses
without any _ephippia_ (saddle-cloths,) and even without bridles--the
soldiers in flowing dress, with rolls of linen round their heads?"

"They are the Numidians," replied Philip. "Ah! Rome dreaded those
horsemen once, when Hannibal the Carthaginian and his motley hordes
had their will in these fair plains."

As he spoke, a strange movement occurred. The general or _legatus_
dismounted, and, giving the bridle of his horse to a soldier, began
to walk slowly up and down the side of the road. No sooner had his
foot touched the ground than the whole of the Numidian squadron
seemed to rise like a covey out of a stubble field; with little clang
of arms, but with one short, sharp cry, or whoop, it burst from
the high road into the meadow land. There the evolutions which they
performed seemed at first to be all confusion, only for the fact
that, although the horsemen had the air of riding capriciously in
every direction, crossing, intermingling, separating, galloping upon
opposite curves, and tracing every figure which the whim and fancy
of each might dictate, yet no two of them ever came into collision.
Indeed, fantastic and wild as that rhapsody of manœuvres into
which they had broken appeared to be, some principle which was
thoroughly understood by every one of them governed their mazy
gallop. It was as accurate and exact as some stately dance of slaves
at the imperial court. It was, in short, itself a wild dance of
the Numidian cavalry, in which their reinless horses, guided only
by the flashing blades and the voices of their riders, manifested
the most vehement spirit and a sort of sympathetic frenzy. These
steeds, which never knew the bridle, and went thus mouth-free even
into battle--these horses, which their masters turned loose at night
into the fields, and which came back bounding and neighing at the
first call, were now madly plunging, wheeling, racing, and charging,
like gigantic dogs at sport. Presently they began to play a strange
species of leap-frog. A Numidian boy, who carried a trumpet and rode
a pony, or at least a horse smaller and lower than the rest of the
barbs, ("Berber horses,") suddenly halted upon the outside of the
mad cavalry whirlpool which had been formed, and flung himself flat
at full length upon the back of the diminutive animal. Instantly the
whirl, as it circled toward him, straightened itself into a column,
and every horseman rode full upon the stationary pony, and cleared
both steed and rider at a bound, a torrent of cavalry rushing over
the obstruction with wild shouts.

"That is Numidian sport, Master Paulus," said the freedman; "but
there is not a rider among them to be compared to yourself."

"Certainly I can ride," said the youth; "but I pretend not to be
superior to these Centaurs."

"Be these, then, the Centaurs I have heard of?" asked Agatha; "be
these the wild powers?"

The hubbub had prevented her, and all with her, from noticing
something. Before an answer could be given, the Numidians had
returned to the highway as suddenly as they had quitted it, and the
noise of their dance was succeeded by a pause of attention. The
general was again on horseback, and our travellers perceived that
two litters, one of carved ivory and gold, the other of sculptured
bronze, borne on the shoulders of slaves, were beside them.

Two gentlemen on foot had arrived with the litters along the broad
pathway already noticed, and a group of attendants at a little
distance were following.

This new party were now halting with our travellers beneath the
far-spreading shade of the same trees. In the ivory litter reclined
a girl of about seventeen, dressed in a long _palla_ of blue silk,
a material then only just introduced from India, through Arabia
and Egypt, and so expensive as to be beyond the reach of any but
the richest class. Her hair, which was of a bright gold color,
was dressed in the fashionable form of a helmet, (_galerus_,) and
was inclosed behind in a gauze net. She wore large _inaures_, or
ear-rings, of some jewel, a gold chain, in every ring of which was
set a gem, and scarlet shoes embroidered with pearls. The lady in
the bronze litter was attired in the _stola_ of a matron, with a
_cyclas_, or circular robe, thrown back from the neck, and a tunic
of dark purple which descended to her feet. Her brown hair was
restrained by bands, _vittæ_, which had an honorable significance
among the Roman ladies, ("_Nil mihi cum vitta_," says the profligate
author of the _Ars Amandi_.) She seemed somewhat past thirty years of
age; she had a very sweet, calm, and matronly air; her countenance
was as beautiful in features and general effect as it was modest in
its tone and character.

Her companion,[4] in the litter of ivory and gold, was not more
than half her age, was even more beautiful, with an immense wreath
of golden hair, and with large blue eyes, darkening to the likeness
of black as she gazed earnestly upon any object. But she had a
less gentle physiognomical expression. Frequently her look was
penetrating, brief, impatient, sarcastic, disdainful. She had a
bewitching smile, however, and her numerous admirers made Italy echo
with their ravings.

Lucius Varius, said the fashionable world, was at that very time
engaged upon a kind of sapphic ode, of which she was to be the
subject.

Scarcely had these litters or palanquins arrived and halted, when
the general officer dismounted once more, and walked quickly toward
the spot with his helmet in his hand. At a few yards' distance he
stopped, and first bowed low to the elder of the two gentlemen who
had accompanied the litters on foot, and then, almost entirely
disregarding the other gentleman, made an obeisance not quite so long
or so deep to the ladies. The man whom so splendid a personage as the
legatus, wearing his flaming paludamentum, and at the head of his
troops, thus treated with so obsequious a veneration, did not return
the salute except by a slight nod and a momentary, absent-minded
smile. His gaze had been riveted upon our travellers, and chiefly
upon the youth and his young, suffering sister, upon both of whom,
after it had quickly taken in Philip the freedman, the Thracian
woman, and the Athenian lady, it rested long--longest and last upon
Agatha.

"Sejanus," said he finally, "who are these?"

"I never saw them until just now, my commander and Cæsar; they were
here when we halted, and while we waited for our master, the favorite
of the gods, these travellers seemed to be resting where you behold
them."

"As those gods favor me," said the other, "this is a fine youth.
Can we not _edit_[5] him? And yonder girl--have you ever seen, my
Sejanus, such eyes? But she is deadly pale. Are you always thus pale,
pretty one, or are you merely ill? If but ill, as I guess, Charicles,
my Greek physician, shall cure you."

Before this man had even spoken, the moment, indeed, when first his
eyes fell upon her, Agatha had sidled close to her mother; and while
he was expressing himself in that way to Sejanus, she returned his
gaze with panic-stricken, dilated eyes, as the South American bird
returns that of the reptile; but when he directly questioned her,
she, reaching out her hand to Paulus, clutched his arm with a woman's
grasp, and said in an affrighted voice,

"My brother, let us go."

Paulus, in a manner naturally easy, and marked by the elegance and
grace which the athletic training of Athens had given to one so
well endowed physically, first, merely saying to the stranger, "I
crave your pardon," (_veniam posco_,) lifted Agatha with one arm,
and placed her in the travelling carriage. Then, while the freedman
and the Thracian slave mounted to their bench, he returned to where
his mother stood, signed to her to follow Agatha, and, seeing her
move calmly but quickly toward the vehicle, he took the broad-rimmed
_petasus_ from his head, and bowing slowly and lowly to the stranger,
said,

"Powerful sir, for I observe you are a man of great authority, my
sister is too ill to converse. You rightly guessed this; permit us to
take her to her destination."

The man whom he had thus balked, and to whom he now thus spoke,
merits a word of description. He appeared to be more than fifty years
old. The mask of his face and the frame of his head were large, but
not fat. His complexion was vivid brick-red all over the cheeks, with
a deeper flush in one spot on each side, just below the outer corners
of the eyes. The eyes were bloodshot, large, rather prominent, and
were closely set together. The nose was large, long, bony, somewhat
aquiline. The forehead was not high, not low; it was much developed
above the eyes, and it was broad. A deep and perpetual dint just over
the nose reached half-way up the forehead. His hair was grizzled and
close cut. His lips were full and fleshy, and the mouth was wide; the
jaws were large and massive. His face was shaven of all hair. The
chin was very handsome and large, and the whole head was set upon a
thick, strong throat, not stunted, however, of its proper length.
In person this man was far from ungainly, nor yet was he handsome.
In carriage and bearing, without much majesty, he had nevertheless
something steadfast, weighty, unshrinking, and commanding. His
outer garment, not a toga, was all one color and material; it was a
long, thick wadded silk mantle, of that purple dye which is nearly
black--the hue, indeed, of clotted gore under a strong light. He wore
gloves, and instead of the usual short sword of the Romans, had a
long steel stylus[6] for writing on wax thrust into a black leathern
belt. This instrument seemed to show that he lived much in Rome,
where it was not the custom, when otherwise in civilian dress, to go
armed.

As the reader will have guessed, this man was to be the next emperor
of the Roman world.

"Permit you to take her to her destination?" he repeated slowly. "My
Greek physician, I tell you, shall cure her. I will give directions
about your destination." A slight pause; then, "Are you a Roman
citizen?"

"I am a Roman knight as well as citizen," answered Paulus proudly;
"and my family is not only equestrian, but patrician."

"What is your name?"

"Paulus Æmilius Lepidus."

The man in the black or gore-colored purple glanced at Sejanus, who,
still unconcerned, stood with his splendid helmet in the left hand,
while he smoothed his moustache with the right; otherwise perfectly
still, his handsome face, cruel mouth, and intelligent eyes all alive
with the keenest attention.

"And the destination to which you allude is--?" pursued the man in
black purple.

"Formiæ," said Paulus.

"What relation or kinship exists between you and Marcus Æmilius
Lepidus, formerly the triumvir, who still enjoys the life which he
owes to the clemency of Augustus?"

Paulus hesitated. When he had given his name, the younger of the
two ladies had raised herself suddenly in the litter of ivory and
gold, and fastened upon him a searching gaze, which she had not
since removed. The other lady had also at that instant looked at
him fixedly. We have already stated that, when Sejanus approached
the group, he had not deigned in any very cordial manner to salute
or notice the second of the two gentlemen who had accompanied the
litters on foot. This gentleman was very sallow, had hollow eyes, and
a habit of gnawing his under lip between his teeth. He had unbuckled
his sword, and had given it, calling out, "_Lygdus, carry this_," to
a man with an exceedingly sinister and repulsive countenance. The man
in question had now taken a step or two forward, and was standing on
the left of Paulus, fronting the Cæsar, his shoulders stooping, his
neck bent forward, his eyes without any motion of the head rolling
incessantly from person to person, and face to face, but at once
falling before and avoiding any glance which happened to meet his. He
looked askant and furtively at every object with an eager, unhappy,
and malign expression. Paulus did not need to turn his head to feel
that this man was now intently peering at him. Behind the two courtly
palanquins, and beyond the shade of the trees, was a third litter
still more costly, being covered in parts with plate gold. Here sat
a woman with a face as white as alabaster, and large prominent black
eyes, watching the scene, and apparently trying to catch every word
that was said.

Paulus, as we have observed, hesitated. The training of youth in
the days of classic antiquity soon obliterated the inferiority of
unreasoning, nervous shyness. But the strange catechism which Paulus
was now undergoing, with all this gaze upon him from so many eyes,
began to be a nuisance, and to tell upon a spirit singularly high.

"Have you heard my question?" inquired Tiberius.

"I have heard it," replied Paulus; "and have heard and answered
several others, without knowing who he is that asks them. However,
the former triumvir, now living at Circæi, about forty thousand paces
from here, is my father's brother." (Circæi, as the reader knows, is
now called Monte Circello, a promontory just opposite Gaeta.)

When Paulus had given his last answer, the ladies glanced at each
other, and the younger looked long and hard at Tiberius. Getting some
momentary signal from him, she threw herself back in her palanquin
and smiled meaningly at the stooping, sinister-faced man, who had
stationed himself in the manner already mentioned near Paulus's left
hand.

"Your father," rejoined Tiberius, after a pause, "was a very
distinguished soldier, and, as I always heard when a boy, he
contributed eminently to the victory of Philippi. But I knew not that
he had children; and, moreover, was he not slain, pray, at Philippi,
toward the end of the battle, which he certainly helped to gain?"

"I hope," said Paulus, somewhat softened by the praise of his father,
"I hope that Augustus supposed him to have died of his wounds, and
that it was only under this delusion he gave our estates--which were
situated somewhere in this very province of Campania, with a noble
mansion like the castellum upon the river yonder--to that brave and
able soldier Agrippa Vespasianus."

At this name a deep red flush over-spread the brow of Tiberius, and
Paulus innocently proceeded.

"Certainly, the noble Agrippa, who was to have been Cæsar, had he
lived, never would have accepted so unfair a bounty had he known that
my father really survived his wounds, but that--despairing of the
generosity, or rather despairing of the equity of Augustus--he was
living a melancholy, exheridated exile, near that very battle-field
of Philippi, in Thrace, where he had fought so well and had been left
for dead."

"You dare to term the act of Augustus," slowly said the man in the
gore-colored purple cloak, "_so unfair a bounty_, and Augustus
himself _ungenerous, or rather unjust_?"

At this terrible rejoinder from such a man, the down-looking person
whom we have mentioned passed his right hand stealthily to the hilt
of the sword which he was carrying for his master, and half drew it.
Paulus, who for some time had had this person standing at his left,
could observe the action without turning his head. He was perfectly
aware, moreover, that, should the other draw his weapon upon him,
the very act of drawing it would itself become a blow, on account
of their respective places, whereas to escape it required more
distance between them, and to parry it in a regular way would demand
quite a different position, besides the needful moment or two for
disengaging his own rather long blade. Yet the youth stood completely
still; he never even turned his head. However, he just shifted the
wide-rimmed hat from his left to his right hand (the hand for the
sword) and thereby seemed to be only more encumbered, unprepared, and
defenceless than before. His left hand, with the back inward, fell
also meantime in an easy and natural way upon the emerald haft of the
outlandish-looking three-edged rapier, which, as he played with it,
became loose in the scabbard, and _came and went_ some fraction of an
inch.

"I never termed him so," said Paulus. "I said not this of Augustus. I
am at this moment on my way to Augustus himself, who is, I am told,
to be at Formiæ with his court for a week or two. I must, therefore,
again ask your leave, mighty office-bearer, to continue my journey. I
know not so much as who you are."

"I am Tiberius Cæsar," said the other, bending upon him those
closely-set, prominent, bloodshot eyes with no very assuring
expression. "I am Tiberius Cæsar, and you will be pleased to wait one
moment before you continue the journey in question. The accusation
against your father was this: that, after Philippi, he labored for
the interests first of Sextus, the son of Pompey, and afterward of
Mark Antony, in their respective impious and parricidal struggles;
and the answer to this charge (a charge to which witnesses neither
were nor are wanting) has always been, that it was simply impossible,
seeing that Paulus Lepidus, your father, perished at Philippi before
the alleged treasons had occurred. Wherefore, as your father had
done good service, especially in the great battle where he was thus
supposed to have fallen, not only was his innocence declared certain,
but, for his memory's sake, Marcus Lepidus, the triumvir, your uncle,
was forgiven. Yet now we learn from you, the son of the accused,
that the only defence ever made for him is positively false; that
your father, were he still living, would probably merit to be put to
death; and that your uncle, at the same time, is stripped of the one
protecting circumstance which has preserved his head. I must order
your arrest, and that of all your party, in order that these things
may be at least fully investigated."

As this was said, the lady in the litter of ivory and gold
contemplated Paulus with that bewitching smile which she was
accustomed to bestow upon dying gladiators in the hippodrome; while
the other lady gazed at him with a compassionate, forecasting and
muse-like look.

"I mean no disrespect whatever to so great a man as you, sir; but I
will," said Paulus, "appeal from Tiberius Cæsar to Cæsar Augustus; to
whom, I again remind you, I am on my way."

No sooner had he uttered the words, "I appeal from Tiberius," than,
before he could finish the sentence, the malign-faced man on his left
with great suddenness drew the sword hew as carrying for Cneius Piso,
and, availing himself of the first natural sweep of the weapon as it
left the scabbard, sought to bring the edge of it backward across
the face of Paulus, exclaiming, while he did so, "_Speak you thus to
Cæsar?_"

Had this man, who was the future assassin of Drusus, and slave to
Cneius Piso, who was the future assassin of Germanicus, succeeded in
delivering that well-meant stroke, the sentence which our hero was
addressing to Tiberius could never have been said out; but said out,
as we see, it was, and said, too, with due propriety of emphasis,
although with a singular accompanying delivery. In fact, though not
deigning to look round toward this man, Paulus had been vividly
aware of his movements, and, swift as was the attack, the defence
was truly electrical. Paulus's rapier, the hilt of which, as we have
remarked, had been for some time in his left hand, leapt from its
sheath, and being first held almost perpendicularly for one moment,
the point down and the hilt a little higher than his forehead, met
the murderous blow at right angles; after which the delicate long
blade flashed upward, with graceful ease but irresistible violence,
bearing the assassin's weapon backward upon a small semi-circle, and
remaining inside of it, or, in other words, nearer to Lygdus's body
than Piso's own sword, which he carried, was. It looked like a mere
continuation of this dazzling parry, but was, in truth, a vigorous
deviation from it, which none but a very pliant and powerful wrist
could have executed; when the emerald pommel fell like a hammer upon
the forehead of Lygdus the slave, whom that disdainful blow stretched
at his length upon the ground, motionless, and to all appearance
dead. As Piso was standing close, the steel guard of the hilt, in
passing, tore open his brow and cheek.

The whole occurrence occupied only five or seven seconds, and
meanwhile the youth finished his sentence with the words already
recorded, "From Tiberius Cæsar to Cæsar Augustus, to whom, I again
remind you, I am on my way."

An exclamation of astonishment, and perhaps some other feeling,
escaped from Tiberius. Sejanus smiled; the woman with the pale face
and black eyes, who sat in the unadorned plate-of-gold palanquin,
screamed; and the other ladies laughed loudly. Among the prætorian
guards, who from the road were watching with attention the group
where they saw their general and the Cæsar, a long, low murmur of
approbation ran. At this, Tiberius turned and looked steadily and
musingly toward them. Paulus, instantly sheathing his weapon, said,

"I ask Cæsar's pardon, but there was no time to obtain his permission
for what I have just done. My head must have been in two pieces had I
waited but one moment."

"Just half a moment for each piece," said Tiberius; "but your left
hand seems well able to keep your head. Are you left-handed?"

"No, great Cæsar," said Paulus; "I am what my Greek teacher of fence
used to call two-handed, _dimachærus_; he tried to make all his
pupils so, but my right remains far better than my left."

"Then I should like to see your right thoroughly exercised," said
Tiberius.

Paulus heard a sweet voice here say, "As a favor to me, do not
order the arrest of this brave youth;" and, turning, he beheld the
beautiful creature in the litter of ivory and gold plead for him with
Tiberius. The large blue eyes, darkening as she supplicated, smote
the youth, and he could hardly take away his gaze.

"Young man, go forward with your mother and sister to Formiæ, under
the charge of Velleius Paterculus, the military tribune whom you see
yonder upon the road. Remain in Formiæ till I give you leave to quit
it. Report your place of residence to the tribune. Go!"

The last word was pronounced harshly. Tiberius made a signal with his
hand to Paterculus. Then passing his arm through that of Sejanus,
and speaking to him in a low tone, he led the general aside into
the fields to a little distance; while--with the exception of two
mounted troopers, (each leading a horse,) who remained behind, but
considerably out of hearing--the prætorian guards, the three litters,
and the travelling _biga_ began to move toward Formiæ, leaving the
road to silence, and the evening landscape to peace.

    TO BE CONTINUED.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] Cicero, Legg. ii. 23.

[3] Plutarch in Pompey. Seneca, Epis. 64.

[4] Mother of Caligula, and grandmother of Nero, by her daughter
Agrippina Julia.

[5] To produce a gladiator in the arena was to _edit_ him.

[6] Pliny, Epis. iii. 21.



MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS.[7]


There is, after all, but slight exaggeration in the old saying, that
a lie travels leagues while truth is putting on boots to pursue and
overtake it. And even when overtaken, caught, and choked, how hard
it dies! In our daily experience, how often does truthful exposure
utterly extinguish false and evil report? Certainly not always, and
probably but very seldom. In the intercourse of society, one may
partially crush out a calumny by going straight to those who should
know the truth and compelling them to listen to it.

But the lie historical cannot be so met. People in this busy world
have no time to spend in reading long documents in vindication of men
or women long since dead. But they have read the calumny? Certainly.
The calumny is not so long as the refutation, and is more readable.
It is attractive; it is piquant. Mary Stuart as an adulteress and a
murderess is an interesting character. People never tire of hearing
of her. But Mary Stuart, the upright queen, the noble and true
woman, the faithful spouse and affectionate mother, has but slight
attractions for the mass of readers. To hear her so proven must be
dull reading. Nevertheless, with time comes truth; for although

    "The mills of the gods grind slowly,
    They grind exceedingly fine;"

which we take to be only a modern, heathenish way of saying, as we
chant every Sunday at vespers,

    "_Et justitia ejus manet in seculum seculi._"

Look at the Galileo story. Galileo died more than two hundred years
ago. Yet it is only within a lifetime that the truth concerning him
began to dawn upon the English mind.

Mary Queen of Scots surrendered her soul to God and her head
to Elizabeth nearly three centuries ago, and the combat over
her reputation to-day rages as hot as ever. In the case of the
Florentine astronomer, there has been no strongly decided hereditary
transmission of the falsehood. In that of the Queen of Scotland every
inch of ground is obstinately fought, because her innocence means
the shame of England, the disgrace of Knox, the condemnation of the
ornaments of the Anglican and Puritan churches, and the infamy of
Elizabeth.

These enemies of Mary yet live in transmitted prejudices and powerful
hereditary interests. The very existence of all the boasting, pride,
false reputation, hypocritical piety, and national vanity represented
by the familiar catchwords of "Our Noble Harry," "Glorious Queen
Bess," "The Virgin Queen," "Our Sainted Reformers," has its
inspiration and life-breath in the maintenance of every calumny
against Mary Stuart and the Catholic Church of that day; and we must
do these supporters the credit of admitting that they are instant in
season and out of season, and never weary in their work.

But their case was long since made up. They have said their last
word, and shot all the arrows of their quiver. With each succeeding
year Elizabeth's reputation fails, and is rapidly passing into
disgrace. With the same rapidity Mary's fame grows brighter.

The books and pamphlets written in attack or defence of Mary would
of themselves form a library. For the attack, the key-note is to
be found in Cecil's avowed principle concerning the treatment of
the dethroned queen, that _their purpose could not be obtained
without disgracing her_. Hence, the silver-casket letters, and the
so-called confessions of Paris. Hence, the issue, during every year
of her long imprisonment of eighteen years, of some vile pamphlet,
under Cecil's instructions, calculated to blast her character. Two
men in particular powerfully contributed to defame the Queen of
Scots--John Knox and George Buchanan. Knox by his sermons, in which,
says Russel, (_History of the Reformation_, vol. i. p. 292,) "lying
strives with rage;" Buchanan, by his writings, which have been
made by Mary's enemies one of the sources of history. Buchanan was
an apostate monk, saved from the gallows by Mary, and loaded with
her favors. An eye-witness of her dignity, her goodness, and her
purity, he afterward described her as the vilest of women. He sold
his pen to Elizabeth, and has been properly described as "unrivalled
in baseness, peerless in falsehood, supreme in ingratitude."
His _Detection_ was published (1570) in Latin, and copies were
immediately sent by Cecil to Elizabeth's ambassador in Paris with
instructions to circulate them; "_for they will come to good effect
to disgrace her, which must be done before other purposes can be
obtained_."

This shameful work has been the inspiration of most of the portraits
drawn of Mary. De Thou in France, Spotiswoode, Jebb, and many others
in England, have all followed him. Holinshed too was deceived by
Buchanan; but it is doubtful if he dared write otherwise than he did,
between the terrors of Cecil's spies and Elizabeth's mace.

An English translation of Buchanan was first published in 1690, being
called forth by the revolution of 1688. Jebb's two folio volumes
appeared in 1725.

Two additional lives of Mary, by Heywood (1725) and Freebairn, were
little more than translations from the French. In 1726, Edward
Simmons published Mary's forged letters as genuine. Anderson's
voluminous collection of papers (four large volumes) appeared in
1727 and 1728. Meantime, from the accession of a new dynasty and the
rebellion of 1715, there arose in Edinburgh a sort of society having
for its principal object the work of supporting Buchanan's credit and
vilifying the Scottish queen. Later came the well-known and widely
published histories of Scotland and of England by Robertson and Hume,
which, read wherever the English language was known, may be said to
have popularized the culpability of Mary. Until within comparatively
few years, Hume's work was the only history of England generally read
in the United States. Then came Malcolm Laing, who imagined he had
closed the controversy against Mary in his bitter _Dissertation_.
Mignet, in France, went further than Laing, while Froude, in his
history of England, distancing all previous writers, portrays Mary
in the blackest colors as one of the most criminal and devilish of
women. For his material there is no statement so absurd, no invention
so gross, no lie so palpable, no calumny so vile, provided only that
it be to the prejudice of Mary Stuart, that does not find favor in
his eyes. In his blind hatred of the Catholic queen, forgetting all
historic dignity and even personal decency, he showers upon her such
epithets as "panther," "ferocious animal," "wild-cat," "brute;" her
persecutors being white-robed saints, such as "the pious Cecil,"
and "the noble and stainless Murray," and the virgin Queen Elizabeth
appearing "as a beneficent fairy coming out of the clouds to rescue
an erring sister."

But Mary's cause has not wanted defenders. Among the best known
are, John Leslie, Bishop of Ross; Camden and Carte, the English
historians; Herrera, the Spanish bishop; Robert Keith; Goodall,
(1754,) who made the first searching analysis of the silver-casket
letters, showing that the French text of the pretended Bothwell
love-letters, until then supposed to be original, was a poor
translation from the Latin or Scotch. William Tytler (1759) and
John Whitaker (1788) proved that the letters were forged by those
who produced them. Stuart, in his history of Scotland, (1762,) and
Mademoiselle Keraglio, in her _Life of Elizabeth_, (1786,) both
protested against the conclusions of Hume and Robertson. In 1818,
George Chalmers took up Laing's book, and proved conclusively, with
a mass of newly-discovered testimony, that the accusers of Mary were
themselves the murderers of Darnley. Then followed the learned Dr.
Lingard, Guthrie, and H. Glassford Bell. But all these works were
either too heavy and cumbrous for popular reading, or too narrow
in their scope; most of them being better prepared for reference
than for reading, and of but slight effective service in the field
occupied by Hume and Robertson. Miss Strickland's work is well known
to all our readers, and has done much good. In 1866, Mr. McNeel
Caird published _Mary Stuart, her Guilt or Innocence_, in which he
effectively defends Mary and seriously damages Mr. Froude's veracity.

A most valuable historical contribution is the late work (1869) of
M. Jules Gauthier. The first volume is out and the second will be
issued in a few months. M. Gauthier says that after reading the
work of M. Mignet, he had no doubt that Queen Mary had assassinated
her husband in order to avenge the death of Riccio. "I was,
therefore, surprised," he continues, "on arriving at Edinburgh, in
1861, to hear Mary warmly defended, and reference made to documents
recently discovered that were strongly in her favor. I then formed
the resolution to study for myself this historical problem and to
discover the truth. I had no idea of writing a book, and no motive
but that of satisfying my own curiosity. I have devoted several
years solely to this object in Scotland, England, and Spain." M.
Gauthier then gives a formidable list of authorities and manuscripts
not usually quoted, acknowledges the aid of the librarians of the
legal library at Edinburgh, the learned Mr. Robertson of the Register
House, Robert Chambers, and the archivist of Simancas, Don Emanuel
Gonzalez, and announces the result to be a complete change of
opinion. He goes on to say that, before examining all the documents
of the trial, he had no doubt of the guilt of Mary Stuart; but after
having scrutinized and compared them, he remained and still remains
convinced that it was solely to assure the fruit of their shameful
victory that the barons, who had dethroned their queen with England's
help, sought to throw upon her the crimes of which they themselves
were the authors or the accomplices, and in which their auxiliaries
were Elizabeth and her ministers.

But what is of far greater importance, M. Gauthier announces the
discovery among the Simancas MSS. of documents that prove beyond
all question that the silver-casket letters were forgeries. This
important revelation he promises for the second volume. Preceding
M. Gauthier in time, M. Wiesener, another French writer, had, in an
admirable _critique_, demolished the foundations on which rest most
of the calumnies against Mary Stuart.

And now we have Mr. Hosack's work. There is a beautiful poetic
justice in the fact that the most effective defences of Mary
Stuart, in the English language, come from Protestant pens, and
that in Scotland among the sons of the Puritans are found her most
enthusiastic advocates. Mr. Hosack is an Edinburgh lawyer, and a
Protestant.

His book, written in a tone of legal calmness and dignity, stands
in refreshing contrast with Mr. Froude's savage bitterness and
repulsive violence, and seriously damages any credit that may be
claimed for the latter as a historian. Entirely at home in the
customs, localities, laws, and history of Scotland, he throws
unexpected light on a hundred interesting points heretofore left in
obscurity by foreign, and even English historians. Mr. Hosack also
produces many valuable documents never before published. Among these
are the specific charges preferred against Mary at the conference
at Westminster in 1568. The "Articles" produced by Mary's accusers
before they exhibited their proofs to the commissioners of Queen
Elizabeth, although constantly referred to by historians, are nowhere
to be found among all the voluminous collections heretofore published
on the subject. Mr. Hosack discovered this valuable paper in the
collection known as the Hopetoun Manuscripts, which are now in the
custody of the lord clerk register. Another most interesting document
presented by Mr. Hosack is one long supposed to be lost, namely,
the journal of the proceedings at Westminster on the day upon which
the silver casket containing the alleged letters of Queen Mary to
Bothwell was produced. Then comes the inventory of the jewels of the
Queen of Scots, attached to her last will and testament, made in
1566, when Mary was supposed to be dying. This paper has been but
recently discovered in the Register House, Edinburgh. It is of high
importance, as throwing light on a disputed point concerning Darnley.
Finally, with the aid of Professor Schiern, of Copenhagen, Mr. Hosack
has succeeded in ascertaining the date of the capture of Nicholas
Hubert, commonly called "French Paris." This point is also weighty in
connection with the question of the authenticity of the deposition
ascribed to him. The English critics of Mr. Hosack's book--many of
them partisans of Froude, and armed in the triple steel of their
national prejudice--are unanimous in praise of his research, and the
able presentation of his argument. Mr. Hosack distinctly charges Mr.
Froude with "inventing fictions," and, moreover, sustains the charge.
The aim of Mr. Hosack's work is not so much to write the life of Mary
Stuart as to demonstrate that her accusers were guilty of the very
crime (the murder of Darnley) of which they charge her, and that she
was innocent, not only of that, but of any intrigue with Bothwell.
Passing over in silence the period of Mary's residence in France, our
author rapidly glances at the salient points in the administration of
Mary of Lorraine, the mother of Mary Stuart, an admirable character,
whose energy, integrity, resolution, and fortitude would have adorned
the character of the greatest sovereign that ever reigned. Mr. Hosack
thus speaks of her death:

    "The words of the dying princess, at once so magnanimous and
    gentle, were listened to with deep emotion by the Protestant
    chiefs, who, though in arms against her authority, all
    acknowledged and admired her private virtues. Amidst the tears
    of her enemies, thus died the best and wisest woman of the age."

Knox alone, adds Mr. Hosack, sought by means of the most loathsome
slanders to vilify the character of this excellent princess; and it
was no doubt at his instigation that the rites of Christian burial
were denied to her remains in Scotland. Mr. Hosack then takes up the
history of Mary from the period of her arrival in Scotland, and ends
with the commencement of her imprisonment in England.

Mary came to reign over a country virtually in the power of a band of
violent and rapacious lords, long in rebellion against their king.
Of the five royal Jameses, three had perished, victims of their
aristocratic anarchy. The personal piety of these rebellious lords
was infinitesimal; but they had an enormous appreciation of Henry
VIII.'s plunder of the monasteries and division of the church lands
among the nobles, and desired to see Scotland submitted to the same
regimen--they, of course, becoming ardent reformers. The young queen
soon won the hearts of the people of Edinburgh by her sweetness and
grace. One of her first experiences was the remarkable interview with
Knox, in which he bore himself as properly became "the ruffian of
the Reformation," while Mary, a girl of nineteen, utterly overcame
him in self-possession, logic, and command of citation from the Old
Testament. The man was brimful of vanity. The wound rankled, and from
that moment he was Mary Stuart's personal enemy.

Long before Mary's arrival, Knox and his friends had obtained full
sway. The reformers had destroyed the monastic establishments in the
central counties, and, under the influence of Knox, had an "act"
passed for the total destruction of what they called "monuments
of superstition;" the monuments of superstition in question being
all that Scotland possessed of what was most valuable in art and
venerable in architecture.

"The registers of the church, and the libraries," says Spotiswoode,
"were cast into the fire. In a word, all was ruined; and what had
escaped in the time of the first tumult, did now undergo the common
calamity." In his sermons, Knox openly denounced Mary, not only as
an incorrigible idolatress, but as an enemy whose death would be
a public boon. In equally savage style he fulminated against the
amusements of the court, and dwelt especially on the deadly sin of
dancing. And yet Knox--we must in candor admit it--was not totally
indifferent to some social amenities, for he was then paying his
addresses to a young girl of sixteen, whom he afterward married.
Mary had freely accorded to her Protestant subjects the privilege
of worshipping God according to their own creed; but it did not
enter into the views of Knox and his co-religionists that the same
privilege should be accorded to Mary in the land of which she was
sovereign, and with great difficulty could she obtain the right
to a private chapel at Holyrood--even this being interfered with,
and the officiating priest afterward insulted, beaten, and driven
away. And these Christian gentlemen did not stop here. They had the
insolence and inhumanity to present to the queen what they called a
"supplication," in which they declared that the practice of idolatry
could not be tolerated in the sovereign any more than in the subject,
and that the "papistical and blasphemous mass" should be wholly
abolished. To this, Mary's reply was that, answering for herself,
she was noways persuaded that there was any impiety in the mass,
and trusted her subjects would not press her to act against her
conscience; for, not to dissemble, but to deal plainly with them, she
neither might nor would forsake the religion wherein she had been
educated and brought up, believing the same to be the true religion,
and grounded on the word of God. She further advised her "loving
subjects" that she, "neither in times past nor yet in time coming,
did intend to force the conscience of any person; but to permit every
one to serve God in such a manner as they are persuaded to be the
best." On this, Mr. Hosack remarks, "Nothing could exceed the savage
rudeness of the language of the assembly. Nothing could exceed the
dignity and moderation of the queen's reply."

The enemies of Mary Stuart always seek to find excuse for the
rebellious outrages of the lords and the kirk in the design
attributed to Mary Stuart of introducing Catholicity to the
exclusion of Protestantism. Mr. Hosack handles this portion of
his subject with great ease and success, showing conclusively the
admirable spirit of toleration that animated Mary throughout. Then
follow the marriage of Mary with Darnley; the rebellion of Murray,
Argyll, and others to deprive the queen of her crown; the energy,
ability, and admirable judgment of Mary in dealing with them, and
the consummate hypocrisy and falsehood of Elizabeth in feigning
good-will to Mary while furnishing the rebels money and assistance.
The French ambassador in London had discovered that six thousand
crowns had been sent from the English treasury to the Scotch rebels.
The fact was positive. He mentioned it to Elizabeth in person; but
she solemnly assured him, with an oath, (_elle nia avec serment_,)
that he was misinformed. There were strong reasons why Elizabeth
would not have it believed that she had lent the rebel lords any
countenance, and she therefore got up a remarkable scene for the
purpose. The French and Spanish ambassadors had charged her in plain
terms with stirring up dissensions in Scotland, and she desired to
reply to the imputation in the most public and emphatic manner.
Murray and Hamilton were summoned to appear, and in presence of the
ambassadors and her own ministers she asked them whether she had ever
encouraged them in their rebellion. Murray began to reply in Scotch,
when Elizabeth stopped him, bidding him speak in French, which she
better understood. The scene was arranged beforehand. Murray fell
on his knees and declared "that her majesty had never moved them to
any opposition or resistance against the queen's marriage." "Now,"
exclaimed Elizabeth in her most triumphant tone, "you have told the
truth; for neither did I, nor any one in my name, stir you up against
your queen; for your abominable treason may serve for example to
my own subjects to rebel against me. Therefore get you out of my
presence; ye are but unworthy traitors." This astounding exhibition
of meanness, and falsehood, and folly, which it is certain, says Mr.
Hosack, imposed upon no one who witnessed it, is without a parallel
in history.

Mary's energy and prudence in suppressing this dangerous rebellion
sufficiently refute a prevalent notion that she was indebted to the
counsels of Murray for the previous success of her administration.
Even Robertson admits that at no period of her career were her
abilities and address more conspicuous. And more remarkable than her
ability in gaining success was the moderation with which she used it.
Not one of the rebels suffered death, and her speedy pardon of the
Duke of Chatelherault, a conspirator against her crown, of which he
was the presumptive heir, was an instance of generosity unexampled in
the history of princes.

The accusation against Mary of having signed the Catholic League,
put forward by so many historians--Froude, of course, among them--is
clearly shown by Mr. Hosack to be utterly untrue. She never joined
it. By this refusal she maintained her solemn promises to her
Protestant subjects--the chief of whom remained her staunchest friend
in the days of her misfortune. She averted religious discord from
her dominions, and posterity will applaud the wisdom as well as the
magnitude of the sacrifice which she made at this momentous crisis.

Then comes the murder of Riccio, which is generally attributed to
the jealousy of Darnley and the personal hatred of the nobles. These
motives, if they ever existed at all, were but secondary with the
conspirators who contrived Riccio's death.

Their main objects were the restoration of the rebel lords, the
deposition of the queen, and the elevation of Darnley to the vacant
throne, on which he would have been their puppet.

Mr. Hosack traces, step by step, the progress of the conspiracy, and
the bargaining and traffic among the conspirators for their several
rewards. There was a bond of the conspirators among themselves, a
bond with Darnley, and one with the rebel leaders who waited events
at Newcastle. Elizabeth's ministers in Scotland were taken into their
confidence and counsels, as was also John Knox, while Elizabeth was
advised of and approved it. Many years ago, a Catholic convent was
burned in Boston--with what circumstances of atrocity we do not
now desire to recall. On the Sunday preceding the outrage, exciting
sermons were delivered on the horrors of popery from more than one
Protestant pulpit. So, also, on the Sunday preceding the murder of
Riccio, the denunciations of idolatry from the pulpits of Edinburgh
were more than usually violent, and the texts were chosen from
those portions of Scripture which describe the vengeance incurred
by the persecutors of God's people. The 12th of March was the day
fixed for the parliament before which the rebel lords were cited to
appear, under pain of the forfeiture of their titles and estates.
This forfeiture the conspirators were resolved to prevent, and chose
the 9th of March to kill Riccio. They could have assassinated him
at any time on the street, in the grounds, in his own room; but the
lords selected the hour just after supper when Riccio would be in
attendance upon the queen, in order to kill him in her presence,
doubtless with hope of the result of her death and that of her unborn
babe from the agitation and affright that must ensue from such a
scene. _The contingency of Mary's death was provided for in the
bond._ We need not here repeat the horrible details of the scene in
which, while a ruffian (Ker of Faudonside) pressed a cocked pistol
to her breast until she felt the cold iron through her dress, the
hapless victim of brutal prejudice and bigotry, whose only crime was
fidelity to his queen, was dragged from her presence and instantly
butchered. Nor need we describe the fiendish exultation and savage
conduct of the assassins toward a sick, defenceless woman.

    "Machiavelli," remarks Mr. Hosack, "never conceived--he has
    certainly not described--a plot more devilish in its designs
    than that which was devised ostensibly for the death of Riccio,
    but in reality for the destruction both of Mary Stuart and her
    husband."

For two days the noble assassins appeared to have been entirely
successful. Riccio was killed, the parliament was dissolved, the
banished lords recalled, and the queen a prisoner. But her amazing
spirit and resolution scattered all their plans to the winds. The
poor fool Darnley began to see the treachery of the men who had made
him their tool, and Mary fully opened his eyes to his danger. At
midnight on the Tuesday after the murder, the queen and Darnley crept
down through a secret passage to the cemetery of the royal chapel
of Holyrood and made their way "through the charnel house, among
the bones and skulls of the ancient kings," to where horses and a
small escort stood waiting for them. Twenty miles away Mary galloped
to Dunbar, where, within three days, eight thousand border spears
assembled to defend her.

The assassins, Morton, Ruthven, and their associates, fled to
England, where, under Elizabeth's wing, they were of course safe.
Maitland went to the Highlands, and Knox, grieving deeply over the
discomfiture of his friends, took his departure for the west.

The complicity of Murray,

    "The head of many a felon plot,
    But never once the arm,"

was not known, and he was pardoned his rebellion, and again received
by Mary into her confidence. This is the Murray constantly referred
to by Mr. Froude in his History of England as "the noble Murray,"
"the stainless Murray"--a man who, for systematic, thorough-going
villainy and treachery has not his superior in history.

Darnley, with an audacity and recklessness of consequences which
seem hardly compatible with sanity, made a solemn declaration to the
effect that he was wholly innocent of the late murderous plot.

The indignation of his associates in the crime knew no bounds. He
alone, they said, had caused the failure of the enterprise; he had
deserted them, and now sought to purchase his safety in their ruin.
From that moment his fate was sealed.

Buchanan's famous lie concerning Mary's visit to the Castle of Alloa,
which, to his shame, Mr. Froude substantially repeats, is disposed of
effectually in a few words by Mr. Hosack.

The ride from Jedburg, too, as recounted by Buchanan in his own
peculiar style, repeated by Robertson and by Froude, as far as he
dares, in the teeth of the testimony on the subject, also receives
its _quietus_ at Mr. Hosack's hands.

Then follow the dangerous illness of Mary, the aggravating and fatal
misconduct of Darnley, the poor queen's mental suffering and anxiety,
the preliminary plotting by Murray, Maitland, Argyll, and Huntly to
put Darnley out of the way, the signing of the bond among them for
the murder of the "young fool and tyrant," and the insidious attempt
by these scoundrels to entrap the poor heart-broken Mary into some
such expression of impatience or violence against Darnley as would
enable them to set up the charge of guilty knowledge against her. The
conspirators themselves have put on record the noble and Christian
reply of Mary Stuart, "I will that ye do nothing through which any
spot may be laid on my honor or conscience; and therefore, I pray
you, rather let the matter be in the state that it is, abiding till
God of his goodness put remedy thereto."

Following upon the baptism of the infant prince, who afterward
became James VI. of Scotland, came the unfortunately too successful
endeavors of Murray, Maitland, Bothwell, and Queen Elizabeth to
obtain the pardon of the Riccio murderers.

Poor Mary's political success would have been assured if she had
possessed but a small share of Elizabeth's hardness of heart and
vindictiveness. Always generous, always noble, always forgiving,
she allowed herself to be persuaded to grant a pardon to these
villains--seventy-six in number--excepting only George Douglas, who
stabbed Riccio in presence of the queen, and Ker of Faudonside, who
held his pistol at her breast during the perpetration of the murder.
This ruffian remained safely in England until Mary's downfall, when
he returned to Scotland and married the widow of John Knox.

It was about this period that Buchanan was extolling to the skies, in
such Latin verses as those beginning

    "Virtute ingenio, regina, et munere formæ
    Felicibus felicior majoribus,"

the virtues of a sovereign whom he afterward told us every one knew
at the time to be a monster of lust and cruelty! His libel was
written when Mary was a fugitive in England, to serve the purposes
of his employers, who had driven her from her native kingdom. The
most assiduous of her flatterers as long as she was on the throne,
he pursued her with the malice of a demon when she became a helpless
prisoner. His slanders were addressed not to his own countrymen, for
whom they would have been too gross, but to Englishmen, for the great
majority of whom Scotland was a _terra incognita_. His monstrous
fictions were copied by Knox and De Thou, and later by Robertson,
Laing, and Mignet, who, while using his material, carefully abstained
from quoting him as authority. Mr. Froude, the author of that popular
serial novel which he strangely entitles _The History of England_,
with delicious _naïveté_ declares his belief in the truth of
Buchanan's _Detection_, and makes its transparent mendacity a leading
feature of his work.

According to Buchanan, the Queen of Scots was, at the period above
referred to, leading a life of the most notorious profligacy. Mr.
Hosack, in his calm, lawyer-like manner, shows conclusively that
at that very time she never stood higher in the estimation both
of her own subjects and of her partisans in England. Considering
the difficulties of her position, he adds, Mary had conducted the
government of Scotland with remarkable prudence and success; and her
moderation in matters of religion induced even the most powerful of
the Protestant nobility to regard her claims with favor.

And still the plotting went on. Motives enough, for them, had
Murray, Morton, Maitland, and the rest to seek the destruction of
Darnley--revenge and greed of gain. These men had imposed upon the
generous nature of the queen in the disposal of the crown lands, and
they well knew that Darnley had made no secret of his disapproval of
the improvident bounty of his wife. These grants of the crown lands,
under the law of Scotland, could be revoked at any time before the
queen attained the age of twenty-five. That period was now at hand,
and the danger of their losing their spoils under the influence of
Darnley was imminent.

He had just been taken down with the small-pox at Glasgow, and the
conspirators, well knowing Mary's forgiving temper, feared, as well
they might, that his illness would lead to a reconciliation between
them.

Although Bothwell had shared less in the bounty of the queen than
the others, his motive was no less powerful for seeking the death of
Darnley. He aspired to Darnley's place as the queen's husband, and
his ambition was no secret to Murray and the others. Full willingly
they lent themselves to aid him, knowing that, if successful, his
plans would be fatal both to the queen and to himself.

Queen Mary went from Edinburgh to Glasgow, to visit Darnley on his
sick-bed. On this visit hinges a mass of accusations against Mary
by her enemies. We regret that the passages of Mr. Hosack's book in
which he dissects and analyzes all the evidence covering the period
from the journey to Glasgow down to the explosion at Kirk-a-field are
too long to be copied here. They are masterly, and more thoroughly
dispose of the slanders than any statement we have seen. He moreover
demonstrates that the queen's journey to Glasgow, heretofore
relied on as a proof of her duplicity because she went uninvited,
was undertaken at Darnley's own urgent request. It is during this
visit to Glasgow that Mary is charged with having written the two
casket letters, which, if genuine, certainly would prove her to be
accessory to the murder of her husband. With thorough knowledge of
Scotch localities, language, customs, and peculiarities, and with a
perfect mastery of all the details of testimony, _pro_ and _con_,
in existence on the subject--a mastery which Mr. Froude is far
from possessing--Mr. Hosack makes the examination of this question
of the genuineness of the Glasgow letters with an application of
the laws of evidence that enables him--if we may be permitted the
homely phrase--to turn them inside out. Contrasted with the sweet,
trusting, child-like confidence with which the letters are received
by Mr. Froude, Mr. Hosack's treatment of them is shockingly cool. In
commenting upon Hume's opinion that the style of the second Glasgow
letter was inelegant but "natural," Mr. Hosack remarks that human
depravity surely has its limits, and the most hardened wretches
do not boast, and least of all in writing, of their treachery and
cruelty. Even in the realm of fiction we find no such revolting
picture.

Of the third letter, the historian Robertson long since remarked
that, "if Mary's adversaries forged her letters, they were certainly
employed very idly when they produced this." And this remark may
correctly be applied to the fourth letter. The difference between
the two first and the two last is the most striking. The Glasgow
letters breathe only lust and murder; but these are written, to all
appearance, by a wife to her husband, in very modest and becoming
language. She gently reproaches him with his forgetfulness, and
with the coldness of his writings, sends him a gift in testimony of
her unchangeable affection, and finally describes herself as his
obedient, lawful wife. This is not the language of a murderess, and
these simple and tender thoughts were not traced by the same hand
that composed the Glasgow letters. They are the genuine letters of
Mary, not to Bothwell, but to her husband Darnley, and they are here
by result of an ingenious device to mix up a few genuine letters
of Mary with those intended to prove her guilty of the murder. The
only letters of importance as testimony against the queen are the
two first, and they were conclusively proven by Goodall, more than a
century ago, to have been written originally in Scotch.

Concerning Paris, whose testimony is strongly relied on by Mary's
enemies, Mr. Hosack has made a very important discovery. According
to a letter of Murray to Queen Elizabeth, Paris arrived in Leith (a
prisoner) about the middle of June, 1569. But Professor Schiern, of
Copenhagen, in compliance with a request made by Mr. Hosack to search
the Danish archives for any papers relating to Scotland, found the
receipt of Clark, Murray's agent, acknowledging the delivery to him
of the prisoner Paris on the 30th of October, 1568. So that Paris
was delivered up nearly a year before his so-called deposition was
produced. The authenticity of his deposition, monstrous though it be,
has been stoutly maintained by several of Mary's enemies. Even Hume
remarks upon it,

    "It is in vain at present to seek improbabilities in Nicolas
    Hubert's dying confession, and to magnify the smallest
    difficulty into a contradiction. It was certainly a regular
    judicial paper, given in regularly and judicially, and ought
    to have been canvassed at the time, if the persons whom it
    concerned had been assured of their own innocence."

Mr. Hume is an attractive writer, but as a historian it is long since
people ceased to rely upon him for facts. The passage here quoted is
a characteristic exemplification of his extraordinary carelessness.
According to Mr. Hosack, the short sentence cited contains three
distinct and palpable mistakes. In the first place, the paper
containing the depositions of Paris was authenticated by no judicial
authority. Secondly, it was not given in regularly and judicially;
for it was secretly sent to London in October, 1569, many months
after the termination of the Westminster conferences. Lastly, it was
impossible that it could have been canvassed at the time by those
whom it concerned; for it was not only kept a profound secret from
the queen and her friends during her life, but it was not made public
for nearly a century and a half after her death. The depositions of
Paris were first given to the world in the collections of Anderson in
1725.

It did not at all suit Murray's purpose to produce Paris in open
court. So, after being tortured, he was executed, and in place of
a witness who might have told what he saw and heard, was produced
a so-called deposition professedly written by a servant of Murray,
and attested by two of his creatures, Buchanan and Wood, both
pensioners of Cecil, and both enemies of the Queen of Scotland.
Buchanan, of course, had full cognizance of the Paris deposition,
for he subscribed it as a witness; and yet we have the singular fact
that, although he appended to his _Detectio_ the depositions of Hay,
Hepburn, and Dalgleish, that of Paris is omitted. Again, in his
_History of Scotland_, published subsequently, although he refers to
Paris in several passages, he is still silent as to his deposition.
The solution of this seeming singularity is simple. He rejected
it for its manifest extravagance and absurdity, which, he wisely
concluded, could not impose on the worst enemies of the queen.

Fable and fiction answering Mr. Froude's purpose just as well
as authentic history, he of course accepts the "Paris" paper as
perfectly true. A successful writer of the romance of history, Mr.
Froude deserves great credit for his industry in gathering every
variety of material for his novel without any absurd sentimental
squeamishness as to its origin.

And now, little by little, the truth begins to come out. For full
two years after the murder of Darnley, no one was publicly charged
with the crime but Bothwell and the queen. And this because it was
the interest of the ruling faction in Scotland, (themselves the
murderers,) to confine the accusation to these two persons. But as in
time events develop, we find the leaders of this faction, quarrelling
among themselves, begin to accuse each other of the crime, until the
principal nobility of Scotland are implicated in it. Mr. Hosack's
conclusion, from a searching analysis of all the evidence on record,
is, that the mysterious assassination of Darnley was not a domestic
but a political crime; and it was one which for many a day secured
political power to that faction which from the first had opposed
his marriage, and had never ceased from the time of his arrival in
Scotland to lay plots for his destruction.

As might be expected, Mary's enemies accuse her of a criminal degree
of inactivity after the death of her husband. But what could she do?
Who were the murderers? No one could tell. The whole affair was then
involved in impenetrable mystery. Her chief officers of justice,
Huntly the chancellor, and Argyll the lord-justice, were both in the
plot; Bothwell, the sheriff of the county, on whom should devolve
the pursuit and arrest of the criminal, had taken an active share in
the perpetration of the murder, and Maitland, the secretary, who had
first proposed to get rid of Darnley, was probably the most guilty
of all. In a memorial afterward addressed by Mary to the different
European courts, she thus describes the situation: "Her majesty could
not but marvel at the little diligence they used, and that they
looked at one another as men who wist not what they say or do."

And now calumny ran riot. Slanderous tongues and pens were busy.
Since Mary had dismissed the insolent Randolph from her court,
Elizabeth had maintained no ambassador there, so that the usual
official _espionage_ could not be carried on. Instead thereof, Sir
William Drury, stationed on the Scotch border, transmitted day by
day a current of scandalous stories. Mary was a woman, and her
enemies might effect by slander what they could not accomplish by
force. Then, too, a bigoted religious prejudice made the work easy.
No matter, says our author, what was the nature of the accusation
against a Catholic queen; so long as it was boldly made and
frequently repeated, it was sure to gain a certain amount of credit
in the end. Here follows, in Mr. Hosack's pages, an able presentation
of contemporary testimony going to show the falsehood of the
accusations that the queen was at this time on a footing of intimate
understanding with Bothwell. Under the circumstances his trial was,
of course, a farce.

The most powerful men in Scotland were his associates in guilt.
One of his noble accomplices in the murder rode by his side to
the Talbooth. Another accomplice, the Earl of Argyll, hereditary
lord-justice, presided at the trial; and the Earl of Caithness, a
near connection of Bothwell by marriage, was foreman of the jury.
The parliament which met soon after did little, besides passing the
Act of Toleration, but enact statutes confirming Maitland, Huntly,
Morton, and Murray in their titles and estates. As we have seen, this
was precisely the main object sought by these men in the murder of
Darnley, an object passed over in silence by most historians, and
not understood by others. Their common interest in his death was the
strongest bond of union among the noble assassins. If Darnley had
lived, he would have prevented the confirmation of these grants; for
he had made significant threats on that subject, especially as to the
gifts to Murray. Murray and the others wanted the lands and titles.
They obtained them. Bothwell had his own designs, and these were
insolent in their ambition. He wanted the queen's hand in marriage
as a step to the throne. It was but just that his companions should
help him as he had aided them. On the evening of the day on which
parliament rose, (April 19th,) Both well gave an entertainment at
a tavern in Edinburgh to a large party of the nobility. After wine
had circulated freely, he laid before his guests a bond for their
signatures. This document recited that it was prejudicial to the
realm that the queen should remain a widow; and it recommended
him, (Bothwell,) a married man, as the fittest husband she could
obtain among her subjects. With a solitary exception--the Earl of
Eglinton--all the lords present signed this infamous bond, and
thereby bound themselves to "further advance and set forward the
said marriage," and to risk their lives and goods against all who
should seek to hinder or oppose it. It is claimed by Mr. Froude that
his special saint, "the noble and stainless Murray," did not sign
this bond; but it is now made plain that he did. Meantime calumny
had free scope, and no invention was too gross for belief by many,
if it but carried with it some injury to Mary's reputation. Thus,
she is accused of journeying to Stirling for the express purpose
of poisoning her infant son. Poor Marie Antoinette in after years,
as we know, was accused of something worse than taking the life
of her child. The answer of these two Catholic queens, great in
their sufferings, and grand in their resignation, was, in each
case, an eloquent burst of nature and queenly dignity. "The natural
love," said Mary Stuart, "which the mother bears to her only bairn
is sufficient to confound them, and needs no other answer." She
afterward added, that all the world knew that the very men who now
charged her with this atrocious crime had wronged her son even before
his birth; for they would have slain him in her womb, although they
now pretended in his name to exercise their usurped authority.

On the 23d of April, while travelling from Linlithgow to Edinburgh,
with a few attendants, the queen was stopped by Bothwell, at the head
of one thousand horse. Bothwell rode up, caught her bridle-rein,
and assured her that "she was in the greatest possible danger," and
forthwith escorted her to one of her own castles, Dunbar. Here she
was kept a prisoner. Melville, who accompanied her, was sent away,
having heard Bothwell boast that he would marry the queen, even
"whether she would herself or not." No woman was allowed near her but
Bothwell's sister.

Although our readers are familiar with the horrible story, the best
account of it is, after all, Mary's own simple and modest narrative
of the abominable outrage. It is found in Keith, vol. ii. p. 599,
and in Hosack, p. 313. After referring to the great services and
unshaken loyalty of Bothwell, she says that, previous to her visit to
Stirling, he had made certain advances, "to which her answer was in
no degree correspondent to his desire;" but that, having previously
obtained the consent of the nobility to the marriage, he did not
hesitate to carry her off to the castle of Dunbar; that when she
reproached him for his audacity, he implored her to attribute his
conduct to the ardor of his affection, and to condescend to accept
him as her husband, in accordance with the wishes of his brother
nobles; that he then, to her amazement, laid before her the bond
of the nobility, declaring that it was essential to the peace and
welfare of the kingdom that she should choose another husband, and
that, of all her subjects, Bothwell was best deserving of that honor;
that she still, notwithstanding, refused to listen to his proposals,
believing that, as on her former visit to Dunbar, an army of loyal
subjects would speedily appear for her deliverance; but that, as day
after day passed without a sword being drawn in her defence, she was
forced to conclude that the bond was genuine, and that her chief
nobility were all in league with Bothwell; and finally, that, finding
her a helpless captive, he assumed a bolder tone, and "so ceased he
never till, by persuasion and importunate suit, _accompanied not the
less by force_, he has finally driven us to end the work begun."
Forced to marry Bothwell Mary was, to all who saw her, an utterly
wretched woman, and longed only for death. The testimony on this
point is very ample, and her behavior at this crisis of her history,
concludes Mr. Hosack, can only be explained by her rooted aversion
to a marriage which was forced upon her by the daring ambition of
Bothwell and the matchless perfidy of his brother nobles.

But already a fresh plot was on foot. Melville wrote to Cecil
concerning it, on the 7th of May; and on the following day, Kirkaldy
of Grange sent to the Earl of Bedford a letter intended for
Elizabeth's eye. Kirkaldy, the Laird of Grange, an ardent Protestant,
who, at the age of nineteen, was one of the men who murdered Cardinal
Beaton, enjoyed among his fellow-nobles the reputation of being
a man of honor, and the best and bravest soldier in Scotland. He
advised Bedford of the signing of a "bond" by "the most part of the
nobility," one head of which was, "to seek the liberty of the queen,
who is ravished and detained by the Earl of Bothwell;" another, "to
pursue them that murdered the king." The letter concludes by asking
Elizabeth's aid and support for "suppressing of the cruel murtherer
Bothwell." But Elizabeth had lost not only much money, but all credit
for veracity, by her last interference in Scottish affairs, and
refused to have any thing to do with this plot.

For three weeks after her marriage the queen remained at Holyrood;
the prisoner, to all appearance, rather than the wife of Bothwell.
She was continually surrounded with guards; and the description of
her situation given by Melville, who was at court at the time, agrees
entirely with that of the French ambassador. Not a day passed, he
says, in which she did not shed tears; and he adds that many, even of
Bothwell's followers, "believed that her majesty would fain have been
quit of him." The insurgent leaders--Morton, Maitland, and Hume--were
busy, and soon in the field with their forces. Bothwell raised a
small levy to oppose them, and the two armies met at Carberry Hill on
the 15th of June, 1567, exactly one month after the marriage. There
was no fighting. Dangerous as it was, Mary preferred to trust herself
to the rebel lords than to remain with Bothwell. She received their
pledge--that, in case she would separate herself from Bothwell, they
were ready "to serve her upon their knees, as her most humble and
obedient subjects and servants"--through Kirkaldy of Grange, the only
man among them whose word she would take. They kept their pledge as
they usually observed such obligations. What followed is too horrible
to dwell upon. It is wonderful that any human being could have
lived through the physical exhaustion, the insults, and the brutal
treatment this poor woman was subjected to during the next two days.
The people of Edinburgh grew indignant; and Kirkaldy of Grange swore
the lords should not violate their promises. But they quieted him
by showing a forged letter of the queen to Bothwell. It was not the
first time some among them had forged Mary's signature. With every
circumstance of force and brutality, Mary was then imprisoned in
Lochleven, whose guardian was the mother of the bastard Murray.

And now, while the friends of Mary, numerous as they were, remained
irresolute and inactive, the dominant faction made the most strenuous
efforts to strengthen itself. In the towns, where its strength
chiefly lay, and especially in Edinburgh, says Mr. Hosack, the
Protestant preachers rendered the most valuable aid. By indulging
in furious invectives against the queen, and charging her directly
with the murder, they prepared their hearers for the prospect of her
speedy deposition, and the _establishment of a regency in the name of
the infant prince_. It is clear that Murray was not forgotten by his
friends the preachers.

Strange as it may appear, there can be but little doubt that
Elizabeth was sincerely indignant on hearing of the outrageous
treatment of Mary by the lords. In her whole history, she never
appeared to so much advantage as a woman and a queen. She would
not stand tamely by, she said, and see her cousin murdered; and if
remonstrances proved ineffectual, she would send an army to chastise
and reduce them to obedience. Such conduct, and her messages to
Mary while a prisoner at Lochleven, no doubt inspired the Scottish
queen with the fatal confidence which induced her, a few months
afterward, to seek refuge in England. Unfortunately for Elizabeth,
and perhaps more unfortunately for Mary, the Queen of England's
reputation for duplicity was now so well established that no one but
her own ministers believed she was now sincere. Maitland, for the
Scotch nobles, plainly told Elizabeth's ambassador that, after what
had occurred in times past, "they could place no reliance on his
mistress;" and the King of France said to Sir Henry Norris, "I do not
greatly trust her." Meantime, the ministers daily denounced Mary as a
murderess in their sermons, and demanded that she should be brought
to justice like an ordinary criminal. Elizabeth's ambassador tried
to induce the confederate lords to restrain the savage license of
the preachers; but we cannot doubt, says Mr. Hosack, that they were
secretly encouraged by their noble patrons to prepare the minds of
the people for the deposition, if not for the murder, of the queen.
Throgmorton's opinion was that, but for his presence in Scotland, she
would have been sacrificed to the ambition and the bigotry of her
subjects.

Still a prisoner at Lochleven, Mary had to suffer the brutality of
the ruffian Lindsay, and the infamous hypocrisy of Mr. Froude's
"stainless Murray," who, with money in both pockets from France and
England, now came, with characteristic deceit, to defraud his sister
of her crown. Mr. Hosack thus estimates his performance:

    "First, to terrify his sister with the prospect of immediate
    death, then to soothe her with false promises of safety, and
    finally, with well-feigned reluctance, to accept the dignity
    he was longing to grasp, displayed a mixture of brutality and
    cunning of which he alone was capable."

Murray was proclaimed regent on the 22d of August. Soon afterward
began the machinations for accusing Mary of Darnley's murder; and
Murray's first care was to put out of the way every witness whose
testimony could be of any importance. Hay, Hepburn, and Powrie and
Dalgleish, on whom the queen's letters were said to have been found,
were all tried, convicted, and executed on the same day. It was
remarked that the proceedings were conducted with extraordinary and
indecent haste. Hay and Hepburn, from the scaffold, denounced the
nobles who had "made a bond for the king's murder." Public confidence
was shaken in the regent, and the discontent of the people was
expressed in plain speech and satirical ballads. Murray began to feel
the need of Elizabeth's assistance. Mary, in her trusting confidence,
had voluntarily placed all her valuable jewels in Murray's hands, for
safe keeping. From among them he selected a set of rare pearls, the
most valuable in Europe, which he sent by an agent to Elizabeth, who
agreed to purchase what she well knew he had no right to sell. Under
such circumstances, as is the custom among thieves and receivers, she
expected a bargain, and got it. It was a very pretty transaction.
In May, 1568, Mary escaped from Lochleven castle, and in a few days
found herself at the head of an army of six thousand men. Of the ten
earls and lords who flew to her support, nine were Protestants; and
our Puritan historian finds it remarkable that, in spite of all the
efforts of Murray and his faction, and in spite of all the violence
of the preachers, she--the Catholic Queen of Scotland, the daughter
of the hated house of Guise, the reputed mortal enemy of their
religion--should now, after being maligned as the most abandoned of
her sex, find her best friends among her own Protestant subjects,
appears at first sight inexplicable. A phenomenon so strange, he
adds, admits of only one explanation. If, throughout her reign, she
had not loyally kept her promises of security and toleration to her
Protestant subjects, they assuredly would not, in her hour of need,
have risked their lives and fortunes in her defence.

Against her better judgment, Mary was induced to fight the battle
of Langside, and lost the field. And now the queen made the great
mistake of her life. Instead of trusting to the loyalty of the Scotch
borderers, she determined to throw herself on the hospitality of the
Queen of England. In vain did her trusty counsellors and strongest
supporters seek to dissuade her. The warm professions of friendship
and attachment made to her by Elizabeth, when she was a prisoner
at Lochleven, had completely captivated her; and, insisting on her
project, she crossed the Solway, in an open boat, to the English
shore. She was received by Mr. Lowther, deputy warden, with all the
respect due to her rank and misfortunes. Although she did not yet
know it, Mary was from this moment a prisoner. Here Mr. Hosack, in
a few eloquent passages, sets forth the reasons why the forcible
detention of Mary, independently of all considerations of morality
and justice, was a political blunder of the first magnitude. As
the inmate of an English prison, she proved a far more formidable
enemy to Elizabeth than when she wore the crowns both of France
and Scotland. Never did a political crime entail a heavier measure
of retribution than the captivity and murder of the Queen of Scots
entailed on England.

Mary was first taken to the castle of Carlisle. Here Queen Elizabeth
was represented by Lord Scrope, the warden of the marches, and Sir
Francis Knollys, the queen's vice-chamberlain. These noblemen appear
to have been more impressed with the mental and moral qualities of
the Scottish queen than with her external graces. They describe her,
after their first interview, as possessing "an eloquent tongue and a
discreet head, with stout courage and a liberal heart;" and, in a
subsequent letter, Knollys says, "Surely, she is a rare woman; for
as no flattery can abuse her, so no plain speech seems to offend
her, if she thinks the speaker an honest man." All this was written
to Elizabeth, to whom, of course, it was gall and wormwood. A more
remarkable passage of their letter is that in which, speaking in
simple candor as English gentlemen and men of honor, they ask their
royal mistress whether

    "it were not honorable for you, in the sight of your own
    subjects and of all foreign princes, to put her grace to the
    choice, whether she will depart freely back into her country
    without your highness's impeachment, or whether she will remain
    at your highness's devotion within your realm here, with her
    necessary servants only to attend her?"

To a sovereign whose policy was synonymous with fraud, the
unconscious sarcasm of this honorable advice must have been biting.

Elizabeth pledged her word to Mary that she should be restored to her
throne. She at the same time pledged her word to Murray that Mary
should never be permitted to return to Scotland. Then began the long
nineteen years' martyrdom of Mary. The conference at York and the
commission at Westminster were mockeries of justice. It was pretended
there were two parties present before them--Murray and his associates
on one side, Mary on the other. Mary was kept a prisoner in a distant
castle, while Murray, received with honor at court, held private
and secret consultations with members of both these quasi-judicial
bodies, showed them the testimony he intended to produce, and
obtained their judgment as to the sufficiency of his proofs before
he publicly produced them; these proofs being the forged letters of
the silver casket. These letters were never seen by Mary Stuart, and
even copies of them were repeatedly and persistently refused her.
Mr. Froude makes a lame attempt to show that _some one_ secretly
furnished her copies; but even if his attempt were successful, it
does not affect the fact that the copies were officially refused her.
By the time the scales had fallen from Mary's eyes, Elizabeth's art
and duplicity had woven a web from which she could not be extricated.
Her remaining years of life were one long, heart-sickening struggle
against treachery, spies, insult to her person, her reputation,
and her faith; confinement, cold, sickness, neuralgic agony, want;
deprivation of all luxuries, of medical attendance, and of the
consolations of religion. At every fresh spasm of alarm on the
part of Elizabeth, Mary's prison was changed; frequently in dead
of winter, and generally without any provision for the commonest
conveniences of life. More than once, taken into a naked, cold
castle, Mary's jailers had to rely on the charity of the neighbors
for even a bed for their royal prisoner. At Tutbury, her rooms were
so dark and comfortless, and the surroundings so filthy--there is
no other word for it--that the English physician refused to charge
himself with her health. But enough. We all know the sad story, and
we trustingly believe the poor martyred queen has her recompense in
heaven.

Mr. Hosack's treatment of the question of the authenticity of the
silver-casket letters is exhaustive. More than a century ago, Goodall
fully exposed the forgery, and he has never been satisfactorily
answered. Mr. Froude, of course, accepts them without discussion.
The conferences at York and the proceedings at Westminster are
presented as only a lawyer can present them. Mary's cause gains by
the most rigid scrutiny. Mr. Froude does not know enough to analyze
and intelligibly present serious matters like these. He prefers a
series of sensational _tableaux_ and highly-colored dissolving views,
producing for authorities garbled citations and his own fictions. Mr.
Hosack's testimony, independently of its great intrinsic merit, is
valuable because of his nationality and of his religion, and we hope
to see his work republished in the United States. His closing page
concludes thus:

    "In the darkest hours of her existence--even when she hailed
    the prospect of a scaffold as a blessed relief from her
    protracted sufferings--she never once expressed a doubt as
    to the verdict that would be finally pronounced between her
    and her enemies. 'The theatre of the world,' she calmly
    reminded her judges at Fotheringay, 'is wider than the realm
    of England.' She appealed from the tyranny of her persecutors
    to the whole human race; and she has not appealed in vain. The
    history of no woman that ever lived approaches in interest
    to that of Mary Stuart; and so long as beauty and intellect,
    a kindly spirit in prosperity, and matchless heroism in
    misfortune attract the sympathies of men, this illustrious
    victim of sectarian violence and barbarous statecraft will ever
    occupy the most prominent place in the annals of her sex."

FOOTNOTE:

[7] _Mary Queen of Scots and her Accusers._ Embracing a Narrative of
Events from the Death of James V., in 1542, until the Death of the
Regent Murray, in 1570. By John Hosack, Barrister-at law. William
Blackwood & Sons, Edinburgh and London. 1869.

_Histoire de Marie Stuart._ Par Jules Gauthier. Vol. i. Paris. 1869.



STABAT MATER.


    Stabat Mater dolorosa,
    Juxta crucem lacrymosa,
      Dum pendebat Filius:
    Cujus animam gementem,
    Contristatam et dolentem,
      Pertransivit gladius.

            ENGLISH TRANSLATION[8]

            Broken-hearted, lo, and tearful,
            Bowed before that Cross so fearful,
              Stands the Mother by the Son!
            Through her bosom sympathizing
            In his mortal agonizing
              Deep and keen the steel has gone.

                    GREEK TRANSLATION.[9]

                    Ἵστη Μήτηρ ἀλγέουσα
                    παρὰ σταυρῷ δακρύουσα,
                      ἐκρημνᾶτο ὡς Τέκνον·
                    ἧς τὴν ψυχὴν στενάχουσαν,
                    πολύστονον, πενθέουσαν
                      διέπειρε φάσγανον.

    O quam tristis et afflicta
    Fuit illa benedicta
      Mater Unigeniti!
    Quæ mœrebat et dolebat,
    Pia Mater, dum videbat
      Nati pœnas inclyti.

            How afflicted, how distressed,
            Stands she now, that Virgin blessed,
              By that tree of woe and scorn;
            Mark her tremble, droop, and languish,
            Gazing on that awful anguish
              Of her Child, her Only-Born!

                    Φεῦ τοῦ ἄχθους τῆς τε λύπης
                    εὐλογημένης ἐκείνης
                      Μήτρος τοῦ Μονογένους·
                    ἣ ἤλγει καὶ ἠνιᾶτο,
                    θεοσεβὴς, ὡς ὡρᾶτο
                      Υἱοῦ τ' ἄλγη εὐκλεοῦς.

    Quis est homo qui non fleret,
    Matrem Christi si videret
      In tanto supplicio?
    Quis non posset contristari,
    Christi Matrem contemplari
      Dolentem cum Filio?

            Who may see, nor share her weeping,
            Christ the Saviour's mother keeping
              Grief's wild watch, so sad and lone?
            Who behold her bosom sharing
            Every pang his soul is bearing,
              Nor receive them in his own?

                    Τίς ἀνθρώπων οὐκ ἂν κλαίοι,
                    εἰ τὴν Χριστοῦ Μήτερ' ἴδοι
                      τοιαῦτ' ἀνεχομένην;
                    τίς δύναιτ' ἂν οὐκ ἄχθεσθαι
                    τῷ τὴν Χριστοῦ Μήτερ' ἴδεσθαι
                      σὺν Υἱῷ λυπουμένην;

    Pro peccatis suæ gentis,
    Vidit Jesum in tormentis,
      Et flagellis subditum.
    Vidit suum dulcem Natum
    Moriendo desolatum,
      Dum emisit spiritum.

            Ransom for a world's offending,
            Lo, her Son and God is bending
              That dear head to wounds and blows;
            'Mid the body's laceration,
            And the spirit's desolation,
              As his life-blood darkly flows.

                    Πρὸ τῶν κακῶν οἵο γένους
                    'φαν' αὐτῇ ὑβρισθεὶς Ἰησοῦς
                      καὶ μάστιξιν ἔκδοτος·
                    εἶδεν ἕον γλυκὺν παῖδα
                    ἐκθνήσκοντα, μονωθέντα,
                      ὡς ἐξέπνει ἄθλιος.

    Eia Mater, fons amoris,
    Me sentire vim doloris
      Fac ut tecum lugeam;
    Fac ut ardeat cor meum
    In amando Christum Deum,
      Ut sibi complaceam.

            Fount of love, in that dread hour,
            Teach me all thy sorrow's power,
              Bid me share its grievous load;
            O'er my heart thy spirit pouring,
            Bid it burn in meet adoring
              Of its martyred Christ and God!

                    Ὦ συ Μήτερ, πήγη ἔρωτος,
                    τῆς λύπης με πάθειν ἄχθος
                      δός, σοι ἵνα συμπαθῶ·
                    δὸς φλέγεσθαι κῆρ τὸ ἐμόν
                    τῷ φιλεῖν τὸν Χριστὸν Θεόν,
                      ὅπως οἱ εὐδοκέω.

    Sancta Mater! istud agas,
    Crucifixi fige plagas
      Cordi meo valide.
    Tui Nati vulnerati,
    Tam dignati pro me pati,
      Pœnas mecum divide.

            Be my prayer, O Mother! granted,
            And within my heart implanted
              Every gash whose crimson tide,
            From that spotless victim streaming,
            Deigns to flow for my redeeming,
              Mother of the crucified!

                    Ἅγνη Μήτερ, τόδε δράσον·
                    Σταυρωθέντος πλήγας πήξον
                      μοι ἐν κῆρι κρατερῶς·
                    σοίο τοῦ τρωθέντος Τέκνου,
                    ὃς πρὸ ἐμοῦ πάσχειν ἤξιου,
                      μέρος ποινῶν μοι διδούς.

    Fac me tecum pie flere,
    Crucifixo condolere,
      Donec ego vixero.
    Juxta crucem tecum stare,
    Et me tibi sociare
      In planctu desidero.

            Every sigh of thy affliction,
            Every pang of crucifixion--
              Teach me all their agony!
            At his cross for ever bending,
            In thy grief for ever blending,
              Mother, let me live and die!

                    Δός σοί μ' εὐσεβῶς συλλυπεῖν,
                    Σταυρωθέντι δὸς συναλγεῖν,
                      ἕως μοι βιώσεται·
                    πρὸς σταυρῷ σοι συνίστασθαι,
                    σοί τε μοίρας μετέχεσθαι
                      τοῦ πενθεῖν ὀρέγομαι.

    Virgo virginum præclara,
    Mihi jam non sis amara,
      Fac me tecum plangere.
    Fac ut portem Christi mortem,
    Passionis fac consortem,
      Et plagas recolere.

            Virgin of all virgins highest,
            Humble prayer who ne'er deniest,
              Teach me how to share thy woe!
            All Christ's Passion's depth revealing,
            Quicken every quivering feeling
              All its bitterness to know!

                    Παρθένε, τῶν κόρων λαμπρά,
                    ἤδη μή μοι ἴσθι πικρά,
                      δός μέ σοι συναλγέειν·
                    δὸς βαστάζειν Χριστοῦ πότμον,
                    τοῦ πάθους ποίει με μέτοχον,
                      τάς τε πλήγας ἐννοεῖν.

    Fac me plagis vulnerari,
    Cruce hac inebriari,
      Et cruore Filii.
    Flammis ne urar succensus,
    Per te, Virgo, sim defensus,
      In die judicii.

            Bid me drink that heavenly madness,
            Mingled bliss of grief and gladness,
              Of the Cross of thy dear Son!
            With his love my soul inflaming,
            Plead for it, O Virgin! claiming
              Mercy at his judgment throne!

                    Δὸς ταῖς πλήγαις με τρωθῆναι,
                    τῷδε σταυρῷ μεθυσθῆναι
                      καὶ τοῦ Υἱοῦ αἵματι.
                    πυρὶ ἀφθέντα μὴ καυθῆναι,
                    ἀλλὰ διὰ σοῦ σωθῆναι
                      κρίσεως ἐφ' ἥματι.

    Christe, cum sit hinc exire,
    Da per matrem me venire
      Ad palmam victoriæ.[10]
    Quando corpus morietur,
    Fac ut animæ donetur
      Paradisi gloria.

            Shelter at that Cross, oh! yield me!
            By the death of Christ, oh! shield me!
              Comfort with thy grace and aid!
            And, O Mother! bid my spirit
            Joys of Paradise inherit,
              When its clay to rest is laid!

                    Ὁπόθ' ὥρα μ' ἀπέρχεσθαι,
                    διὰ Μήτρος δὸς φέρεσθαι,
                      Χριστὲ, νικητήρια·
                    τεθνέωτος χρωτὸς ἐμοῦ,
                    εὔχομαί μοι ψυχῇ δίδου
                      οὐρανοῦ τὰ χάρματα.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] This translation, which first appeared in the _Democratic
Magazine_ thirty years ago, is now republished at the request of the
author, G. J. G.

[9] By the late Otto George Mayer, student of the Congregation of St.
Paul.

[10] Instead of these three lines we sometimes find the following:

    Fac me cruce custodiri,
    Morte Christi præmuniri,
      Confoveri gratia.

The former version of the Latin is followed in the Greek, the latter
in the English translation.



THE BRIGAND'S GOD-CHILD.

A LEGEND OF SPAIN.


Once upon a time, as the legends say, there lived in good old Spain a
poor workman, to whom destiny had given twelve children, and nothing
for them to live upon. Now his wife was expecting a thirteenth, and
perhaps with it would appear a fourteenth also, to run about loved
but unclothed and unfed, as the others had before them. The bread was
almost gone, work not to be had, and the poor man, to hide his sighs
and his misery from the patient partner of his misfortunes, wandered
far from home and into the woods, calling upon paradise to assist
him, until he came to the ill-reputed cavern and stronghold of the
bandits.

He almost fell over their captain, and came very near receiving a
sabre-thrust for his pains; but his extreme misery made him no object
for a robbery, so he was simply catechised as to his condition.

He told his story, moved even the brigand heart to pity, and was
invited to supper; a bag of gold and a fine horse were given him,
and he was sent home with the assurance that, be the new-comer
boy or girl, the robber-chief would stand as god-father. The poor
man, in ecstasy at such good fortune, flew rather than rode to his
well-filled dwelling, and arrived there just in time to welcome
number thirteen.

A boy! He gave his wife the money and a caress, and, although the
night was far advanced, mounted his charger and galloped back to the
cave. The brigand was astonished at his speedy return; but true to
his word, appeared with him in the neighboring church in disguise
of a rich old gossip, made every requisite promise for the new-born
babe, and disappeared, leaving a bag of golden crowns and another
purse of gold.

The angels, however, claimed the baby, and the brigand's
god-child flew to paradise on golden wings, and in the splendid
swaddling-clothes that his charity had provided for it.

St. Peter, porter at the gates celestial, stirred himself to welcome
the little fellow to heaven; but no! he would not enter unless
accompanied by his god-father.

"And who may he be?" asked St. Peter.

"Who?" responded the god-child; "The chief of the brigands."

"My poor little innocent," said the saint, "you know not what you
ask! Come in yourself; but heaven was not made for such as he."

The child sat down by the door resolved not to enter, and planning in
his little head all sorts of schemes to accomplish his purpose, when
the Blessed Mary passed that way.

"Why do you not enter, my angel?" she said.

"I would be ungrateful," he answered, "to partake of heavenly joys if
my good god-father did not share them with me."

St. Peter interposed, and appealed to the Holy Mother, saying,

"If he had only been a wax-carrier! but this man, Satan's own
emissary--impossible! An incarnate demon; a robber, healthy and
robust, who has taken every opportunity to do mischief! Holy Mother!
could such a thing be thought of?"

But the god-child insisted, bent his pretty blonde head, joined his
little hands, fell on his knees, prayed and wept. The Virgin had
compassion on him and bringing a golden chalice from the heavenly
inclosure, said,

"Take this; go and seek your god-father; tell him that he may come
with you to heaven; but he must first fill this cup with repentant
tears."

Just then, by the clear moonlight, reposing on a rock, and fully
armed, lay the brigand. In his dream his dagger trembled in his
hands. As he awoke, he saw near his couch a beautiful winged infant.
With no fear of the savage man, it approached and presented the
golden chalice. He rubbed his eyes, and thought he still dreamed; but
the infant angel reassured him, saying,

"No; it is not a fancy. I have come to invite thee to go with me.
Leave this earth. I am thy god-child, and I will conduct thy steps."

Then the little fellow related his marvellous story: his arrival at
heaven's gate, St. Peter's refusal, and how the Blessed Mother, ever
merciful, had come to his assistance and granted his request. The
bandit listened, and breathed with difficulty, while, bewildered he
gazed on the angelic figure, and held out his hand for the golden
chalice.

Suddenly his heart seemed to burst, two fountains of tears gushed
from his eyes. The cup was filled, and the radiant infant mounted
with him to the skies.

Into heaven the little one entered, carrying the well-filled cup to
St. Peter--who was astonished to see who followed him--and proceeded
to offer it at the feet of the beautiful Queen.

She smiled on the sinner who through her compassion had been saved,
while he threw himself in reverence at her feet. God himself had
acquitted the debt of the child. Besides, we know that to the
repentant there is always grace--and the infant had declared it would
not enter alone.



MOLECULAR MECHANICS.


Among the theories proposed to explain the constitution of material
substance, and to account for the facts relative to it disclosed by
modern science, one developed in a recent work with the above title,
by Rev. Joseph Bayma, of Stonyhurst, is specially worthy of notice
for its ingenuity and the field which it opens to the mathematician.
Whether it be true or not, it is at any rate such that its truth can
be tested; and though this may be somewhat difficult, on account of
the complexity of the necessary formulas and calculations, still the
difficulty can probably be overcome in course of time, should the
undertaking seem promising enough.

It is briefly as follows. Matter is not continuous, even in very
small parts of its volume, but is composed of a definite number of
ultimate elements, each of which occupies a mere point, and may
be considered simply as a centre of force. This force is actually
exerted by each of them following the law of gravitation as to its
change of intensity with the distance; but is attractive for some
elements and repulsive for others, which is obviously necessary to
preserve equilibrium. These elements are arranged in regularly formed
groups, in which the balance of the attractive and repulsive forces
is such that each group, as well as the whole mass, is preserved
from collapse or indefinite expansion; these are what are known
chemically as molecules; and in the simple substances they probably
have the shape of one of the five regular polyhedrons.

The simplest possible construction of a molecule would be one of
the polyhedrons, with an element at each vertex, and one at the
centre, whose action must be of an opposite character to that of
those at the vertices; for these last must all exert the same kind
of action, attractive or repulsive, for any kind of equilibrium to
be maintained, and the centre must act in the opposite direction to
prevent collapse or expansion of the mass. Furthermore, the absolute
attractive power, or that which the molecule would have if all
collected at one point, must exceed the repulsive, slightly at any
rate, since the force exerted at distances compared with which its
dimensions are insignificant is known to have this former character.

This system admits of two varieties, according as the centre is
attractive or repulsive. In either case, for the maintenance of
equilibrium the force of the centre must always be less than half
that of the vertices combined, as the author shows, (giving the
values for each polyhedron;) and it would seem that the first
supposition would therefore be untenable, since the attractive force
in each molecule, as just stated, necessarily exceeds the repulsive.
Equilibrium certainly cannot be maintained in this case; but this
will not involve the permanent collapse of the molecule, but merely
a continual vibration of its elements back and forward through the
centre.

The second hypothesis, on the other hand, requires either a centre so
weak as to produce very little repulsion outside of the molecule, or
else a continual tendency to expand under a central power too great
for equilibrium. Both will tend to bring the molecular envelopes near
to each other, and produce adhesion or mixing among them; also, it
may perhaps be added, that the envelopes themselves will, on account
of the mutual attraction of their elements, be unstable.

Of these two constructions, then, the first would seem most probable;
but both are open to objection on account of there being no internal
resistance in the individual molecules to a change of diameter
proportional to a change produced by external action in that of a
mass of them; and if such a change should take place, the mass would
be in just the same statical conditions as before, only differing in
the relative dimensions of its parts, and the resistance to pressure
which is exhibited more or less by all matter would not be accounted
for. But it does not seem quite certain that pressure or traction of
the mass would operate upon the separate molecules in the same sense.

We are not, however, restricted to such a simple structure; for there
may be several envelopes instead of only one, and of these some may
be attractive and others repulsive; the centre also may be repulsive.
There would have to be an absolute predominance of attractivity, of
course, as in the previous more simple supposition. It seems probable
that in this supposition the envelopes would be all tetrahedric, or
that either the cube and octahedron, or the other two, which are
similarly counterparts of each other, would alternate. Many of these
forms are examined mathematically by the author, as to their internal
action.

The exact discussion of their external action, however, would
be exceedingly intricate, and would not be worth undertaking
without a more definite idea than we yet have of the actual shapes
presented by the molecules of the various known substances. The
forms of crystallization may throw some light upon this, and they
seem to indicate, as the author acknowledges, that the elements
are not always grouped in regular polyhedrons; if they are not,
they must have unequal powers, and this may be sometimes the
case. But irregular crystalline forms are not impossible, or even
improbable, with regular molecules. He also suggests and applies a
method for obtaining the forms of the simple chemical substances
by considering what combinations with others each polyhedron is
capable of, and comparing these results with the actual combinations
into which these various substances are known to enter, and deduces
the shapes, with some plausibility, of the molecules of oxygen,
nitrogen, carbon, hydrogen, phosphorus, chlorine, sulphur, arsenic,
and iodine. Whether we shall ever be able to obtain more positive
proof of these interesting conclusions remains to be seen; but if
any molecules have really the number of envelopes that would be
indicated by their chemical equivalents, the perfect determination of
their exact mechanical conditions of combination, and even of their
separate construction, will probably, as F. Bayma remarks, be a
problem always above the power of the human mind. If mathematicians
are at all inclined to plume themselves on having unravelled the
complications of the solar system, they can find sufficient matter
for humiliation in not being able to understand the status of a
material particle less than the hundred millionth of an inch in
diameter; for to this extent subdivision has actually been carried.

One of the most remarkable points in this theory is that part of
it which relates to the ethereal medium which seems to pervade all
space, if the undulatory theory of light is true, as is now perhaps
universally believed. Instead of assuming it to be extremely rare,
as is usually done without hesitation, the author regards it as
excessively dense; "immensely denser than atmospheric air," to
use his own words. Of course this seems absurd at first sight, as
such a medium apparently would exert an immense resistance to the
movements of the heavenly bodies, and in fact to all movements on
their surfaces or elsewhere. This would certainly be the case if it
were similar to ordinary matter; and to avoid this difficulty, it
is assumed to be entirely attractive. The reason for supposing a
great density for this substance is its immense elasticity and power
of transmitting vibrations; which seems incompatible with great
distances between its particles, unless these particles are extremely
energetic in their action, which comes to the same thing; and this
argument has considerable force.

But it does not seem evident that an attractive medium would not
also interfere with the passage of bodies through it, though not
in the same way as a repulsive one; and the oscillation through
its centre necessary for its preservation complicates the theory
somewhat. Also, any marked accumulation of a powerfully acting
medium round the various celestial bodies would cause, if varied
in any way by their changes of relative position, perturbations in
their movements. The very fact, however, that its own action was so
energetic might make the disturbance in its arrangement produced by
other masses small, especially if it penetrates those masses, as is
probably generally maintained. The subject is, of course, one of
great difficulty, and objections readily suggest themselves to any
hypothesis regarding it; still, it would appear that on some accounts
it might be better, instead of assuming the medium to be wholly or
predominantly attractive or repulsive, to suppose it to have the two
forces equally balanced in its constitution; and if it be, like other
matter, grouped in molecules, the balance would naturally exist in
each molecule, making it inert at any but very small distances, and
exerting at these very small distances a force the character of which
would vary according to the direction.

We have said that the discussion of the exterior action of the
molecules--that is, of their action on each other, or on exterior
points in general--would be exceedingly complicated. The only way
in which it seems practicable is that in which the mutual actions
of the planets have been investigated, namely, a development of the
force in the form of a series; but this cannot be done advantageously
unless the distances between the molecules are considerably greater
than the molecular diameters. If, however, we make the development of
the ratio of the attraction (or repulsion) exerted by the vertices
of a regular polyhedron in the direction of its centre, to what it
would exert if concentrated at that centre, in a series of the powers
of the ratio of the molecular radius to the distance of the point
acted on from the centre, it will be found that the coefficients
of the first and second powers vanish in all cases; and that in
all, except that of the tetrahedron, those of all the odd powers
also disappear, as well as that of the fourth in the dodecahedron
and icosahedron. If, then, the absolute attractive or repulsive
power of any envelope is very nearly compensated by that of an
opposite character prevailing in the rest of the molecule, (as seems
probable,) the whole series can be reduced, at any distance which is
very great compared with the molecular diameter, to two terms--one
a constant with a very small value, and the other containing the
third, fourth, or sixth power of the small quantity which the ratio
of the diameter to the distance has now become. This should have a
negative multiplier, in order that the force should become zero; and
this it will have for a considerable distance around the vertices
of all the polyhedrons, the negative value always covering as much
as two fifths of the spherical surface about the centre of the
molecule, and compensating even in this case for its less extent by
a greater intensity, as the mean of this coefficient over the whole
surface is always exactly zero. Within this distance of no action,
for some space about the centre of the prevailing polyhedric face,
attraction would prevail till the higher powers became sensible,
and even (as it would seem) quite up to the centre in the case of
a single envelope, the repulsive action of which, when combined
with the slight force of the centre, would apparently be limited
to quasi-ellipsoidal spaces extending out from each vertex, and
having a longer axis equal to this outer distance of no action.
But this limitation of the repulsive action will be still greater
if the excess of the absolute attractive power in the molecule is
more considerable, as long as the distribution of the force in the
different envelopes remains unaltered; and though the molecules can
approach within tolerably short distances of each other in certain
directions, this is not objectionable, since such an approach may
even be required for chemical union and cohesion. Introsusception
would hardly be probable, unless they were very different in size.
The compound molecule once formed, whether its components were of
the same or of different substance, might exercise a repulsive
force at a considerable distance in all or nearly all directions;
nevertheless, it might still admit of further increase or of
disruption by an agitation among the molecules, due to heat, light,
or electricity. Of course, even on this theory, for the maintenance
of physical equilibrium the mean distance of the molecules would
have to be considerably less than that of no action, in order that
a repulsion should be produced to balance the attraction of those
beyond this distance. Still, if the excess of attractive force in
each molecule, and consequently the size of each, be made small
enough, their dimensions may still be small compared even with this
mean distance; so that in no case, except that of chemical union,
would it be necessary to take account of the higher powers. Any
motion communicated from one molecule to another would then probably
be by means of an actual relative movement of the centres of gravity,
instead of by internal vibrations.

It may be worth noticing that a regular polyhedron--the elements of
which exert a force not varying at all with the distance, and in
which the absolute energy of the centre is precisely equal to that of
the vertices combined--gives a resulting force following the law of
gravitation, at any distance compared with which its own dimensions
can be neglected; and within this distance the force will change
its sign under the same conditions of direction as specified in the
previous case. But, as the intensity of this force will change with
the size of the molecule, it does not appear that a system of this
kind would be admissible, since, besides the periodical change due
to its own internal vibration, it would probably be changed in size,
or even in shape, which would be worse, by compression or expansion
of the mass; which would be the more likely, as the molecules could
approach much nearer than in the former supposition. The law followed
by gravitation also seems to be almost or quite necessary for forces
radiating from a point.

The author's theory seems, on the whole, extremely plausible.
That each element of matter exerts a force following the law of
gravitation, is almost demonstrable _à priori_; that the elements
are mere points, will also generally be admitted; that some of
the actions should be repulsive, is obviously necessary; that each
molecule is composed of a definite number of atoms, is suggested
by chemical laws; and the polyhedric forms seem certainly the most
reasonable, though crystalline forms would indicate that others
may be occasionally found. The possibility of the construction of
irregular molecules out of elements of unequal powers seems, by the
way, to be worth examining.

Further developments of the theory may have recently been made; of
course, the author does not claim in this work to have laid down more
than its first principles. At present, it seems, to say the least,
to furnish the best basis for the mathematical investigation of the
internal constitution of matter that has been suggested, and such
investigations would be almost certain to lead to valuable results,
whether confirmatory or otherwise.



THE HOLY-WEEK OF 1869 IN HAVANA.

PALM-SUNDAY. THE TENEBRÆ. MAUNDY-THURSDAY.


So much had been told me of the antiquated observances of the
Holy-Week in Havana, of the religious processions presenting to us
of the nineteenth century an image of the _naïf_ faith of the middle
ages, of the rare spectacle of a whole city in mourning for the death
of the Saviour, that even had my duty not called me to the church,
my curiosity would have carried me thither. As it was, I resolved
this Lent that, although I resided at an inconvenient distance from
town, and ladies who have no carriage of their own find it sometimes
unpleasant to go on foot in a country where walking is unfashionable,
and considered even unfeminine, yet I would disregard disagreeables
of every kind, and attend all the impressive ceremonies of this great
week in the cathedral.


PALM-SUNDAY.

On Palm-Sunday, then, at six o'clock in the morning, I got into
the nice, clean, well-managed cars that pass our door every few
minutes all day long. The blessing of the palm branches was not to
commence until a quarter after eight; but I like to "take time by
the forelock," and I also feared that, as the "superior political
governor of Havana" had invited "the grandees of Spain, the titled
of Castile, the knights grand crosses, the gentlemen, (_gentiles
hombres_,) and civil and military functionaries to contribute their
assistance to render the religious acts more solemn," there _might_
be somewhat of a crowd, and so I determined to arrive betimes and
secure for myself a seat where I could both see and hear well.

The early morning in Cuba is always delightful, and this 21st
of March was very bright and lovely, the sky intensely blue and
without a cloud, and a cool breeze gently waving the tall tops of
the cocoa-nut trees, and rustling the light, feathery sprays of the
graceful bamboos. The white colonnaded houses of the _Cerro_ looked
very pleasant among their palms and laurels. _La Carolina_ was in
full bloom in some of the gardens, its spreading, leafless branches
covered with great plumy tufts of rose-colored filaments; honeysuckle
vines and the yellow jasmine climbed about the railings, and the
large, brilliant flowers of the _mar pacifico_ completed the floral
landscape with that bright "bit" of scarlet so agreeable to the
artistic eye.

As we approached the city, however, the pretty houses became fewer,
and the mean suburban shops and _fondas_ appeared more grimy than
ever in the bright sunlight; their dirty awnings hanging in rags
over the badly-paved, broken sidewalk. The houses, all of one or
two stories, their exteriors washed with blue, yellow, lilac, or
apple-green, wore a general look of never being repaired, and their
gay coloring was faded, spotted, stained, and smeared by the
exceeding dampness of the climate. I had glimpses, too, as we passed,
into narrow streets so frightfully gullied and filthy that they made
me shudder. The population of this part of extra-mural Havana was not
more prepossessing in appearance than its haunt.

In about half an hour we reached the _Campo de Marte_, (Field of
Mars,) a fine square which would be handsomer if it were bordered
with shade-trees. Now it is an arid plain, with a few straggling
blades of grass in patches here and there. On one of the sides of
this place stands the magnificent mansion of the Aldamas, one of
the richest families in the island; on another side, the principal
railway station. A great number of volunteers, fine, stout,
strong-looking men generally, dressed in a blue and white striped
drill uniform, and armed with short swords and bayoneted muskets,
were mustering in the middle of the _Campo_, and a great rabble of
little blackies surrounded them, gaping with admiration. At the
eastern extremity of the square we cut across the commencement of
what used to be called the _Parque de Ysabel Segunda_; but her statue
has been pulled down from its pedestal, and the promenade has now no
name. Here again, around the pretty fountain that represents Havana
under the form of an Indian maiden supporting a shield that bears
the arms of the city, and surrounded by tropical fruits and graceful
plants, were plenty of flowers; the blue, crimson, and purple
morning-glories, that had just opened their radiant petals to the
sun, were the most vividly-colored I have ever seen.

Passing the Tacon Theatre, we soon reached the breach in the city
walls by which the cars enter. These old fortifications, built by the
Spaniards to keep out the Indians and the English, are being slowly
demolished. A very fine white stone church is in progress of erection
close by.

The streets within the walls are well paved and clean; the houses
mostly large and very strongly built. They usually form a hollow
square, the centre being an open yard, containing a few shrubs. The
windows of all the rooms reach from the floor to the ceiling; they
are without glass and protected by iron bars; thick inside shutters,
into which two or three glazed panes are inserted to admit the
light, close out any very bad weather, wind or rain. The sidewalks
are usually not more than a foot and a half wide; they look like
ledges running along the sides of the houses, and are exceedingly
uncomfortable for pedestrians, as I found when I descended from the
car at its stopping-place in front of the church _San Juan de Dios_,
and proceeded on foot to the cathedral.

_San Cristóbal de la Habana_, the metropolitan cathedral, is a large
and handsome edifice; it dates from 1724, and although it has at
the present moment a very time-worn appearance, it was repaired
and beautified only a few years since. Two towers and three doors
give an imposing air to the front; the arched nave within is lofty
and spacious, and separated from the aisles by massive pillars of
masonry. The whole of the interior is painted in fresco, but is much
deteriorated by the excessive humidity of the climate. The high
altar, constructed of beautiful jasper, under a dome of porphyry,
supported by columns of the same material, was built in Rome. On the
gospel side of the chancel is the tomb of Christopher Columbus, whose
ashes, inclosed in a leaden box, rest within the very wall of the
sacred edifice.

Few persons had yet assembled in the church, and I quickly obtained
a seat on one of the benches that are placed along each side of the
nave. I was much pleased to find myself exactly opposite to the
crimson velvet-covered arm-chair and reading-desk reserved for the
captain-general, and to the less imposing but handsome seats intended
for the governor, grandees, and municipality. I was also just behind
a row of arm-chairs allotted to the civil and military functionaries.

In the chancel, concealing from view the honored tomb, was raised a
purple velvet dais; beneath it stood the purple velvet-covered throne
and reading-desk of the bishop. A great black flag with a blood-red
cross in its centre leaned against the side of the altar, on which
was seen the emblem of our faith swathed in violet crape. An immense
white curtain, very artistically draped, was suspended across the
southern transept.

As the time passed, colored servants made their appearance every now
and then, bringing their mistresses' small low chairs and little
carpets; for the Havana churches, like the Catholic churches of
the European continent, have no pews. These servants wore the most
brilliant liveries, such as orange-tinted indispensables, bright
green waistcoat, and red swallow-tail coat, forcibly reminding one
of the parrots of the Cuban woods. A complete canary-colored suit,
surmounted by a round, woolly, black head, produced a very droll
effect. The little chairs were placed and the little carpets spread
wherever it was possible, so that the marble floor of the space
between the official seats was soon nearly covered. The greater
number of ladies, however, had no chairs, but knelt, sometimes three
on the same carpet, during the whole of the ceremony; that is, from
eight till twelve, only changing their posture occasionally to
sitting on the ground, with their feet doubled up on one side.

A little before eight o'clock, the ladies began to arrive. Each one,
after she had knelt down and arranged the folds of her voluminous
train to her satisfaction, dotted herself over rapidly with a great
number of little crosses, and ended by kissing her thumb. This
ungraceful performance is only a hasty, careless way of making the
three signs taught by the church, which ought to be done thus: The
thumb of the right hand is placed across the middle of the index,
to represent the cross. The first sign is then made with it on the
forehead, _Por la señal de la Santa Cruz_--"By the sign of the holy
cross;" the second on the mouth, _De nuestros enemigos_--"From
our enemies;" the third on the heart, _Libra nos, Señor, dios
nuestro_--"Deliver us, Lord, our God." The sign as it is made usually
with us, and a kiss on the cross represented by the thumb and index,
terminate this Spanish process of blessing one's self.

The toilettes of some of the fair Spanish and Cuban ladies present
on this occasion were of rich black silk, with a black lace mantilla
over the head, half shading the face and shoulders. There was an
elegant simplicity in this costume that seemed to me to make it fit
to be adopted in all countries as a dress for public worship. But
the great majority were attired in showy, expensive materials, quite
devoid of taste, especially in the choice and harmony of colors.
Black grenadine and lace dresses, with light belts, were numerous;
satin stripes of the deepest orange color were worn by tall, slender,
sallow damsels; _vert d'eau_, that delicate water-green which demands
so imperiously the contrast of lilies and roses, was donned by a
stout dame, _couleur de café au lait_; and one lady displayed an
ample, sweeping robe of that bright hue the French call _Bismark
content_, which imparted an unearthly lustre to her natural green
tinge that made my flesh creep. Lace mantillas over the head were
universal. Most were black; but some young girls wore white ones,
fastened to their hair with a bunch of rose-buds. There were a great
many blue silk bodices, of the style affected by Swiss maidens; and
I remarked that the fat ladies were very partial to low dresses and
short sleeves, with handsome necklaces and bracelets. No one wore
gloves, and every one carried a fan.

There was a great majority of expressive, intelligent faces among
these belles, and there were plenty of large black eyes, some very
beautiful; and there were pretty lips, which disclosed with every
smile two even rows of pearly teeth; but there was also a total
absence of that fresh, healthy look which, when united to youth,
constitutes beauty, whatever be the shape of the features, and
without which no woman can be truly lovely. As I contemplated, from
my somewhat high bench, the colorless cheeks of the maidens, and the
sallow, withered skins of the matrons kneeling on the marble floor
before me, I remembered the temperate zone with heart-sick longing.
"It seems," thought I, "very delightful, when one reads of it, to
inhabit a clime where the trees are ever green, and the flowers in
perpetual bloom; where snow and ice are unknown; but look at these
pallid girls and their faded mothers--poor, enervated victims of
continual heat! And oh! the many physical miseries arising from want
of active exercise, and the sluggish torpor that seems to invade
the soul as well as the body." And then the days long gone by came
back to me; the days when "life went a-Maying with nature, hope,
and poesy;" the days when I was young. "How I pity you," I murmured,
"pale Cuban girls, who have never run free in the daisied meadows
to gather spring violets and primroses; who have never rambled with
laughing youths and maidens in the leafy woods of summer, or sported
among the dried fallen leaves in the cool, bright days of autumn, or
made one in a merry evening party around the sparkling, crackling,
glowing winter fire!"

A startling yelp, accompanied by the whistling sound of a
well-applied whip, recalled my wandering thoughts. The _perrero_, in
the exercise of his duties, was ejecting a recalcitrant dog, which
had contrived to reach the chancel unobserved. This functionary, the
_perrero_--_anglicé_, dog-man--is peculiar to the cathedral. In all
the other churches of Havana, the faithful are constantly grieved
by the unseemly spectacle of dogs roaming at will within the sacred
precincts, even on the very steps of the altar. The _perrero_ is
distinguished by a dark blue serge robe, descending to his feet, and
very much resembling a gentleman's dressing-gown in form. Around his
neck he wears, as a finish, a wide white frill. He carries, concealed
in the folds of this unpretending and rather unbecoming costume,
a serviceable cowhide, which he uses with a will upon all canine
intruders; and if he can, he concludes his admonishment with a kick,
it being generally believed that a dog which has received this final
humiliation eschews the cathedral for the rest of his days.

In the mean time, a considerable number of persons had assembled in
the church, and the preparations for the blessing of the palms were
completed. The highly ornamented branches had been brought in, piled
up on great trays; the bishop's pastoral crook had been placed
leaning against his throne, and the wax tapers were lighted. The
clergy, hastening in procession to the great central door, which was
presently thrown wide open, letting in a flood of light and warm air,
announced the arrival of the prelate. It was rather difficult to make
a passage for him up to the altar; for some good nuns had come with a
shoal of little girls, who had been arranged so as to fill up every
interstice left by the occupants of the chairs and carpets; but it
was done at last, and he advanced slowly and with great dignity up
the nave, blessing all as he passed.

The prelate had scarcely taken his seat under the dais, when the
doors, opening wide again, gave entrance to the grandees, the
municipality, and a number of military and civil functionaries. They
were ushered to the places assigned to them by four mace-bearers,
habited in the Spanish mace-bearing costume of three hundred years
ago, and much resembling in general appearance the tremendous Queen
Elizabeth's beef-eaters, who seemed to my childish eyes the most
wonderful sight in the Tower of London. They wore loose red velvet
tunics, trimmed with gold lace and fringe; the castles of Castile
were embroidered on the breast, and the lions of Leon adorned the
sleeves; an immense double ruff around the throat; big, high, black
boots and buckskin small-clothes, and a wide-brimmed hat turned up on
one side, with a red and yellow feather, completed the costume.

The military and civil officers were in full uniform, wearing their
orders and decorations; the noblemen and gentlemen in evening dress,
and displaying on their breasts numerous ribbons and brilliant stars.
They were nearly all venerable-looking, gray-haired men, with that
pensive, dignified gravity of demeanor peculiar to the Spaniard.

The religious ceremony now began. The palm-branches blessed were all
curiously plaited and lopped, until they were but little more than
a yard high, only two or three small leaves being left at the top.
They were ornamented with bows of bright-colored ribbons, bunches
of artificial flowers, and gold and silver tinsel butterflies. That
intended for the prelate was covered with elegant gold devices and
arabesques. Each of the grandees in turn ascended the steps of the
altar, and, kneeling, received one from the bishop, whose hand
he kissed, and then retired. When all had been distributed, the
procession was formed; but I must confess that it disappointed me
exceedingly. I had expected to see a grove of green, waving palms
moving along amidst the hosannas of the multitude; but, as it was,
all devotional and picturesque effect was totally wanting. I have
since been told that in the poorer churches, which cannot afford to
buy the plaited, lopped, and gilded sticks that the bad taste of
the people prefer, the simple branch, so exquisitely graceful, is
perforce adopted, and the procession, consequently, a very pretty
sight.

In the cathedral, the whole ceremony was cold and unimposing. There
was no summons from the outside, with response from within. There
was no triumphal burst from the organ when the Victor over sin and
death made his entry; no anthem to remind us how the chosen will be
welcomed to heaven. The procession descended by the southern wing,
and went out into the church porch, where the psalms appointed were
sung; the great central door was then opened, and it returned up the
nave to the altar.

The mass followed, and the bishop delivered a short sermon. His
voice was very agreeable, and his manner impressive.

As soon as the service concluded, every one hastened away. There were
no loiterers--not even to see the prelate leave the cathedral, which
he did on foot, his violet silk train borne by one of the priests. It
is, however, but just to remark--if excuse be needed for the haste
with which the church was cleared--that it was twelve o'clock, and no
one had breakfasted.

I was pleased to meet a friend at the door, who insisted on my going
home with her, and I gratefully accepted the invitation; for I felt
tired and faint. We accordingly got into her _quitrin_, and in a few
minutes reached the welcome door.

The _quitrin_, the _private_ conveyance of Cuba, and an improvement
on the well-known _volante_, is a carriage somewhat resembling the
victoria, but with two immense wheels; it is swung, too, so easily
that a person not accustomed to the vehicle finds it difficult to
enter. The shafts are exceedingly long, and the horse in them trots,
while a second horse, upon which the _calesero_ rides, canters. This
second horse is attached to the carriage by long traces at the left
side, and a little ahead of the shaft-horse. The effect produced by
the different paces of the animals is very curious.

The _calesero_, or driver, is always a colored man; he is usually
dressed in a blue jacket, (though green, yellow, and red are not
unfrequent,) white drill waistcoat and trowsers, and high black
leathern leggings, hollowed out under the knee and standing up
stiff above it, resembling, in fact, the great boots worn by French
postilions, minus the feet. These leggings are fastened down the
sides with straps and silver buckles, and ornamented with large
silver plates. No stockings, but low-cut shoes, leaving visible
the naked instep, heavy silver spurs and a stove-pipe hat, and the
_calesero_ is considered an elegant turn-out.

The breakfast was waiting; a Creole one, composed of soup made of the
water in which beef-bones, and especially beef knee-caps, had been
boiled, flavored with onions fried in lard; of _vaca frita_--fried
cow--little pieces of beef of all shapes, fried also in lard; of
_ropa vieja_--old clothes--slices of cold meat warmed up with sauce;
of _aporeado_--beef torn into shreds of an inch and a half long and
stewed with a little tomato, green peppers, garlic, and onions, (this
dish looks very like boiled twine;) of _picadillo_--meat minced as
fine as possible and scrambled in eggs, chopped onions and peppers;
of rice cooked with little pieces of fat pork and colored with
saffron; of very nice pork-chops, the best meat in Cuba, and very
different and far superior to Northern pork; of boiled _yucca_, and
ripe plantains, very delicious to the taste, resembling in flavor a
well-made apple charlotte. The bread was very good, and more baked
than it usually is in the United States. Claret and water was the
general beverage, and the meal finished with a cup of hot coffee
enriched with creamy milk, boiled _without_ the salt and aniseed that
Creoles almost invariably put into it. We were waited on at table by
two admirably-trained Chinese, a people much and justly esteemed in
Havana as house-servants and cooks.

It was nearly three o'clock when I at last reached home; but not
until the next day did I hear of the four unfortunate men shot that
afternoon in the streets, during the embarkation of the two hundred
and fifty political prisoners for Fernando Po.


THE TENEBRÆ.

The following Wednesday morning, I reached the cathedral just as
the gospel was commenced. At the conclusion of the mass the service
of the _Tenebræ_ was very impressively chanted. As I listened, my
heart realized all the grief and desolation of that sad time. I could
hear David bewailing his outraged Lord and Son; Jeremias lamenting
over the ruins of Jerusalem, over the crucified Victim; dear mother
church calling her children to repentance in supplicating, tender
strains; and the three devoted Marys sighing and weeping as they
climbed the steep of Calvary among the crowd that followed our
blessed Saviour to the cross. At the termination of this mournful
music, just as the confused murmur that recalled the noise of the
tumultuous masses who, led on by Judas, came armed with sticks to
seize Jesus, died away, a number of priests, completely enveloped in
ample black silk robes with long pointed trains, their faces entirely
concealed beneath high-peaked black silk hoods, advanced to the front
of the altar and knelt in a row on the step before it. After a short,
whispered prayer, one of them arose, and taking the black banner with
the blood-red cross, which I have already mentioned, waved it for
several minutes in silence over his companions, while they prostrated
themselves on their faces before the altar. It is impossible to
imagine a scene more lugubrious; the black-robed figures lying
motionless, the mysterious hooded form that seemed to tower above
them, the sinister flag, the deep silence--all contributed to inspire
a sentiment of undefinable fear. Every one present knelt, and in
unbroken silence the black banner was waved over us. When we raised
our heads, the sombre assembly had disappeared and the chancel was
empty.

This, I was told, is a ceremony that has been handed down from the
time of the primitive Christians of Rome; but no one was able to
explain the meaning of it to my satisfaction.


MAUNDY-THURSDAY.

Maundy-Thursday found me bright and early in the cathedral, and well
placed; for I was again just opposite the seats reserved for the
captain-general and the governor, and just behind those intended for
the military and civil officers.

With the exception of the bishop's dais, throne, reading-desk, and
cushion, which were now of white damask and gold, every thing was the
same as on Palm-Sunday. But the great white curtain had been removed
from before the southern transept, and there was now to be seen a
magnificent golden sepulchre, under a white and gilded dome supported
by columns. The statue of a kneeling angel adorned each side of this
monument, to which the officiating priest ascended by six carpeted
steps. Innumerable wax tapers in silver candlesticks were arranged on
each side, their soft light reflected by the silver and gold drapery
that lined the vault.

As on Palm-Sunday, the floor of the nave was soon covered with
carpets and little chairs, all occupied an hour before the mass began
by women and children, white and colored, of every social grade,
from the delicate marchioness to the coarse black cook. Not even the
most elegant lady present seemed in the slightest degree annoyed by
being elbowed, and her satin dress rumpled, by some pushing, saucy
_morena_, (colored woman,) who planted her chair or stool just where
she could contrive to squeeze it in, with the most perfect assurance
that no one would question her right to do so. I remarked, too, that
in the crowd of men who stood in the aisles, the whites and blacks,
the rich and the poor, were on the same terms and acting in precisely
the same manner toward one another; and I felt convinced that nowhere
on earth was such social equality to be met with as I witnessed in
the cathedral church of Havana.

I was admiring this absence of all invidious distinctions in the
house of God, and rejoicing in the thought that here, at least, the
master had to confess himself weak and humble as the slave, the rich
powerless as the poor, when two men forced room for themselves on my
bench and by my side. One had the look of a low grog-shop keeper, the
other of a whining street-beggar; both were shockingly, disgustingly
filthy; both snorted and spat in the most frightful manner, and in
the discomfort they caused me, I arrived at the conclusion that all
men are equal--yes, _except_ the clean and the dirty; and I fretted
and fumed against the church officials who thus abandoned the
faithful washed to the inroads of the faithless unwashed. _Faithless
unwashed!_--it is written wittingly; for I cannot credit that piety
will exist with filthiness of its own free will. No, sin and dirt
are too often bosom friends; but cleanliness goes hand in hand with
godliness.

I had, however, to bear and forbear with my unpleasant neighbors,
whose propinquity induced a train of thoughts somewhat at variance
with the solemnity I had come to witness. I remembered, among other
discrepant subjects, the nickname given to the Spaniards by the
Cubans, _Patones_--"Big-Feet"--which appellation has frequently been
used in skirmishes between the insurgents and the Spanish troops as a
battle-cry. _Viva Cuba, y mueren los Patones!_ "Long live Cuba, and
death to the Big-Feet!" the rebels would shout, and the soldiers,
very naturally enraged at a personal defect being alluded to in
such terms, would fight like insulted heroes. So I improved this
opportunity, having a long row of Spaniards before me, to examine
their lower extremities and judge for myself what truth there was
in the discourteous designation. After a careful and impartial
investigation, I believe that I can say with justice that, though
they do not possess the exquisitely-formed, fairy-like little feet
with which every Cuban, male and female, trips into this world, they
yet cannot be accused of having large or clumsy ones. Most of the
Spanish feet I saw were certainly much smaller than those of the
English or Germans, resembling, perhaps, those of the French.

The toilettes of the ladies were even more ball-like than on
Palm-Sunday; nearly every one wore low-necked dresses and short
sleeves, and many white kid gloves. Rose-colored, pale blue, yellow,
and white silk robes trimmed with lace and a multitude of bows,
and sometimes disfigured by preposterous _paniers_, were general.
The hair was artistically dressed and adorned with flowers, golden
fillets, and bright ribbons, and the white or black lace mantilla
thrown over the head was as small and transparent as possible.

At a quarter past eight, the bishop arrived with a numerous suite
of clergy: as on Sunday, it was with difficulty he made his way
through the sitting, kneeling, becrinolined, and betrained crowd that
encumbered the centre of the church.

Very shortly after, a flourish of trumpets outside announced the
coming of the captain-general. The great door was again thrown open,
and he entered, preceded by the mace-bearers, and attended by Señor
Don Dionisio Lopez Roberts, superior political governor of Havana,
and a brilliant _cortége_ of noblemen, gentlemen, and military and
civil chiefs. When all were seated, the scene as viewed from my
bench was very striking. The resplendent sepulchre; the illuminated
altar, at which the mitred prelate and his assistant priests were
officiating, all robed in white and gold; the long row of handsome
uniforms on each side of the nave; the gay _parterre_ of fair ladies,
and the crowd of spectators of every shade of color from white to
black that filled the spaces between the massive pillars and served
as a background, all contributed to form a whole most picturesque and
unique.

The beautiful service of Maundy-Thursday now commenced; during
the celebration of it, the ceremony of blessing the holy oils was
performed; and when the _Gloria in excelsis_ was chanted, the bell
was rung for the last time until Holy Saturday. At the elevation, I
heard the silver staff of the _pertiguero_ resound several times upon
the pavement. The _pertiguero_ is, like the _perrero_, a functionary
peculiar to the cathedral; his duty is to enforce _kneeling_ at the
elevation on all strangers visiting that church at the moment. He
carries a long silver staff, called a _pertiga_, which he strikes
with a clang upon the marble floor when he perceives any one
inattentive to the strict rule of the church--prostration in presence
of the host.

After the mass, the blessed sacrament was carried in solemn
procession to the sepulchre, the captain-general and the governor
bearing the banner of the _Agnus Dei_, and all the grandees and
municipality joining in it. The staves and cross-rods of the banner
and of the magnificent dais held over the holy sacrament were all of
silver, and appeared to be very heavy. The host was deposited in the
sepulchre, which was then locked, and the golden key fastened to a
chain suspended by the bishop around the neck of the captain-general,
to be brought back to the church by him on Good-Friday. The
beautiful hymn, _Pange lingua_, was sung very sweetly the whole
time; the Latin, which seems so hard and harsh in our English
pronunciation, sounding very grand and harmonious in these Spanish
mouths.

The church cleared very rapidly after the mass; and when the last
carriage had conveyed its last occupant home, no vehicle of any kind
was permitted to pass through the streets of Havana. The soldiers now
carried their arms reversed, and all Spanish flags were at half-mast.
The city was in mourning.

I was taken possession of by some kind friends as I left the
cathedral, and accompanied them to their house close by, where we
found a welcome breakfast awaiting us. It consisted of fish and
vegetables. We commenced with turtle-soup; but not of the kind so
loved by Cockney aldermen, redolent of spiced force-meat balls and
luscious green fat; this was an orthodox meagre soup, incapable of
doing harm. Then came a nice fried fish called _rabi rubio_--red
tail, and fried lobster, all hot, which, however, I did not like
as well as boiled lobster cold with a _mayonnaise_ sauce. To these
succeeded shrimp fritters, roast turtle, and a very delicate fish,
the _pargo_, the best in these seas, and sometimes caught as large
as a large salmon, which it is not unlike in form. Our vegetables
were white rice, eaten with black Mexican beans stewed; yam, yucca,
and slices of green plantain fried of a fine gold color, and very
delicious. Good bread, excellent claret, and native coffee with an
aroma resembling that of the best Mocha, completed this agreeable
repast, which had been enlivened by the pleasant conversation of an
intelligent, generous-hearted Spaniard, and the smiles and jests of
his pretty Cuban wife and children.

Breakfast over, my friend Pepilla and I, with the two eldest girls,
Dolores and Luisita, sallied forth into the silent streets to visit
some of the churches, previous to attending the ceremony of the
_Lavatorio_--washing of feet--which was to be performed in the
cathedral at three o'clock.

The quaint old church of _San Juan de Dios_ was the first we
entered. Its floor of hard-beaten earth was encumbered with kneeling
worshippers, mostly colored, in earnest prayer before a figure as
large as life, representing our blessed Saviour dressed in a dark
purple velvet robe, embroidered with gold; his hands tied together
with a rope; his head crowned with a gilded crown of thorns. Long
black ringlets of shiny hair shaded his emaciated cheeks and fell far
down on his shoulders behind.

The high altar, which is a curious work of bad taste, decorated with
little carved wooden angels wearing black Hessian boots, was screened
by hangings of gold and silver tinsel; and a gilded sepulchre,
surrounded by a great number of wax tapers, to be lighted in the
evening, was placed in front of it.

As we came out of the poor little church, a dirty negro boy, followed
by a dozen others, ran by us in the street, making a great noise with
a _matraca_, to the delight of his suite. This _matraca_ is a piece
of wood about eighteen inches long and ten wide; on each side of it
are affixed one or two thick iron wires of the usual size and shape
of those old-fashioned metal handles to drawers and trunks, which
always used to slip out of their sockets when one gave a strong pull.
When the instrument is shaken, these rattle against the wood, and in
the hands of an adept, and all colored boys are such, made a terrible
clatter. From the _Gloria_ on Maundy-Thursday until the _Gloria_ on
Holy Saturday, _matracas_ are employed instead of bells and clocks,
and boys from the churches run through the streets with them, to
announce each hour of the day.

The sepulchre at _San Felipe_, a church whose interior is remarkable
for its air of bright cleanliness, was very tastefully arranged with
flowers and tapers, and promised to look very brilliant when lighted
up. There also was an image of our Saviour similar to that we had
just seen.

At _Santo Domingo_, a large, handsome edifice, we found a magnificent
sepulchre, in severer taste than the two we had visited. In one of
the aisles, also, there was a group large as life, and painfully
life-like. It represented our blessed Lord on the cross, the blood
streaming from his nose and down his pale, thin cheeks from the
wounds inflicted by the cruel thorns of his crown; a ghastly gash in
his side; his hands tom by the dreadful nails; his wrists bruised and
cut by the cords with which he had been bound; his knees so horribly
scarified by being dragged over the rough ground that the bones of
the joints were visible; his feet mangled, his whole body cut and
scratched and discolored by stones and blows. At the foot of the
cross stood the holy Virgin, tearless, but with so heart-broken an
expression that to look at her was to weep. St. Mary Magdalen, her
face pale, her eyes swollen and red, was kneeling near her. I could
not bear the sight of this agony, and turned away, saying to myself,
"Yes, it must have been like this!"

In each of these three churches a nun was sitting at a small table
with a tray before her, to collect the charitable, voluntary
offerings of visitors. This was the first time I had seen the
slightest approach to money-asking in the Cuban churches. During
the rest of the year there never are collections of any kind made
in them. Nevertheless, the ladies of Havana are very ready to
contribute, and do contribute liberally toward all religious and
charitable purposes; but privately, not publicly. Indeed, both
Spaniards and Cubans are remarkably compassionate and generous to the
begging poor, whom they gently style _Pordioseros_--"For-God-sakers;"
and whom they never send harshly away when unpleasantly importuned
or unable to give, as we Anglo-Saxons so often do; but refuse with
a soft _Perdone, por Dios, hermano_--"Pardon me, for God's sake,
brother;" or, _Perdone, por Dios, hermanita_--"Pardon me, for God's
sake, little sister."

It was now time to return to the cathedral to secure places to see
the _Lavatorio_. We found but few persons there yet, and consequently
had a choice of seats. Some colored men were busy placing an image
of our Saviour, similar to that we had seen in the church of _San
Juan de Dios_, on one of the altars in the southern aisle, and it was
touching to see the veneration and love with which one or other of
them would raise from time to time a ringlet of the shiny black hair
and kiss it.

Just before three o'clock two long benches were set on the epistle
side of the altar, and presently a large number of youths, attired in
dark red robes, entered the chancel--students from the _Seminario de
San Carlos_, the theological college attached to the cathedral.

The beautiful anthem that is chanted during the ceremony of the
washing of feet, _Mandatum novum do vobis_, "A new command I give
unto you," contains the distinctive precept of our pure and holy
religion, "Love one another;" and I could not help thinking, when
the Bishop of Havana girded himself with a linen napkin and knelt
humbly to do his lowly task, that he looked as if it were to him a
real labor of love, so charitable an expression was there in his
eyes, such venerable grace in his manner. He was assisted by several
priests, one of whom carried a large silver basin, another a silver
ewer full of water. The water was poured over one foot only; the
prelate knelt as he wiped it, and then kissing it, rose and passed to
the foot of the next boy, and so on. When all were washed and wiped,
the bishop, looking heated and tired, resumed the white and gold
chasuble he had laid aside, and, crowned with his mitre, took his
seat in front of the high altar, surrounded by his clergy.

The sermon then commenced; the subject was, as always on this day,
the institution of the holy eucharist. The preacher was a rather
young man, of agreeable aspect, earnest in gesture and manner. His
voice was loud and clear, and the magnificent Spanish language
resounded in harmonious and eloquent periods through the vaulted
nave. I remembered, as I listened admiringly, the old Spanish
boast that theirs is the tongue in which the Almighty can be least
unworthily addressed, and it did not seem to me so vain and unmeaning
as I once deemed it.

With the conclusion of the sermon, all the joy and love that had
marked the first part of the services of Holy Thursday disappeared,
and grief and mourning now began again. Vespers and the _Tenebræ_
were chanted, and then the faithful withdrew.

In the evening all the inhabitants of Havana poured into the streets:
the captain-general, attended by his staff; the bishop, followed
by his clergy; the governor and the municipality; the various
corporations; large family parties, and bands of young men and boys;
all went from one illuminated church to another, seven being the
prescribed number, to kneel before the splendid sepulchres, and pray
with more or less devotion. And having accomplished this duty, all
adjourned to the _Plaza de Armas_, a handsome square, on one side of
which is the palace of the captain-general, for the _retreta_; that
is, to promenade while they listened to the military band, which
played some sacred music very finely, and to eat ices, the pious
taking care that theirs were _water-ices_.

The brilliant moon of the tropics lighted up the scene, making all
visible as in the day, but with softer tones; beneath her beams the
beautiful eyes of the ladies seemed of a more velvety black, and
their white teeth glistened whiter between their smiling lips. A
gentle breeze, laden with the sweet odors peculiar to night in Cuba,
sighed in the leafy boughs of the _Laurel de India_, and all seemed
to me peace and good-will among men, until I overheard one Creole
lady say to another, "Your husband was a Spaniard, I believe?"

"I have been the wife of two Spaniards," replied the _Cubana_; "but I
am happy to say that I have buried them both!"

So I returned to my home deeply meditating on the loveliness of
nature and the perversity of mankind.



GOULD'S ORIGIN AND DEVELOPMENT OF RELIGIOUS BELIEF.[11]


In this book the author considers what are the natural religious
wants of man's soul; he shows how these cravings have given birth
to various religious systems; he considers to what extent these
systems are capable of satisfying man's moral nature, including in
this survey every ancient and modern belief except Christianity;
and proves that they have all failed in a greater or less degree.
In a second volume he intends "to show how that Christianity by its
fundamental postulate--the Incarnation--assumes to meet all these
instincts; how it actually does so meet them; and how failure is due
to counteracting political or social causes." (P. 6.)

In other words, we have here a treatise on religion from the _à
priori_, rationalistic or philosophic stand-point. The work is done
as well as we could expect from a non-Catholic author. But like
most other books of the same stamp, written by those outside of the
church, it contains many errors and false statements of facts. As it
has attracted no little attention, and may be considered as a type
of a large class, we will give some quotations from it, to show how
cautiously these books are to be read, and how little confidence can
be placed in their assertions.

In his preface, the author says that, besides the historical
revelation, "We have a revelation in our own nature.... On this
revelation the church of the future must establish its claims to
acceptance." (P. 6.) If Christ was God, as we firmly believe, or even
an inspired teacher sent by God, the first and only thing necessary
is to know _what he taught_. We must examine extrinsic evidence
which bears on the inspiration, authenticity, and genuineness of the
historical documents in which his teaching is contained. Intrinsic
evidence derived from the examination of that teaching, and the
consideration of its complete harmony with man's spiritual nature,
must be assigned a second, not a first place.

In the following passages, which are certainly not a little
ridiculous, we have naturalism and materialism:

    "Mysticism is produced by the combustion of the gray vascular
    matter in the sensorium--the thalami optici and the corpora
    striata." (P. 355.)

    "Prayer is a liberation of force. When the emotions are
    excited, rapid combustion of nervous tissue ensues, and the
    desire that inevitably follows to do something is the signal
    that an amount of power has been generated, and equilibrium is
    disturbed." (P. 387.)

"Pantheism," we are told, p. 292, "is the philosophy of reason--of
reason, it may be, in its impotence," (most assuredly!) "but of such
reason as man is gifted with here."

On page 319, speaking of Kant, he says, "All the arguments advanced
by metaphysicians to prove the existence of God crumbled into
dust beneath his touch." The truth is precisely the opposite.
Kant has "crumbled into dust," and "all the arguments adduced by
metaphysicians to prove the existence of God" remain as unshaken as
before he was born.

We are told, on page 79, that the chief reason why all men have
believed in the immortality of the soul, is because they could not
form even a conception of its annihilation. On the contrary, any one
who has ever slept soundly can conceive its annihilation without any
difficulty, though he might experience a good deal in endeavoring
to picture to himself an existence without end. The doctrine of the
immortality of the soul, however, even in philosophy, does not rest
on any such weak arguments.

That most wonderful fact of history, in which the finger of God
evidently appears, namely, the preservation of the Jewish people and
their belief for the past eighteen hundred years, in the face of
causes which, according to every natural law, ought long ago to have
destroyed both creed and nation, is accounted for (p. 205) simply by
their possession of "the Talmud, which is a minute rule of life,"
etc. _Credat Judæus Apella._

"A man of thought will not steal, because he knows he is violating
a law of sciology." (P. 278.) Were all the men in the world
"sciologists," and "men of thought," we would not be in the least
inclined to trust our property to the slender protection afforded by
a law of "sciology."

Every native of the "Gem of the Ocean" will be delighted to learn
that "The suffering Celt has his Brian Boroimhe, ... who will come
again ... to inaugurate a Fenian millennium," (p. 407;) and students
of history will be surprised to know that

    "Marie Antoinette was informed of the execution of Robespierre
    by a woman in the street below the prison putting stones in her
    apron, and then, with her hand falling on them, scattering them
    on the ground." (P. 187.)

Marie Antoinette was not alive when Robespierre was executed. The
above incident occurred in the life of Josephine Beauharnais.

On pages 133-134, we are told substantially that for the first three
or four centuries after Christ, God governed the Christian world
directly! Then, for a time, through the priests alone! Afterward,
for several centuries, through kings alone! Now the whole Christian
world is ruled solely by "the open Bible!" This is a good example of
how most non-Catholic writers, when speaking of religion, are always
ready to sacrifice historical truth for the sake of a generalization
or a rhetorical flourish.

"Its primitive organization (that is, of the church) was purely
democratic. It recognized the right of the governed to choose their
governor." (P. 201.) We never knew before that the people of Ephesus
elected Timothy to be their ruler, or the people of Crete, Titus. We
thought St. Paul appointed both of them, and that he told Timothy,
"The things which thou hast heard from me before many witnesses, the
same commend to faithful men who shall be fit to teach others also,"
(Epis. to Timothy ii. 2;) and that he wrote to Titus, "... ordain
priests in every city, as I also appointed thee." (Epis. to Titus i.
5.)

    "When Hildebrand gathered up the reins of government in
    his powerful hand to transmit them to his successors, the
    ecclesiastical elective primacy became an absolute supremacy."
    (P. 201.)

In the _Arabian Nights_, if any difficulty occurs to interfere with
the plot of a story, genii or fairies are straightway introduced,
perform very coolly some astounding act, and _presto!_ all goes
smoothly again. So, when Protestant authors, in writing history,
come across any fact that stands in the way of their preconceived
anti-Catholic theories, and logic cannot remove it, they introduce
"priestcraft," "Hildebrand," "the cunning Jesuits," etc.; these
prodigies shoulder the difficulty, walk off with it, and then "it is
all perfectly clear." "Priestcraft," for instance, invented the whole
sacramental system and foisted it on the church, _no one knows when,
where, or how_. "Hildebrand" created the papal power. It did not
exist before his time. "The cunning Jesuits"--ah! it would require
more than a _Thousand and One Arabian Nights_ to recount all the
wondrous achievements of these mythological characters. Their latest
act has been the convocation of the present œcumenical council,
which they rule with an iron hand. In fact, the editor of this
magazine, who is a member of the council, has written to us privately
that now their power and tyranny have become so great that when the
council is in full session you have to ask a special permission of
"the cunning Jesuits" _if you desire to sneeze or even wink_! (Isn't
it awful, reader? But this, you know, is strictly _entre nous_. You
mustn't mention it to any body on any consideration, unless, of
course--as is not at all impossible--you should hereafter learn the
same thing from the Atlantic Cable!)

The saints of the Catholic Church in modern times, we read, (p. 362,)
"are ecstatics, crazy nuns, and sentimental boys." Such, therefore,
were Sts. Alphonsus Liguori, Ignatius, Francis Xavier, Vincent de
Paul, Charles Borromeo, Francis of Sales, Theresa, Jane de Chantal,
and the two Catherines! Well, we live to learn!

Mr. Gould, in order, it would appear, to give an air of
originality--or, more correctly, aboriginality--to his book,
chooses to employ the term _idol_ as signifying any representation
of the Deity, (whether it receive divine worship or not,) even the
intellectual conception or purely philosophic idea! "Idolatry,
then, is the outward expression of the belief in a personal God."
(P. 176.) According to this new nomenclature, we must style all
Christians _idolaters_!

"A fetish is a concentration of spirit or deity upon one point."
(P. 177.) So with sticks, stones, and snakes, he ranks the Sacred
Host--the _Catholic fetish_!

"The attribution to the Deity of wisdom and goodness is every whit as
much anthropomorphosis as the attribution of limbs and passions." (P.
175.) So all worshippers of the Deity (for the impersonal "God" of
pantheism is simply no God at all) are _anthropomorphists_ as well as
"idolaters"!

The last remark we have quoted from the author is not true. The
soul _alone_ is not the man; neither is the body alone; but _soul
and body_ together. Whoever, therefore, attributes to God only
the spiritual attributes of man, cannot be properly termed an
anthropomorphist. In any case, however, we most decidedly object to
any one's applying to sacred things terms rendered opprobrious by
long and correct usage. The effect of such an act is to confuse the
reader, and its tendency is to bring what is holy into contempt.
Perhaps this was the author's intention.

As might easily be supposed from the foregoing examples, the writer
of this book is one of the nineteenth century _illuminati_, and in
favor of "unrestrained freedom of thought," etc., (the chief enemies
of which are historical facts, sound logic, and common-sense.) We
will now listen for a moment while, in good orthodox Protestant
fashion, he is "shouting the battle-cry of freedom."

    "Sacerdotal despotism succeeded in the middle ages in
    concentrating all power over consciences and intelligences in
    the hands of an order whose centre was in Rome." (P. 138.)

    "The Reformation was a revolt against that oppressive despotism
    of the Roman theocracy which crushed the human intellect and
    paralyzed freedom of action." (P. 139.)

    "Under an infallible guide, regulating every moral and
    theological item of his (man's) spiritual being, his mental
    faculties are given him that they may be atrophied, like the
    eyes of the oyster, which, being useless in the sludge of its
    bed, are reabsorbed." (P. 140.)

    "Theocratic legislation hampers every man's action from the
    cradle to the grave.... The Israelites are a case in point.
    They were tied down ... lest they should desert monotheism for
    idolatry." (P. 204.)

    "In a theocracy there is neither individuality, personality,
    nor originality.... It has restrained independence, shackled
    commerce, conventionalized art, mummified science, cramped
    literature, and stifled thought," etc. (Pp. 207, 208.)

What a pity that we poor "Romanists" are so "benighted," etc., etc.,
that we don't in the least appreciate these modern Solons, who seem
to think that every one should be "progressive;" that is, spend his
life in dragging himself out of one humbug only to fall into another;
or, as the wise critic of _The Nation_ put it a short time ago, in
speaking of a story in THE CATHOLIC WORLD, a young man ought to be
_like a ship_, and devote his existence to _sailing about_--on the
boundless ocean, we suppose, of infidel nonsense![12]

Finally, we read, (pp. 138, 139.)

    "'Strange destiny, that of theology, to be condemned to be for
    ever attaching itself to those systems which are crumbling
    away,' writes M. Maury; 'to be essentially hostile to all
    science that is novel, and to all progress!'"

We shall only remark that, were religion to spend her time in pinning
her faith to all the "novel," "scientific," "progressive" systems
that spring up every day and straightway begin to crumble, even
while these learned "sciologists" are tossing high their caps in air
and shouting out in impressive chorus, "Where now is theology?"--it
would, we think, be even stranger still.

We have devoted this much space to showing up some of the falsehoods
in this book because it is not all false nor all stupid; it is a
philosophic and, to some extent, a learned work; it is written in
a brilliant and attractive style. This class of works dazzle; but
when written by non-Catholics, they are not to be trusted. _The only
deep, and, at the same time, sound scholarship in the world is in
the Catholic Church._ Those who protest against her protest against
the truth; even the most learned among them, on many most essential
matters, are surprisingly ignorant; but what they want in knowledge
they make up generally in flash rhetoric and humbug novelty, and that
suits this enlightened age just as well.

Too many persons, however, when they see much that is true in a book,
are inclined to believe it all true; and so with a considerable
amount of food they will swallow a great deal of poison. This is a
mistake. No author is ever wholly wrong. The falsest say many things
that are true.

To show how error and truth may be found side by side in the same
work, we will give some quotations from our author in which his ideas
are sufficiently, or even strikingly, correct.

He thus speaks of asceticism:

    "From whatever motive an ascetic life is undertaken, the result
    is accumulation of force. The ascetic cuts himself off, as much
    as possible, from all means of liberating force. His voluntary
    celibacy and abstinence from active work place at his disposal
    all that force which would be discharged by a man in the world
    in muscular action and in domestic affection.... Withdrawal
    from society intensifies his individuality, and, unless the
    ideas formed in his brain be such as can excite his emotion,
    he becomes completely self-centred. But if the object of his
    contemplation be one which is calculated to draw out his
    affections, the result is a coördinate accumulation of mental
    and affectional power." (P. 348.)

"Luther, a man of coarse and vigorous animalism, was no ascetic." (P.
350.)

The doctrine of Zwinglius, he tells us, was simply pantheism, and
that of Calvin he considers undeserving the name of Christianity.

    "Alongside of Mohammedanism must be placed a parallel
    development in Europe, which, though nominally Christian, is
    intrinsically deistic. Consciously it was not so, but logically
    it was; and in its evolution it proved a striking counterpart
    to Islamism.

    "Zwinglius had taught that God was infinite essence, absolute
    being, (τὸ Esse.) The being of creatures, he said, was not
    opposed to the being of God, but was in and by him. Not man
    only, but all creation, was of divine race. Nature was the
    force of God in action, and every thing is one. Sin he held to
    be the necessary consequence of the development of man, and to
    be, not a disturbance of moral order, but the necessary process
    in the development of man, who has no free-will.

    "Calvin's idea of God was quite as absolute as that formed
    by Zwinglius, but it was not so pantheistic, though he did
    not shrink from calling nature God. The Deity was to him the
    great autocrat, whose absolute will allotted to man his place
    in time and in eternity. Beyond the pale of the church, he
    taught, there was no remission to be hoped for, nor any chance
    of salvation; for the church was the number of the predestined,
    and God could not alter his decision without abrogating his
    divinity." (P. 266.)

    "He swept away the sacramental system; if he held to
    Christianity, it was in name, not in theory, for his doctrine
    excluded it as a necessary article. He deprived the atonement
    of its efficacy and significance, and he left the Incarnation
    unaccounted for, save by the absolute decree of the divine and
    arbitrary will which he worshipped as God." (P. 267.)

He thus speaks of the Reformation and of its cardinal principle:

    "But what was the result of the Reformation? The establishment
    of a royal along side of a biblical theocracy. The crown became
    the supreme head to order what religion is to consist of, how
    worship is to be conducted, and what articles of faith are to
    be believed." (P. 139.)

    "The Scriptures were then assumed to be the ultimate authority
    on doctrine and ethics; they were supposed to contain 'all
    things necessary to salvation, so that whatsoever is not read
    therein, nor may be proved thereby, is not to be required of
    any man, that it be believed as an article of the faith, or be
    thought requisite or necessary to salvation.'

    "This mode of arresting modification is not, however, final,
    and cannot in the nature of things be final; for, firstly, the
    significance of the terms in which the revelation is couched
    must be subject to the most conflicting interpretations; and
    secondly, the authority of the revelation will be constantly
    exposed to be questioned, and the genuineness of the documents
    to be disputed." (P. 134.)

Buddhism he calls the _Protestantism_ of the East.

    "Its cold philosophy and thin abstractions, however they might
    exercise the faculties of anchorites, have proved insufficient
    of themselves to arrest man in his career of passion and
    pursuit; and the bold experiment of influencing the heart and
    regulating the conduct of mankind by the external decencies
    and the mutual dependencies of morality, unsustained by higher
    hopes, has proved in this instance an unredeemed and hopeless
    failure." (P. 353.)

    "In confiding all to the mere strength of the human intellect,
    and the enthusiastic self-reliance and determination of the
    human heart, it makes no provision for defence against those
    powerful temptations before which ordinary resolution must give
    way." (P. 354.)

    "The mass of the population are profoundly ignorant of, and
    utterly indifferent to, the tenets of their creed.... 'The
    same results appear in the phases of Buddhism beyond India,'
    says M. Maupied; 'in the north of Asia and in China it has
    arrived at a sort of speculative atheism, which has not only
    arrested proselytism, but which is self-destructive, and which
    in the end will completely ruin it.' It is not a religion but a
    philosophy. (P. 355.)

    "This close resemblance seems to have been felt on first
    contact of Calvinism and Buddhism; for we find in 1684 the
    Dutch government _importing at its own expense Buddhist
    missionaries_ from Arracan to Ceylon to oppose the progress of
    Catholicism." (P. 353.)

He is not in line with those, so numerous in this age and country,
who hold to the Chinese notion that intellectual and material
progress is every thing.

    "On the whole, it will be found that the amount of happiness in
    a race not highly civilized is far more general, and its sum
    total far higher, than that of an over-civilized race. The rude
    and simple Swiss peasantry are thoroughly happy, while in a
    large city like London, the upper stratum of society is engaged
    in nervous quest of pleasure which ever eludes them, while
    the lower is plunged in misery. Besides, what is really meant
    by the progress of the species? The only tangible superiority
    of a generation over that which has preceded it, appears to
    consist in its having within its reach a larger accumulation
    of scientific or literary materials for thought, or a greater
    mastery over the forces of inanimate nature; advantages
    not without their drawbacks, and at any rate of a somewhat
    superficial kind. Genius is not progressive from age to age;
    nor yet the practice, however it may be with the science, of
    moral excellence. And, as this progress of the species is only
    supposed, after all, to be an improvement of its condition
    during men's first lifetime, the belief--call it, if you will,
    but a dream--of a prolonged existence after death _reduces the
    whole progress to insignificance_. _There is more_, even as
    regards quantity of sensation, _in the spiritual well-being of
    one single soul_, with an existence thus continuous, _than in
    the increased physical or intellectual prosperity_, during one
    lifetime, _of the entire human race_." (P. 59-60.)

Nor does he appear to believe in the Protestant method of converting
people, and causing them to "experience religion." We read on page
358 that, while Wesley was preaching at Bristol,

    "'one, and another, and another,' we are told, 'sank to the
    earth. They dropped on every side as thunderstruck.' Men and
    women by 'scores were sometimes strewed on the ground at
    once, insensible as dead men.' During a Methodist revival in
    Cornwall, four thousand people, it is computed, fell into
    convulsions. 'They remained during this condition so abstracted
    from every earthly thought, that they staid two, and sometimes
    three days and nights together in the chapels, agitated all
    the time by spasmodic movements, and taking neither repose
    nor refreshment. The symptoms followed each other usually
    as follows: A sense of faintness and oppression, shrieks as
    if in the agony of death or the pains of labor, convulsions
    of the muscles of the eyelids--the eyes being fixed and
    staring--and of the muscles of the neck, trunk, and arms;
    sobbing respiration, tremors, and general agitation, and all
    sorts of strange gestures. When exhaustion came on, patients
    usually fainted, and remained stiff and motionless until their
    recovery.'" (P. 358.)

Finally, in speaking of the "diverse forms of ceremonial expression,"
he says,

    "Jacob leans on his staff to pray, Moses falls flat on his
    face, the Catholic bows his knee, and _the Protestant settles
    himself into a seat_." (P. 114.)

We don't know whether to prefer Protestant taste, or Feejee, or
Hindoo.

    "Thus, out of love to a mother, _the Feejee eats her_, and the
    European erects a mausoleum. The sentiment is the same, but the
    mode of exhibition is different." (P. 115.)

    "The Hindoo represents Brahm, the Great Absolute, absorbed
    in self-contemplation, as a man wrapped in a mantle, _with
    his foot in his mouth_, to symbolize his eternity and _his
    self-satisfaction_." (P. 188.)

We remarked before that the author of this book displays considerable
learning. Here is a specimen which gives some pleasant information
about the old Saxon laws:

    "Three shillings were deemed sufficient compensation for a
    broken rib, while a fine of twenty shillings was inflicted
    for a dislocation of the shoulder. If a man cut off the foot
    or struck out the eye of another, he was compelled to make
    satisfaction with fifty shillings. Each tooth had its fixed
    price: for a front tooth, six shillings were demanded; for a
    canine tooth, four; and for a molar, only one shilling; the
    pain incurred by a loss of a double tooth, however, led King
    Alfred to alter this portion of the law, as unjust, and he
    raised the price of a molar to fifteen shillings." (P. 364.)

He thinks that the idea of compensation, which is here certainly
clearly set forth, gave rise to the religious idea of sacrifice.

We will close with a favorable specimen of his style. He thus
describes Greece:

    "Under a blue sky, in which the clouds lie tranquil like
    lodged avalanches, in the midst of a twinkling sea, strewed
    with fairy groups of islands, is a little mulberry-leaf of
    land attached to a continental bough, a little land ribbed
    with mountain-chains of rough-hewn marble, veined with purple
    gorges, pierced with winding gulfs; a land of vineyards and
    olive-groves, where roses bloom all the year, and where the
    pomegranate holds its glowing cheek to a sun that is never
    shorn of its rays." (P. 148.)

We have given these quotations at length, partly because they are
a little remarkable as coming from such a source, but chiefly to
show that a book may be excellent in some respects, and nevertheless
contain very many most false things. Our end will have been attained
if we have shown that whatever comes from non-Catholic pens, _even
the best, is not to be trusted_, whenever, directly or indirectly,
matters pertaining to philosophy, theology, or ecclesiastical history
are treated of. These books at best are half-blind guides; and such
are never desirable, and generally dangerous.

FOOTNOTES:

[11] _The Origin and Development of Religious Belief._ By S.
Baring-Gould, M.A., author of _Curious Myths of the Middle Ages_,
_The Silver Store_, etc. Part I. Heathenism and Mosaism. New York: D.
Appleton & Co., 90, 92, and 94 Grand street. 1870.

[12] "And some indeed he gave to be apostles, and some prophets and
others evangelists, and others pastors and teachers."

"_That we may not now be_ CHILDREN, _tossed to and fro, and carried
about with every wind of doctrine_, in the wickedness of men, in
craftiness by which they lie in wait to deceive." (St. Paul to the
Ephesians, iv. 11, 14.)



PLANGE FILIA SION.


    Lone in the dreary wilderness,
      Meek, by the Spirit led,
    For forty days and forty nights,
      Our Saviour hungerèd.

    O night winds! did ye fold your wings
      Ere, on that brow so pure,
    Ye roughly smote the uncovered head
      That all things did endure?

    O rude winds! did ye on those eves
      Only the flowers fill;
    Or, with the drops of night, his locks
      And sacred body chill?

    He, the most lovely, most divine,
      So lost in love for us!
    Our evil-starred, sin-stricken race,
      By him redeemèd thus!

    We hear the audacious tempter's words--
      Amazed, we hold our breath;
    We follow him, the Holy One,
      Sorrowful unto death!

    Thus, may we to the wilderness
      Close follow thee, dear Lord,
    These forty days and forty nights,
      Obedient to thy word:

    Renounce the world, and Satan's wiles,
      In blest retreat of prayer,
    Self-abnegation, vigilance,
      And find our Saviour there.

    For vain the sackcloth, ashes, fast,
      In vain retreat in prayer,
    Unless the sackcloth gird the heart,
      True penitence be there;

    Sorrow for sins that helped to point
      The spear, the thorn, the nail.
    O Lord! have mercy upon us,
      While we those sins bewail.

    And in the lonely wilderness,
      From world and sin withdrawn,
    Our hearts shall cloistered be in thine
      Till glows glad Easter's dawn!

                                          SOPHIA MAY ECKLEY.



UNTYING GORDIAN KNOTS.


X.

LADY SACKVIL'S JOURNAL.

"I have been playing the part of a peri at the gates of paradise.
I have been watching Mary Vane with her child. My life looks to me
unbearable. I am a blunder on the part of nature. I have the passions
of a man and the follies of a woman. This is the last entry I shall
make in this book. Once for all I will put my agony into words, and
then throw this wretched record of three months into the canal, to
rot with the other impurities thrown daily into the sluggish flood.

When first I allowed myself to exercise my power over Vane, it was
from mere coquetry and love of excitement. I wished to reassert my
sway and punish his former cruelty. Later I dreamed of a Platonic
love, _à la_ Récamier and Chateaubriand. True, one pities Mesdames
de Chateaubriand, viewing them as a class; but they must suffer for
their bad management. I did not recognize, I do not recognize the
claims of so-called duty; I lack motive. Virtue as virtue does not
attract me; neither does sin as sin attract me. I want to have my own
way. Gratified self-will has afforded me the only permanent enjoyment
of my life; but it has this disadvantage. While you rule your will
and indulge it for fancy's sake, the pleasure is unquestionable.
When your will begins to rule you, there is no slavery so galling. I
had not thought of this; I know it now.

Once for all, I put my torture into words. _I love him._ Ten years
ago I buried my heart--in sand or sawdust, or something else,
where grass and flowers cannot grow. It has risen now in an awful
resurrection, and taken possession of me. He might have been all
mine. I wish to hate his wife, and am forced to honor her profoundly.
I _cannot_ leave this place. My will refuses to let me go. Oh! if
I stay here and do not say one word, where is the harm? And if he
should utter the word I dare not say--"

       *       *       *       *       *

Amelia paused shuddering. "O subtle--O inexorable horror!" she said.
Then, enveloping the book in paper, she carried it out onto the
balcony, and dropped it into the canal, and heard the splash, and
marked with satisfaction its disappearance beneath the dull green
water.

"There--that's gone!" she said, and reëntered the room. Her face,
which reflected every change of mood, grew very white.

"It is _not_ gone!" she cried; and pressing her hands to her breast
exclaimed, "It is here; it is my double--my bosom serpent! O God! how
it gnaws!"

She went to a press, and pulling open drawers and slides, sought
something eagerly. Then, as if forgetting the object of her search,
paused in deep thought, and finally rang the bell violently.

Josephine came promptly, but unsurprised, being used to vehemence on
the part of her mistress.

"You may pack my trunks. I shall leave Venice to-morrow."

The maid proceeded to take out dress after dress and fold them. When
one trunk was packed, Lady Sackvil who had been standing on the
balcony in the blazing sun, looking down into the water, glanced over
her shoulder.

"You may pack the other boxes another day," she remarked calmly; "I
shall not go to-morrow. Your dinner-bell is ringing; you can go."

She locked the door behind Josephine, and then returned to her
researches in the press. At last she produced a small vial of
laudanum, and, sitting down before the toilette-table, poured a
little into a glass and paused. "I wish I knew how much to take," she
said ponderingly; "it would be so tiresome to take too little or too
much." Then she fell to considering herself in the mirror--looked
anxiously at the faint commencement of a wrinkle between her
eyebrows; and pushing back her hair, revealed a gray hair or two
hidden beneath the dark locks so full of sunny gleams. "I will do
it," she said, and then took a few drops; then paused again. "I
can't--I won't!" she said violently. "I'm afraid; I'm afraid of
hell--I'm afraid of that horrid, clammy thing they call death! I'm
afraid of making poor, good little Flora miserable! Oh! I'm afraid of
myself, dead or alive," she moaned, rocking herself to and fro, in a
passion of regret and pain.

At last the paroxysm passed. She poured back the laudanum, washed
the glass, replaced every thing accurately, and threw herself on the
couch. There, overcome by the drug, to which her healthy frame was
wholly unaccustomed, she fell into a heavy sleep.

The plea of weariness afforded an excuse for going early to bed. When
she awoke the second time, the Campanile clock was striking two. A
rain was falling, pattering on the canal, dripping and trickling from
the eaves and from the pointed traceries above the windows. She
got up, put on a white wrapper, and went out onto the balcony. The
rain felt cool on her burning head. It drenched her to the skin, and
dripped from her hair. Yet still she stood there, crying bitter tears
that brought no relief, shaken with sobs that she with difficulty
prevented from becoming cries. She wrung her hands with grief, and
passion, and pain. Night added nothing to the darkness in her soul;
dawn brought neither light nor hope of change; and when at last she
went in from the cold, gray morning light, to change her wet clothes
and creep into bed, it was to a second dose of laudanum that she owed
the temporary bliss of oblivion.


XI.

"If you're looking for Mr. Nicholas, Miss Vane, he's gone down to the
first floor," said Deborah, the morning after Lady Sackvil's visit.

Mary went to Mr. Holston's writing-room; no one was there; passed
on through drawing-rooms, dining-room, and ante-chambers, without
meeting a soul, and at last found herself standing outside Lady
Sackvil's music-room. Knocking and receiving no answer, she opened
the door, which moved noiselessly on its hinges, and lifted the heavy
crimson curtain. Her husband was standing with his back to the door,
leaning against the mantel-piece. Lady Sackvil stood before him, her
face buried in her hands. He spoke, but in a voice so hoarse and
dissonant that Mary fancied for an instant there was a third person
with them.

"Be satisfied with your success, Amelia," he said. "You have lighted
the fire of hell in my heart. You have turned my affections away from
my wife, who is too pure for things like you and me to love. It may
add to your satisfaction to know that there is one person on earth I
despise more than Lady Sackvil, and that person is myself."

He turned, and saw his wife standing in the doorway.

"How much have you heard?" he asked calmly, without showing either
surprise or annoyance.

"Enough to make me say, 'God help us both,'" she replied.

"Amen," he said, and left the room. Mary was about to follow him,
when a look of entreaty from Lady Sackvil checked her. In another
instant Amelia was crouching on the ground, her face buried in
the folds of Mary's gown. There was dead silence in the room. The
ticking of the Louis Quatorze clock on the mantel and the flap of
a window-curtain were the only sounds to be heard. Charity pleaded
for the wretched woman kneeling at her feet. Nature cried, "Follow
him; tear from him some consolation; make him wake you from this
nightmare, and say he loves you!" Charity conquered. Mary bent over
Lady Sackvil to raise her from the ground; but at the first touch,
Amelia lifted her head, exclaiming, "I will never rise; I will die
here unless you say you forgive me!"

"How can you ask pardon," replied Mary "for an injury you have only
just completed?"

Amelia crouched still nearer to the ground.

"So help me heaven!" she said in a voice of agony, "I never meant
to speak. He came to-day--oh! you who possess him, can't you see
how it happened; how I forgot every thing--resolutions, dignity,
decency--and spoke?"

"Why do you say I possess him?" asked Mary bitterly. "You heard him
say that you had turned away his heart from me."

"I have not turned it toward myself. He repulsed me like a dog. Oh!
if there were a hole underground where I could hide, I would crawl
into it." And she flung herself on her face with a despairing groan.

Mary knelt down beside her. "We are both in the presence of God," she
said; "and I forgive you now even as I hope to be forgiven."

Amelia rose with difficulty, made an effort to reach the bedroom
door, tottered, and would have fallen but for Mary's assistance, who
unlocked the door and helped her to a sofa. Then, looking round the
room for some restorative, her eye rested on a little vial standing
in a crimson wine-glass. She took it up and saw that it was labelled
"laudanum."

"Have you taken any of this?" she asked, carrying it to the sofa.

"Only yesterday--never before," Lady Sackvil answered feebly. "It
would make me sleep now and do me good. You might give me a few
drops; or rather, no, leave it with me," she said, holding out her
trembling hand. "I can take it, if necessary, myself."

"Wait a moment," said Mary, and going to the window, she threw the
bottle over the railing. Then sitting down beside Amelia, she took
the feverish hand in both her own. "Promise me, swear to me, that you
will not take that or any other narcotic or stimulant."

"You have prevented me from doing you the only kindness in my
power," said Amelia, sitting up and pushing the hair back from her
crimson temples. "You have forgiven me; you have treated me like the
Christian you profess to be. I meant to repay you by taking myself
out of this loathsome world."

"Repay me by living and repenting," answered Mary earnestly. "Promise
me not to make an eternity of this passing anguish. There is work
for you to do; there is heaven for you to win. Promise me to live,
and to live for God."

Lady Sackvil looked at her silently for several minutes. Then she
said, "I acknowledge one thing--I acknowledge that you are good, in
spite of circumstances." She lay down and turned her face to the
wall. "I will live," she said wearily, "if you will help me to live;
otherwise I shall die."

"I will help you," Mary said. "Now I must go. Shall I ring for your
maid?"

"No. If Flora can come, I will have her; otherwise, I would rather be
alone. I feel wretched and heavy, and shall fall asleep presently."

Mary found Mrs. Holston in her sitting-room. "Lady Sackvil is ill,
and wants you," she said breathlessly; for, now that her duty was
done, every minute seemed an age until she could see Nicholas. "Don't
stop me, please; I _must_ go." As she put her hand on the hall door,
Mr. Holston opened it from outside. She brushed by him without a
word; but he saw her blanched face, and followed her with his eyes as
she ran up-stairs. "The blow has fallen," he said to himself, as he
hung his hat in the hall. "Poor, poor child!"

She went to the study door and turned the handle. It was locked. She
paused a moment, thinking her husband would admit her; then walked
on through the gallery to her own room, shut the door, and sat down
in her little sewing-chair. She was stunned; mercifully stunned. It
all seemed a dream, from which there would soon be an awakening. Of
course, it could not be true that her husband had shut her out from
his confidence. She felt too dull to understand all this. "God knows
what it means," she said half-aloud; "I don't." How far from her
eyes seemed the tears, crowded back, as it were, to make the weight
on her heart more unbearable. "Some women faint or cry out when they
are hurt," she thought idly; "I wonder why I don't? I feel so dumb,
so gray, so smothered."

A knock came at the nursery door. Dragging one foot after the other,
she went and opened it. Deborah started at sight of her face, but
made no comment. "It is time to take baby," she said cheerfully. "The
cap'n's asking for you. He can't think what's become of you." Mary
darted past her and ran out into the gallery.


XII.

Nicholas was sitting at the study table, looking over papers. He rose
and drew forward a chair for her, and then sat down again.

"The best thing that could happen, under the circumstances," he said,
"has come to pass. I am appointed to join the French army in the
Crimea, for purposes of study. Here is the appointment. These are
letters from General Scott and from the Secretary of War. Just glance
at them, if you please."

She read them, almost without comprehending their meaning. "When do
you go?"

"To-morrow morning. It is the best thing to do, under the
circumstances."

"Yes, the best under the circumstances," she repeated after him. He
looked at her anxiously, but said nothing.

"What are you to take with you?" she asked, rising from her chair. "I
must go and look over your clothes."

"All the military traps I have here, of course; not much besides, for
I would rather buy what I want. Don't trouble yourself, my--" He
paused. "I will see to every thing."

"No, I want to do it myself," she said.

"I must go and speak to Holston about your money matters while I am
gone. He will do every thing a brother could do."

"Every thing," she said. He looked at her again uneasily, and seemed
about to speak; then left the room. "I've killed her," he thought;
"but words are mere insults now."

He was gone, and without one word of explanation. It was, then, no
nightmare, to be dispelled by a change of posture. There was no
awakening for her. It was all true!


XIII.

Mary was alone with the baby. Georgina's tiny hand was clasped
around her mother's finger; rosy cheek and dewy lip invited many a
loving maternal caress. At least here was love, without anxiety or
heart-ache. "My love for this child, to whom I have given life, is
faint in comparison to God's love for his creatures," she thought.
"My soul shall rest on him, as Georgie rests in my arms. He knows the
way out of this blackness. I will follow him trustfully."

The day was hard to bear; wife's work without wife's consolation.
Sewing, sorting, packing, filled the hours too closely to leave much
time for active grief. They were services that could easily have been
performed by a servant; but Mary, amid the perplexity which clouded
her life, kept one purpose clearly before her--to fulfil her duties
thoroughly toward her husband, and even toward the unhappy woman who
had poisoned her happiness, and thus prevent further entanglement.

The dinner hour, whose claims prevail over every other external
circumstance in life, was lived through, thanks to the presence of
Italian servants, who do not expect friends to look happy on the eve
of separation, and are ready to melt into tears of sympathy at a
moment's warning. Vane passed the evening in his study, transacting
business with Mr. Holston and a lawyer; Mary in his dressing-room,
attending to "last things."

At intervals through the weary night she heard him moving about in
the library. About five o'clock, the peculiar click of the hall door
told her that he had gone out. Then came two hours of sleep, and
memory's dreadful reckoning when she awoke.

Breakfast was served at nine o'clock. After going through the dismal
form which represents eating on such occasions, Nicholas went to the
window to watch for the gondola. "Will you come here, Mary?" he said.

She went to him, and measured despairingly, as he talked to her, the
gulf which separated them spiritually while they stood side by side.

After giving various directions as to material arrangements during
his absence, he said, "I went to confession this morning, and to your
Padre Giulio." She looked up eagerly into his sad face, stern with
the rigidity of repressed emotion. "After confession, I saw him in
his own room, and told him all the circumstances of the last three
months, out of the confessional, in order that you may feel free to
seek from him the advice and consolation I have shown myself unfit to
give you."

"I don't want to speak of these things to any one," Mary answered.

"I have no right to urge you," he said; "but you will oblige me
very much by speaking to him once, at least, upon the subject. I
cannot tell you the weight it added to my self-reproach to find him
ignorant of the wrongs you have suffered, knowing as I do the entire
confidence you repose in him personally. You have been very loyal to
me, Mary; I shall never forget it."

"Of course, I told him nothing concerning any one but myself."

"I have another favor to ask, which I should not ask if you were like
other women."

"What is it?"

He took a note from his desk, and gave it to her unfolded. "After
reading that, I beg you to give it to Lady Sackvil."

She flushed, and a slight trembling passed over her. Then she folded
the note and put it into her pocket. "I will give it to her without
reading it. I trust you."

Nicholas looked at her with an expression of reverence in his face.
"I will earn the right to tell you how deeply I honor you," he said.
"Any thing I could say now would appear like a new phase of moral
weakness; but I will earn the right to speak."

As Mary met his eyes, fixed upon her with a look of reverential
tenderness, her heart cried out for him. She longed to throw herself
upon his breast; to urge him to put off this dreadful parting,
and treat the wretched delusion he had yielded to as a dream. But
something unanswerable within her soul warned her to let him leave
her, that his resolutions might grow strong in solitude; that he
might learn by aching experience the worth of the love and sympathy
he had slighted. Therefore, she only said, "All will be well; I know
it, I feel it." And he answered, "I accept your words as a prophecy,
and thank God for them. One favor still I must ask. Mary, you will
write to me?"

"Constantly."

"God bless you. Holston will find out when the mails go. It will be
the one happiness of my life to look forward to your letters, which
must give me every detail about yourself and about our child. Mary,
it will be my one earthly hope to look forward to the time which
shall end my exile."

The gondola was at the door, and George Holston had already taken
his place in it. Vane clasped his wife's hands in his, kissed them
passionately, and rushed from the room.


XIV.

"I never knew her to faint before," Deborah's voice was saying, as
Mary emerged from an abyss of peaceful oblivion, to find herself
deluged with _eau de Cologne_, and lying on the bed in her own room.

"Poor little soul!" answered Mrs. Holston's gentle voice. "It was a
terrible shock, his going so suddenly. But, hush now, she is coming
to herself."

No, not to herself; to a consciousness of nameless agony; to a sense
of restlessness, without physical strength for action; to a crushing
weight of misery which she must ask no living soul to share.

After some minutes, which seemed like hours of struggling to recover
breath, and voice, and senses, she succeeded in thanking her kind
nurses, and asking them to leave her alone for a little while.

An hour's solitude had restored her to complete consciousness, when
a servant knocked on the door and asked whether she had any further
occasion for the gondola, which had returned from carrying Captain
Vane to the steamer. Her husband's request that she would see Padre
Giulio occurred to her. Life must be taken up somewhere; why not in
the performance of that duty, which would become harder with every
day it should be deferred?

If she called upon Deborah for assistance, she would be prevented
from leaving the house; so her preparations must be made alone.
Giving orders for the gondola to wait, she put on hat and shawl with
trembling hands, and walked down the long flights of marble stairs,
holding on to the balustrade for support. It was useless to attempt
her mission in that condition; perhaps an hour's row that soft, gray,
overshadowed morning might restore her nerves to equilibrium. "Put
up the awning and row on the lagoon for an hour," she said to the
gondoliers. "Then take me to the Piazza San Marco without my giving
you any further directions."

Through the open windows of the ducal palace she could see tourists
wandering about, _Murray_ in hand. Soldiers were lolling under
the arcades; sight-seers were hurrying through to and fro, taking
advantage of the cool day to get through a double amount of work. A
sacristan was cleaning down the steps of Santa Maria della Salute,
flinging away the broom, and sitting down to rest after the labor of
sweeping each step.

Then came a long period of quiet, broken only by the steady dip of
oars, and an occasional remark in gondolier slang made by the two
boatmen. Pearly sky and pearly sea, a soft breeze and monotonous
motion exercised a soothing influence over poor Mary, who never
resisted comfort, no matter in how homely a form it might come. On
the steps behind the Armenian convent sat a monk, looking over the
lagoon. He was a commonplace old man enough in appearance, some
insignificant lay brother resting from his labors in the garden.
He saw the boat approach, and noticed probably the expression of
suffering on Mary's face; for as she passed, a look of kindness,
that was in itself a benediction, came into his wrinkled, brown face,
and sank into her poor wounded heart, never to be forgotten. From
that day she remembered the old Armenian in her prayers as one who
had helped her in the sorest trial of her life.


XV.

In the afternoon came Mrs. Holston, for once in her life in a hurry.
"I am ashamed to disturb you," she said to Mary. "I am ashamed to say
why I have come. Amelia is behaving in the most extraordinary manner.
She refuses to get up, and refuses to see the doctor. She says no one
can do her any good except you. I told her she was very selfish, and
she said she didn't care; so now I can only ask you, for charity's
sake, to come down and speak to her."

"Certainly," said Mary, by a stupendous effort speaking in a natural
tone; "I will come in a few minutes. I have a little note for your
sister from my husband that she may be glad to get. Did he find time
to come and bid you good by?"

"Yes, indeed, but he looked dreadfully worried and unhappy, of
course. I think it extremely ill-natured of the War Department to
make him leave home so suddenly. That must have been what made you
look so frightfully ill yesterday morning. I was very much alarmed
about you."

"I will follow you directly," said Mary, escaping to her own room for
a moment of preparation before facing the enemy of her peace.

But that her peace was hopelessly shaken, she no longer feared. The
interview with Padre Giulio had been full of consolation; for to this
impartial listener Vane had said many things that the fear of seeming
insincere had prevented him from expressing to his wife. It was
plain that delicacy toward herself and compassion for Lady Sackvil
had made him leave Venice. She now felt that it would show a lack of
faith to doubt that the future would bring happiness to them both;
that their reunion would be one such as death itself confirms instead
of severing.

She found Lady Sackvil looking enchantingly lovely. Her hair, dark
brown, with golden red lights in it, was plaited in two great braids;
her cheeks were flushed; her eyes were closed, showing their long
lashes and large, full lids to advantage. By the quivering of her
lips, Mary knew that she felt who was with her; but it was some
minutes before she opened her eyes.

"It was kind in you to come," she said at last, looking up into
Mary's face. "I am very grateful. Flora says I'm horribly selfish to
send for you, and no doubt I am; but it is better than going crazy, I
suppose."

Mary laid her hand on the throbbing forehead, and felt the quick
pulses. "Do you feel really ill?" she asked; "or is this merely a
state of nervous excitement?"

"I'm not ill. I was never seriously ill in my life. I am only going
distracted. I had an idea you might do something for me."

"The first thing to be done is to quiet your nerves and reduce the
fever. Then we will think of other remedies. I will get Flora's
little medicine-chest, and see what its resources are."

The morning passed quietly in tending Lady Sackvil, varied by
occasional visits to the nursery. It was hard to bear, "but no harder
than any thing else would be now," thought Mary. "If I can save this
poor soul, it will be worth suffering great as this."

By two o'clock, Amelia was physically more tranquil. Her health
had always been excellent, and her temperament, though utterly
undisciplined, by no means inclined to morbid excitability.

"I have a note for you," said Mary; "will you read it?"

"From whom?"

"From my husband."

Lady Sackvil shuddered, and turned away.

"Don't give it to me," she said. "Read it, and tell me what it says."

Mary read it through to herself; then, mastering her voice, read
aloud the following words:

"I was unjust to you yesterday. I treated you with cruelty. For what
has happened, I am more responsible than you, because I have been
under better influences. We shall never meet again. God bless you,
and grant us both genuine repentance!"

Amelia made no comment or reply. A quarter of an hour later, she
said, "You go to confession very often, I suppose?"

"Once a week."

"Who is your confessor?"

"Padre Giulio, at St. Mark's."

"Is he old?"

"Yes."

"Wise?"

"Yes."

"Kind?"

"Very kind."

"I should like to see him. I don't suppose that I intend going to
confession, but I want to talk with such a man. Has he had much to do
with making you what you are?"

"He has given me good advice, and I have tried to follow it, if that
is what you mean."

Lady Sackvil looked at Mary fixedly for some time.

"I made up my mind, a short time ago," she said, "that the thing
most likely to convince me of the direct influence of God would be
to see a Christian whose character would bear scrutiny under the
severest test. I have seen such a Christian in you. Most women would
have spurned me away in disdain; you have treated me like a sister. I
thank you for it, and I should like to believe what you believe."

Mary smiled at the reasoning, but thanked God for the conclusion.
"You would find Padre Giulio very sympathizing," she said; "I think
it would soothe you to see him. Shall I send for him to come here?"

"On no account. I will go to him if you will come with me. Do come
with me; I will bless you all my life," she added pleadingly.

"Of course I will go, but not to-day. If you were to take cold now,
it might be the death of you. To-morrow morning we will go to St.
Mark's, and I will send him word, that we may be sure of finding him
at home."

Lady Sackvil looked disappointed. "I would rather go to-day. I want
to have it over."

"There's no occasion to wish to have it over," said Mary soothingly.
"An experienced confessor is too well used to dealing with mental
suffering to wonder at it, no matter in what shape it comes."

Lady Sackvil lay with her eyes shut a long time. At last she said,
"I've not been much of a Bible reader, but I remember well that it
required only the sight of one miracle to convert sinners in those
days. I suppose sinners are very much the same in the nineteenth
century that they were in the first."

"No doubt," said Mary, and waited to hear more.

"Your conduct toward me is, in my opinion, a greater miracle than the
raising of the dead. Nothing but supernatural strength could have
sustained you."

"If I have done any thing remarkable, it has certainly been God's
doing, not mine."

Lady Sackvil lay still some time longer. Then she said abruptly,
"I am clever, I know, but I am not intellectual; and intellectual
satisfaction is not what I demand in order to become a Christian. If
you were to lay before me all the tomes of all the theologians, they
would not convey to my mind one single definite idea."

"You were educated a Catholic, weren't you?"

"Yes, after a fashion. I was carefully prepared for confirmation in
a convent school, where I spent six months, while my aunt was in
Europe."

"Then you feel more inclined toward Catholicity than to any other
form of religion?"

"Certainly. If I am going to be good, I mean to be decidedly so. The
church demands more than any sect, and I respect her for that reason.
Like St. Christopher, I wish to serve the strongest master. Then,
too, the teaching at the convent made a deeper impression on me than
I supposed; and now that I need support, it all comes back to me.
Last, and not least, I wish to believe as you do. You are the best
Christian I have ever seen."

"Your experience in Christians must have been limited, I think," said
Mary, smiling.

"Perhaps so; but I am quite satisfied to have you for my standard.
Why, are you going? Oh! please don't leave me. I can't bear to be
alone."

"I must go now. I will come to-morrow at eleven o'clock, and if you
feel equal to the effort, we will go to San Marco."

"I shall feel equal to it physically," said Lady Sackvil. "It's very
provoking. I meant to have a brain-fever and die, and I feel better
every minute. I wish you had not come to take care of me."

"This is the beginning of your heroic virtue, I suppose," said Mary;
"these are the first fruits of conversion. Good-by, neophyte! Disturb
yourself about nothing; remember only that God loves us with a love
too deep to be fathomed."

And then she went home, and sat down by the ashes that Lady Sackvil
had left on her domestic hearth.


XVI.

In the morning, she found Lady Sackvil taking breakfast in her own
room, looking pale and worn from the effects of reaction from fever
and excitement. "How do you feel?" she asked.

"Horribly cross. I think all other sensations are merged in
ill-temper."

"A certain sign of convalescence. I am glad to see it."

Amelia laid down her egg-spoon, and sank back in her chair. "I wish,"
she remarked, "that it had pleased Heaven to make some variety in the
shape of hen's eggs. I am so tired of seeing them always oval."

"You don't want any of these things, do you?" asked Mary, surveying
the rather solid repast on the table.

"No--I can't bear the sight of it," said Amelia wearily.

"Rest on the couch until I come back." And Mary arranged the cushions
with a skilful hand, and left the room noiselessly.

Presently she returned, bearing on a pretty little tray a glass
filled with some frothy preparation, and two transparent wafers.
Amelia revived at the sight. "I have dreamed of such things," she
said. "This is the very apotheosis of breakfast!"


XVII.

Mary left Lady Sackvil with Padre Giulio, and went into the church to
pray for the happy result of the interview. She had passed some time
at the Lady chapel, with its brazen gates and oriental lamps, and
before the jewel-incrusted high altar, and was kneeling in the chapel
of the Blessed Sacrament, when she heard the door of the confessional
behind her open. She looked round. Padre Giulio had entered the
confessional; Lady Sackvil was kneeling at the grating.

She was sitting within the railing of the chapel when Amelia joined
her. Mary looked at the beautiful creature; there was a peaceful
smile on her lips, a holy light in her eyes; the pride, the caprice,
the egotism were not there; she looked like a penitent child.

As they passed through one of the sombre side aisles, Amelia paused
before the crucifix hanging on the wall. "I have confessed my sins
and received absolution," she said; "are you willing to kiss me?"

And so the sign of peace was exchanged before the image of the great
reconciler; and they passed out from the shadows of those grand old
arches into the sunshine of the Piazza.



THE IRON MASK.


Through an oversight, the article on the Iron Mask in our March
number, which had been lying on hand several months, was sent to the
printer without its necessary complement, which we now publish.

In January, 1869, it was announced in the _Moniteur Universel_ that
M. Marius Topin, a young author who had already distinguished himself
by a work of remarkable historical research, had succeeded, by dint
of laborious examination and the intelligent study of a mass of
old official documents, in unearthing the secret of that sphinx of
history--the Man with the Iron Mask.

M. Topin did not at once make known the result of what he claimed
to be his entirely triumphant solution of the enigma, and publish
his work in book form. He doubtless reflected that, as the world
had waited in patient expectation more than a hundred and fifty
years for the revelation of the mystery, it might readily summon up
sufficient resignation to wait a few months longer. He accordingly
announced that the successive chapters of his work would appear
from time to time in _Le Correspondant_, a highly respectable Paris
semi-monthly. The first number of his series was published on the
25th of February, 1869, and the last, making seven in all, on the
11th of November. We have received, as they appeared, all the numbers
of the _Correspondant_, and are therefore enabled to present from the
author's own articles the following statement of the result of what
he has written.

M. Topin could not deny himself that universal enjoyment of the
story-teller--to hold his auditors in suspense and on tiptoe of
expectation by proposing a varied succession of solutions of the
mystery in hand, and dismissing them in turn with a--"Well, that's
not it." He takes up, one after the other, the various _prétendants_
to the honor of the Iron Mask's living martyrdom, discusses all the
claims in their favor, presents the objections, demonstrates that
their position is untenable, orders them off the stage, and passes on
to the next; thus successively eliminating them until he reaches his
objective point.

M. Topin's first article is preceded by a sort of device, or motto,
in the shape of a short extract from an order of Louis XIV.: _Il
faudra que personne ne sache ce que cet homme sera devenu_, (no one
must know what has become of this man.) It was noticed that the date
of the order is not given. The article opens with a statement of
the arrival of M. Saint Mars at the Bastille (Paris) at three P.M.,
on the 18th of September, 1698. St. Mars was the newly-appointed
governor of that prison, and came accompanied by a prisoner whose
face was concealed by a mask of black velvet. This prisoner died,
and was buried on the 20th of November, 1703, under the name of
Marchialy. The extraordinary precautions taken after the death of
Marchialy are narrated in our previous number. The dates above given
are important in determining the claims of other candidates, inasmuch
as the facts and dates connected with the arrival, death, and
burial of a masked prisoner at the Bastille are established beyond
controversy by official documents, and must be considered in any case
presented.

Our author then dilates upon the difficulties of the question, the
fact that it has been unsuccessfully treated by fifty-two authors,
and finally abandoned as hopeless by historians like Michelet, with
the conclusion that the problem of the Man with the Iron Mask will
never be solved. Betraying no anxiety whatever to make haste, M.
Topin then discusses the merits of several of the most prominent
theories and the manner in which they have been presented. The
claim that longest held its ground, and enlisted in its advocacy the
greatest number of writers, was that made for a supposed and, as has
been shown, entirely imaginary twin-brother of Louis XIV., the son of
Anne of Austria, wife of Louis XIII. It is easy to understand why,
in France, such a version as this should be the favorite one. It
possessed every possible element of popularity, intrigue, mystery,
illegitimacy, crime, a rightful heir defrauded of his throne, and the
association of illustrious names. All these lent their fascinations;
and from Voltaire to Alexander Dumas, from the _Dictionnaire
Philosophique_ to the _Vicomte de Bragelonne_, all the resources of
writers of their tendency and calibre were called into play to give
it currency.

M. Topin devotes nearly the whole of his first article to the
demonstration of the fact that the prisoner of the Iron Mask was not
and could not have been a son of Anne of Austria. The discussion is
thorough, and the demonstration complete. Outside of the question of
the Mask one good result is thus obtained. The innocence of Anne of
Austria is fully established.

Time brings roses--and justice. Marie Antoinette was first vindicated
from the foul aspersions of the "progeny of Voltaire." Now, Anne
of Austria is acquitted; and going further back in time--the most
distant case being, of course, the most difficult--next comes the
turn of Mary Stuart, and her day, we believe, is not far distant.

The claim made for the Count of Vermandois, a son of Louis XIV.
and Louise de la Vallière, is next taken up. As all the details of
the last illness, death, and burial of the Count of Vermandois are
matters of profuse official record, M. Topin has very little trouble
in disposing of this case. Then we have the Duke of Monmouth, a
natural son of Charles II. of England. Defeated at the battle of
Sedgemoor, where the forces under his command were arrayed in armed
rebellion against James II., and afterward taken prisoner, he was
beheaded in the Tower of London July 15th, 1685. The dispatches of
various foreign ministers in London at the time fully establish the
fact of his death.

To Monmouth succeeds Francis of Vendôme, Duke of Beaufort. As grand
admiral of France, Beaufort commanded the naval expedition sent out
to aid the Venetians in their defence of Candia against the Turks in
1669. As in the cases of the two sons of Louis XIV., and Monmouth,
the surrounding circumstances give M. Topin the fullest opportunity
of indulging in court anecdotes, intrigues, and festivities, mingled
with biographical sketches of distinguished personages, so in the
case of Beaufort, his history warrants our author in going into all
the details of the siege and military and naval operations against
the army of the sultan. Beaufort is believed to have been killed in
an attack upon the enemy's works, and was last seen in the thickest
of a hand-to-hand struggle in the intrenchments. As his body was
never recovered, this fact gave the mystery-mongers an advantageous
margin. But Beaufort was born in 1616, and the Iron Mask was buried
in 1703. Supposing him to be the "Mask," this would make him
eighty-seven years old at his death, which, of itself, puts him out
of the question.

In his third number, M. Topin introduces the so-called Armenian
Patriarch, _Avedick_. Why he did so is best known to himself; for
the case of Avedick has never been presented as one that would give
him any right to rank among the claimants for the distinction of the
Iron Mask. Taules, and the German historian Hammer, are referred
to as authorities for Avedick's claim; but on being examined, they
are found totally insufficient as warrants for such a theory. The
essential pivot of the question of identity of the Iron Mask is
the death and burial of its wearer in 1703. Now, Avedick was still
in Turkey in 1706, and that settles his claim beyond question.
Avedick was seized by order of the Marquis of Ferriol in the Grecian
Archipelago, May, 1706, carried forcibly to France, retained in
confinement in various places until September, 1710, when he was
liberated. He died in Paris in July, 1711. This was most certainly a
case of shameful violation of the law of nations, of power, and of
humanity. A case of abominable personal cruelty it also certainly
was--but it was not a case of "Iron Mask." Two such outrages as
those on the persons of Marchialy and Avedick are quite enough of
themselves; to say nothing of certain diplomatic arrangements with
the Grand Turk which endangered Christianity and the public peace in
Europe--to settle one's opinion as to the genuineness of the glories
of the reign of Louis XIV., a Grand Monarque who was not great.

But to return, M. Topin's chapter on the Avedick case, appearing in
_Le Correspondant_ of the 10th June, 1869, was followed by an article
from the pen of Rev. Father Turquand, S.J., in the September (10th)
number of the same periodical, severely attacking the statements of
Avedick's case by M. Topin, and vindicating his (Turquand's) society
from certain imputations cast upon it in connection with the seizure
of Avedick.

In his fourth number, (Oct. 10th,) M. Topin takes up the claim made
for Fouquet, whose case differs from all the others in the fact
that he was a prisoner of state by sentence of a judicial tribunal.
Fouquet's claims were warmly pressed by a very able literary
advocate, Paul Lacroix, (Bibliophile Jacob,) in a work published
in 1830. But here again the difficulty of dates is insurmountable.
Fouquet died in 1680, and there is no proof of the appearance of the
Man with the Iron Mask until after that period.

We pass on to another. In the year 1677, the Duke of Mantua was
Charles IV. of the illustrious house of Gonzaga. He was young,
careless, dissipated, and extravagant. Spending most of his time
in Venice, he seldom visited his duchy, except for the purpose of
raising money. He gradually fell into the hands of usurious lenders,
and continued to obtain the sums he wanted by anticipating, through
them, the receipt of the taxes and imposts of his duchy by several
years. The Marquisate of Montferrat was among his dependencies. Its
little capital, Casal, a fortified place on the Po, fifteen leagues
east of Turin, was a point of great strategic importance, and
essential to the safety of Piedmont. The court of Turin would not, of
course, consent to its possession by France. But to France it was of
the highest value, as with Pignerol and Casal it would be master of
the situation. This place Louis XIV. wanted to buy, and Charles IV.
was perfectly willing to sell it. Ercolo (Hercules) Antonio Mattioli,
a young nobleman of the court of Mantua, at this time thirty-seven
years of age, was high in favor with the reigning duke. Through
Giuliani, an Italian journalist, D'Estrades, Louis XIV.'s ambassador
at Venice, sounded Mattioli, and finally, through him, succeeded in
opening a negotiation with the duke for the sale of Casal to France.

All three met at Venice in March, 1678, discussed terms, and agreed
upon one hundred thousand crowns as the price of the cession.
Mattioli then went to Paris to sign the treaty in the name of his
master the duke. The treaty was completed in December, 1678, and
after its signature, Mattioli was received by Louis XIV. in secret
audience, presented by the king with a rich diamond ring and four
hundred double _Louis d'or_, with the promise of a far greater amount
of money, the appointment of his son among the royal pages, and a
valuable endowment for his mother. The intrigue and negotiation had
been admirably managed and crowned with perfect success. Of all who
had any interest opposed to the French possession of Casal, not
one had the slightest suspicion, and it would have been difficult
to imagine the existence of the smallest element of failure in the
enterprise.

But the best-laid schemes of men, mice, and monarchs here below oft
come to naught. Two months after Mattioli's visit to Paris, the
courts of Turin, of Madrid, and of Vienna, the Spanish governor of
the Milanese provinces, and the state inquisitors of the Venetian
republic--that is to say, all and every one most interested against
the execution of the treaty--not only knew of its existence, but
were fully advised of every detail concerning it, the names of the
negotiators, the date of the instruments, the price of cession, when
it was to be made, etc. In short, they knew every thing concerning
it. Well they might. Mattioli himself had told them! His motive is
a subject of dispute. One theory is, interested motive; another,
patriotism. Certain it is he had more to gain--as a mere question of
interest--by keeping than by betraying the secret. On this point,
though, we do not undertake to judge him. In February, 1679, the
Duchess of Savoy advised Louis XIV. that she was in possession of
Mattioli's information. The disappointment, the mortification, and
the anger of the French king can easily be imagined. He was placed in
a position not only dangerous; but what was almost worse, ludicrous.
Mattioli had the king's signature to the treaty in his possession,
and it was all-important to recover it. The king in Paris, and his
minister D'Estrades, both conceived the same idea for remedy in the
matter. On the 28th of April, 1679, Louis sent the order to have
Mattioli arrested, and on arrival of the order, Mattioli had already
(May 2d) been carried off a prisoner. D'Estrades had managed to decoy
him across the frontier, at a point where he had a detachment of
dragoons waiting, and in a few hours the Italian was a prisoner at
Pignerol, the commencement of a captivity that was to endure four
and twenty long years. M. Topin then continues the discussion of
Mattioli's case, and closes the article, leaving the reader under the
impression that he decides against the claim of Mattioli.

Indeed he goes further; for he more than intimates that there is very
little probability of ever penetrating the mystery surrounding the
Man with the Iron Mask.

The case made for Mattioli has always been the strongest, even before
the publication of the work of Mr. J. Delort, which was mostly
appropriated by Ellis in his _True History of the State Prisoner_.
Mr. Loiseleur has also discussed the Mattioli claim with great
force; so successfully, indeed, that a very large number of critical
scholars were satisfied with his adverse demonstration.

M. Topin discusses at great length the facts and the reasoning of
Mr. Loiseleur, and, as we have just stated, concludes his sixth
article by a decision against Mattioli. But in his concluding chapter
(_Correspondant_, Nov. 10th) he comes to a right-about face, takes up
some of Mr. Loiseleur's proofs, adds some new dispatches, and decides
that--Mattioli is the French prisoner of state known as the Man with
the Iron Mask.

We fear that after all the solution of M. Topin is no solution, and
that the only result of his labor is to narrow the discussion down to
the claims of Mattioli and another prisoner of unknown name.



THE SCHOOL QUESTION.[13]


The number of _The Christian World_, the organ of the American
and Foreign Christian Union, for February last is entirely taken
up with the school question, and professes to give "a carefully
digested summary of the views and reasonings of all parties to the
controversy." The views and reasonings of the Catholic party are
not misstated, but are very inadequately presented; those of the
other parties are given more fully, and, we presume, as correctly
and as authoritatively as possible. The number does not dispose
of the subject; but furnishes us a fitting occasion to make some
observations which will at least set forth correctly our views of the
school question as Catholics and American citizens.

It is to the credit of the American people that they have, at least
the Calvinistic portion of them, from the earliest colonial times,
taken a deep interest in the education of the young, and made
considerable sacrifices to secure it. The American Congregationalists
and Presbyterians, who were the only original settlers of the eastern
and middle colonies, have from the first taken the lead in education,
and founded, sustained, and conducted most of our institutions of
learning. The Episcopalians, following the Anglican Church, have
never taken much interest in the education of the people, having been
chiefly solicitous about the higher class of schools and seminaries.
The Baptists and Methodists have, until recently, been quite
indifferent to education. They have now some respectable schools;
but the writer of this was accustomed in his youth to hear both
Baptists and Methodists preach against college-bred parsons, and a
_larned_ ministry. In those States which had as colonies proprietary
governments, and in which the Episcopalians, Baptists, and Methodists
have predominated, universal education has been, and still is, more
or less neglected. Even the Presbyterians, while they have insisted
on a learned ministry and the education of the easy classes, have not
insisted so earnestly on the education of the children of all classes
as have the Congregationalists; and, indeed, it is hardly too much to
say that our present system of common schools at the public expense
owes its origin to Congregationalists and the influence they have
exerted. The system, whatever may be thought of it, has undeniably
had a religious, not a secular origin.

The system originated in New England; strictly speaking, in
Massachusetts. As originally established in Massachusetts, it was
simply a system of parochial schools. The parish and the town
were coincident, and the schools of the several school-districts
into which the parish was divided were supported by a tax on the
population and property of the town, levied according to the grand
list or state assessment roll. The parish, at its annual town
meeting, voted the amount of money it would raise for schools during
the ensuing year, which was collected by the town collector, and
expended under the direction of a school committee chosen at the same
meeting. Substantially the same system was adopted and followed in
New Hampshire and Connecticut. In Vermont, the towns were divided
or divisible, under a general law, into school-districts, and each
school-district decided for itself the amount of money it would raise
for its school, and the mode of raising it. It might raise it by tax
levied on the property of the district, or, as it was said, on "the
grand list," or _per capita_ on the scholars attending and according
to the length of their attendance. In this latter method, which was
generally followed, only those who used the schools were taxed to
support them. This latter method was, in its essential features,
adopted in all, or nearly all, the other States that had a common
school system established by law. In Rhode Island and most of the
Southern States, the inhabitants were left to their own discretion,
to have schools or not as they saw proper, and those who wanted them
founded and supported them at their own expense. In none of the
States, however, was there developed at first a system of free public
schools supported either by a school fund or by a general tax on
property levied by the State, though Massachusetts contained such a
system in germ.

Gradually, from the proceeds of public lands, from lots of land
reserved in each township, especially in the new States, for common
schools, and from various other sources, several of the States
accumulated a school fund, the income of which, in some instances,
sufficed, or nearly sufficed, for the support of free public schools
for all the children in the State. This gave a new impulse to the
movement for free schools and universal education, or schools founded
and supported for all the children of the State at the public expense
in whole or in part, either from the income of the school fund or by
a public tax. This is not yet carried out universally, but is that
to which public sentiment in all the States is tending; and now that
slavery is abolished, and the necessity of educating the freedmen is
deeply felt, there can be little doubt that it will soon become the
policy of every State in the Union.

The schools were originally founded by a religious people for a
religious end, not by seculars for a purely secular end. The people
at so early a day had not advanced so far as they have now, and
did not dream of divorcing secular education from religion. The
schools were intended to give both religious and secular education
in their natural union, and there was no thought of the feasibility
of separating what God had joined together. The Bible was read as a
class-book, the catechism was taught as a regular school exercise,
and the pastor of the parish visited the schools and instructed them
in religion as often as he saw proper. Indeed, he was, it might be
said, _ex officio_ the superintendent of the parish schools; and
whether he was chosen as committee-man or not, his voice was all
potent in the management of the school, in the selection of studies,
and in the appointment and dismissal of teachers. The superiority in
a religious and moral point of view to the schools as now developed
may be seen by contrasting the present moral and religious state of
New England with what it was then.

The religion, as we Catholics hold, was defective, and even false;
but the principle on which the schools were founded was sound, and
worked well in the beginning, did no injustice to any one, and
violated no conscience; for Congregationalism was the established
religion, and the people were all Congregationalists. Even where
there was no established religion and different denominations
obtained, conscience was respected; for the character of the
school, as well as the religion taught in it, was determined by the
inhabitants of the school district, and nobody was obliged to send
his children to it, and those only who did send were taxed for its
support.

But in none of the States is there now an established religion, and
in all there are a great variety of denominations, all invested with
equal rights before the state. It is obvious, then, the Massachusetts
system cannot in any of them be adopted or continued, and the
other system of taxing only those who use the schools cannot be
maintained, if the schools are to be supported from the income of
public funds, or by a public tax levied alike on the whole population
of the district, town, municipality, or State. Here commences the
difficulty--and a grave one it is, too--which has as yet received no
practical solution, and which the legislatures of the several States
are now called upon to solve.

Hitherto the attempt has been made to meet the difficulty
by excluding from the public schools what the state calls
sectarianism--that is, whatever is distinctive of any particular
denomination or peculiar to it--and allowing to be introduced
only what is common to all, or, as it is called, "our common
Christianity." This would, perhaps, meet the difficulty, if the
several denominations were only different varieties of Protestantism.
The several Protestant denominations differ from one another only in
details or particulars, which can easily be supplied at home in the
family, or in the Sunday-school. But this solution is impracticable
where the division is not one between Protestant sects only, but
between Catholics and Protestants. The difference between Catholics
and Protestants is not a difference in details or particulars only,
but a difference in principle. Catholicity must be taught as a whole,
in its unity and its integrity, or it is not taught at all. It must
everywhere be all or nothing. It is not a simple theory of truth or
a collection of doctrines; it is an organism, a living body, living
and operating from its own central life, and is necessarily one and
indivisible, and cannot have any thing in common with any other body.
To exclude from the schools all that is distinctive or peculiar in
Catholicity, is simply to exclude Catholicity itself, and to make the
schools either purely Protestant or purely secular, and therefore
hostile to our religion, and such as we cannot in conscience support.

Yet this is the system adopted, and while the law enables
non-Catholics to use the public schools with the approbation of their
consciences, it excludes the children of Catholics, unless their
parents are willing to violate their Catholic conscience, to neglect
their duty as fathers and mothers, and expose their children to the
danger of losing their faith, and with it the chance of salvation.
We are not free to expose our children to so great a danger, and are
bound in conscience to do all in our power to guard them against
it, and to bring them up in the faith of the church, to be good and
exemplary Catholics.

Evidently, then, the rule of allowing only our supposed "common
Christianity" to be taught in schools does not solve the difficulty,
or secure to the Catholic his freedom of conscience.

The exclusion of the Bible would not help the matter. This would
only make the schools purely secular, which were worse than making
them purely Protestant; for, as it regards the state, society,
morality, all the interests of this world, Protestantism we hold to
be far better than no religion--unless you include under its name
free-lovism, free-religion, woman's-rightsism, and the various other
similar _isms_ struggling to get themselves recognized and adopted,
and to which the more respectable Protestants, we presume, are hardly
less opposed than we are. If some Catholics in particular localities
have supposed that the exclusion of the Protestant Bible from the
public schools would remove the objection to them as schools for
Catholic children, they have, in our opinion, fallen into a very
great mistake. The question lies deeper than reading or not reading
the Bible in the schools, in one version or another. Of course, our
church disapproves the Protestant version of the Bible, as a faulty
translation of a mutilated text; but its exclusion from the public
schools would by no means remove our objections to them. We object
to them not merely because they teach more or less of the Protestant
religion, but also on the ground that we cannot freely and fully
teach our religion and train up our children in them to be true and
unwavering Catholics; and we deny the right of the State, the city,
the town, or the school district, to tax us for schools in which we
are not free to do so.

We value education, and even universal education--which overlooks
no class or child, however rich or however poor, however honored or
however despised--as highly as any of our countrymen do or can; but
we value no education that is divorced from religion and religious
culture. Religion is the supreme law, the one thing to be lived for;
and all in life, individual or social, civil or political, should be
subordinated to it, and esteemed only as means to the eternal end
for which man was created and exists. Religious education is the
chief thing, and we wish our children to be accustomed, from the
first dawning of reason, so to regard it, and to regard whatever
they learn or do as having a bearing on their religious character or
their duty to God. Mr. Bulwer--now Lord Lytton--as well as many other
literary men of eminence, have written much on the danger of a purely
intellectual culture, or of the education of the intellect divorced
from that of the heart, or sentiments and affections. We hold that
education, either of the intellect or of the heart, or of both
combined, divorced from faith and religious discipline, is dangerous
alike to the individual and to society. All education should be
religious, and intended to train the child for a religious end; not
for this life only, but for eternal life; for this life is nothing if
severed from that which is to come.

Even for this world, for civilization itself, the religious education
which the church gives is far better than any so-called secular
education without it. The church has not always been able to secure
universal secular education for all her children; but there can be
no question that the illiterate classes of Catholic nations are far
more civilized and better trained than are the corresponding classes
of Protestant nations. There is no comparison in personal dignity,
manliness, self-respect, courtesy of manner, refined feeling, and
delicate sentiment, between an unlettered Italian, French, Spanish,
or Irish peasant, and an unlettered Protestant German, English, or
American. The one is a cultivated, a civilized man; the other is a
boor, a clown, coarse and brutal, who perpetually mistakes impudence
for independence, and proves his self-respect by his indifference
or insults to others. The difference is due to the difference of
religion and religious culture; not, as is sometimes pretended,
to difference of race. The church civilizes the whole nation that
accepts her; only the upper classes in Protestant nations are
civilized.

Of course, we do not and can not expect, in a state where Protestants
have equal rights with Catholics before the state, to carry our
religion into public schools designed equally for all. We have no
right to do it. But Protestants have no more right to carry their
religion into them than we have to carry ours; and carry theirs they
do, when ours is excluded. Their rights are equal to ours, and ours
are equal to theirs; and neither does nor can, in the eyes of the
state, override the other. As the question is a matter of conscience,
and therefore of the rights of God, there can be no compromise, no
splitting of differences, or yielding of the one party to the other.
Here comes up the precise difficulty. The state is bound equally to
recognize and respect the conscience of Protestants and of Catholics,
and has no right to restrain the conscience of either. There must,
then, be a dead-lock, unless some method can be discovered or devised
by which the public schools can be saved without lesion either to the
Protestant or the Catholic.

Three solutions have been suggested: 1. The first is to exclude
the Bible and all religious teaching, or recognition, in any way,
shape, or manner, of religion, from the public schools. This is the
infidel or secular solution, and, so far as Catholics are concerned,
is no solution at all. It is simple mockery. What we demand is, not
that religion be excluded from the schools, but schools in which we
can teach freely and fully our own religion to our own children. It
is precisely these purely secular schools, in which all education
is divorced from religion--from the faith, precepts, services,
and discipline of the church, as well as education combined with
a false religion--that we oppose. Nor will this solution satisfy
the more respectable Protestant denominations, as is evident from
the tenacity with which they insist on reading the Bible in the
schools. They do not believe any more than we do in the utility, or
even practicability, of divorcing what is called secular learning
from religion. All education, they hold, as well as we, that is not
religious, is necessarily anti-religious. This is a case in which
there is and can be no neutrality. We find this conclusively shown
by some remarks in _The Christian World_ before us, credited to
Professor Tayler Lewis, the most learned and able thinker we are
acquainted with among our Protestant contemporaries. The professor's
remarks are so true, so sensible, and so much to our purpose, that,
though not so brief as we could wish, our readers will hardly fail to
thank us for transcribing them:

    "Let us test this specious plea of neutrality. What does it
    imply? If carried strictly out to the exclusion of every
    thing religious, or having a religious tendency, it must
    consistently demand a like exclusion of every thing that in
    the least manifests the opposite tendency, under whatever
    specious disguises it may be veiled. It does not alter the
    case in the least that opinions, regarded as irreligious,
    or as undermining or in any way weakening the grounds of
    belief, take to themselves the specious names of literature,
    or politics, or political economy, or phrenology, or the
    philosophy of history. No such sham pass-words should give
    to Buckle and Combe admittance where Butler and Chalmers are
    shut out. Every thing that makes it less easy for the child
    to believe his catechism, 'taught at home,' as they say, is a
    break of the supposed concordat. The mere objection is to be
    heeded. It is enough that things seem so to serious men, as
    capable of correct reasoning as any on the other side; or that
    it is the opinion, the prejudice, if any choose so to call
    it, of a devout ignorance. The thoughtful religious man might
    be willing to forego his objection if there were or could be
    real impartiality. He might trust a true moral and religious
    training as fully able to counteract any thing of an opposite
    tendency. But to let in the enemy, and then take away the
    weapon of defence--this is a neutrality hard to be understood.

    "Now, there can be no doubt of the fact that there is admitted
    into our schools, our colleges, our educational libraries,
    into the reading-rooms connected with them, much that is
    thus _deemed_ irreligious in its tendency--at least, by the
    holders of our stricter creeds. There is much that is silently
    alienating the minds of their children from the doctrines
    held sacred by their fathers. We might go further: there is
    much that tends to undermine all religious belief, even of
    the freest cast. What young man can have his mind filled
    with the atheistical speculations of Mill and Spencer, or be
    exposed to the uncounteracted theories of Darwin and Huxley,
    and yet retain unimpaired his belief in a providence as taught
    by Christ--a providence that 'numbers the very hairs of our
    heads'--or listen as before to the prayer that ascends from the
    family altar? These writers profess a kind of theism, it is
    said; but wherein, as far as any moral power is concerned, does
    it differ from a belief in quadratic equations, or the dogmas
    of heat and magnetism?

    "The matter, as we have stated it, would be too plain for
    argument were it not for those magical words, _secular_ and
    _sectarian_, that some are so fond of using. 'The state knows
    no religion,' they say; it is wholly 'a private concern'
    between the _individual_ and his Maker. 'The state knows no
    God.' They wonder the zealous bigot cannot see how clear this
    makes every thing. If he would only assent to propositions so
    easy, so self-evident, we should have peace. But set these
    confident logicians to define what they mean by terms so
    fluently employed, or ask them to show us how the state can
    keep clear of all action, direct or indirect, for or against an
    interest so vital as religion, so all-pervading, so intimately
    affecting every other, and how soon they begin to stammer! What
    is secular? The one who attempts to define it would perhaps
    begin with a negative. It is that which has no connection
    with religion; no aspects, no relations, no tendencies, no
    suggestions, beyond this world, or, the narrowest view of it,
    this _age_ or _seculum_. Now, let him apply it to particular
    branches of education. There is the learning of the alphabet,
    spelling, reading. But what shall the child read? It would be
    very difficult to find a mere reading-book--unless its contents
    were an empty gabble, like the nonsense Latin verses of some
    schools--that would not somewhere, and in some way, betray
    moral or immoral, religious or irreligious ideas, according to
    the judgment of some minds. But let us waive this, and go on.
    Arithmetic is secular. Geography is secular; though we have
    seen things under the head of physical geography that some
    classes of religionists might object to as betraying a spirit
    hostile to the idea of the earth's creation in any form. But go
    on. Including the pure mathematics, as being pure mathematics
    and nothing else, we have about got to the end of our
    definition. No thinking man would pretend that the departments
    of life and motion, chemistry, dynamics, physiology, could be
    studied apart from a higher class of ideas. But secularity
    would interfere here in a very strange way. When these roads of
    knowledge thus tend upward toward the eternal light, it would
    shut down the gate and eject the book. Natural philosophy, as
    taught by Newton and Kepler, gets beyond secularity. When,
    on the other hand, after the manner of Humboldt, Lamarck,
    and Darwin, its progress is in the direction of the eternal
    darkness, the study of it becomes entirely _unsectarian_; it
    violates no rights of conscience!

    "In other departments, it is still more difficult to set the
    secular bound. History, the philosophy of history, political
    philosophy, psychology, ethics, however strong the effort
    to dereligionize them, do all, when left to their proper
    expansion, spurn any such bounds. Art, too, when wholly
    secularized; poetry stripped of its religious ideality; how
    long would they resist such a narrowing, suffocating process? A
    lower dogma was never maintained than this of a wholly secular
    education, or one more utterly _impracticable_. The subject
    must inevitably die under the operation, and religion must come
    back again into our schools and colleges, to save them from
    inanity and extinction.

    "There may be stated here some reasons why this plea of
    neutrality, though so false, is yet so specious and misleading.
    It arises from the fact that the statement of moral, religious,
    and theological ideas demands clear and positive language. The
    hostile forms, on the other hand, are disguised under vague and
    endlessly varying negations. They are Protean, too, in their
    appellations. They take to themselves the names of literature,
    art, philosophy, reform. This procedure shows itself in
    reading-books intended for our primary schools; in text-books
    prepared for the higher institutions; in essays and periodicals
    that strew the tables of reading-rooms attached to our colleges
    and academies; and, above all, in the public lecturing, male
    and female, which may be said to have become a part of our
    educational system. For example, should the writer of this
    attempt to explain before such an audience 'the doctrines
    of grace,' as they are called, or that unearthly system of
    ideas which can be traced through the whole line of the
    church--patristic, Roman, and Protestant--in their production
    of a strong unearthly character, then would be immediately
    heard the cry of bigotry, or the senseless yell of church and
    state. And now for the _opposing_ 'dogmas,' as they really are,
    notwithstanding all their disguises. They make their entrance
    under endlessly varied forms. Pantheism has free admittance;
    but that is not dogmatic--it calls itself philosophy. In some
    lecture on progress, or history, the most essential of these
    old 'doctrines of grace' may be sneeringly ignored or covertly
    assailed; but that is literature. Darwinism is expounded, with
    its virtual denial of any thing like creation; or Huxleyism,
    which brings man out of the monkey, and the monkey out of the
    fungus; that is science. Or it may be the whining nonsense
    which glorifies the nineteenth century at the expense of the
    far honester eighteenth, and talks so undogmatically of the
    deep 'yearning' for something better--that is, the 'coming
    faith.' And so goes on this exhibition of impartiality, with
    its exclusion of every thing dogmatic and theological."

Neither Catholics nor Protestants who believe at all in religion will
consent to be taxed to support infidel, pantheistic, or atheistic
education; and all so-called purely secular education is really
nothing else. The temporal separated from the eternal, the universe
from its Creator, is nothing, and can be no object of science.
The first suggested solution must then be abandoned, and not be
entertained for a moment by the state, unless it is bent on suicide;
for the basis of the state itself is religion, and is excluded in
excluding all religious ideas and principles.

2. The second solution suggested is to adopt in education the
voluntary system, as we do in religion, and leave each denomination
to maintain schools for its own children at its own expense. We could
accept this solution, as Catholics, without any serious objection;
but we foresee some trouble in disposing of the educational
funds held by several of the States in trust for common schools,
academies, and colleges, and in determining to whom shall belong
the school-houses, and academy and college buildings and fixtures,
erected, in whole or in part, at the public expense. Besides, this
would break up the whole public school system, and defeat the chief
end it contemplates--that of providing a good common education
for all the children of the land, especially the children of the
poorer classes. Catholics, Presbyterians, Congregationalists, and
Episcopalians would establish and support schools, each respectively
for their own children; but some other denominations might not,
and the infidels, and that large class called _nothingarian_, most
certainly would not. Only they who believe in some religion see
enough of dignity in man, or worth in the human soul, to make the
sacrifice of a penny for education. The Darwins, the Huxleys, the
Lyells, and other unbelieving scientists of the day, were never
educated in schools, academies, colleges, or universities founded by
infidels. They graduated from schools founded by the faith and piety
of those who believed in God, in creation, in Christ, in the life
and immortality brought to light in the Gospel; and if they have
devoted themselves to severe studies, it has not been from love of
science, but in the ignoble hope of being able to dispense, in the
explanation of nature, with God the Creator, and to prove that man is
only a monkey developed, a condensed gas, or, as Dr. Cabanis defined
him, simply "a digestive tube open at both ends."

Moreover, though we deny the competency of the state to act as
educator, we hold that its duty toward both religion and education
is something more than negative. We hold that it has positive duties
to perform in regard to each. It cannot decide what religion its
citizens shall accept and obey; but it is bound to protect its
citizens in the free and full enjoyment of the religion they adopt
for themselves. We cannot, for the sake of carrying a point which we
hold to be true and certain to be of great importance, ally ourselves
with infidels, or lay down as a universal principle what our church
has never approved, and what we may in the change of the tide be
ourselves obliged to disavow. The state, with all its powers and
functions, exists for religion, and is in all its action subordinated
to the eternal end of man. As the church teaches, and as the New
England Puritans held, this world is never the end; it is only a
means to an end infinitely above itself. We will never dishonor truth
so much as to concede for a moment that the state is independent
of religion; that it may treat religion, as a coördinate power
with itself, with indifference, or look down upon it with haughty
contempt, as beneath its notice, or to be pushed aside if it comes in
its way. It is as much bound to consult the spiritual end of man,
and to obey the law of God, which overrides all other laws, as is the
individual.

We, of course, deny the competency of the state to educate, to say
what shall or shall not be taught in the public schools, as we deny
its competency to say what shall or shall not be the religious belief
and discipline of its citizens. We, of course, utterly repudiate the
popular doctrine that so-called secular education is the function
of the state. Yet, while we might accept this second solution as an
expedient, we do not approve it, and cannot defend it as sound in
principle. It would break up and utterly destroy the free public
school system, what is good as well as what is evil in it; and
we wish to save the system by simply removing what it contains
repugnant to the Catholic conscience--not to destroy it or lessen
its influence. We are decidedly in favor of free public schools
for all the children of the land, and we hold that the property of
the state should bear the burden of educating the children of the
state--the two great and essential principles of the system, and
which endear it to the hearts of the American people. Universal
suffrage is a mischievous absurdity without universal education; and
universal education is not practicable unless provided for at the
public expense. While, then, we insist that the action of the state
shall be subordinated to the law of conscience, we yet hold that it
has an important part to perform, and that it is its duty, in view
of the common weal, and of its own security as well as that of its
citizens, to provide the means of a good common school education for
all its children, whatever their condition, rich or poor, Catholics
or Protestants. It has taken the American people over two hundred
years to arrive at this conclusion, and never by our advice shall
they abandon it.

3. The first and second solutions must then be dismissed as
unsatisfactory. The first, because it excludes religion, and makes
the public schools nurseries of infidelity and irreligion. The
second, because it breaks up and destroys the whole system of free
public schools, and renders the universal education demanded by our
institutions impracticable, or unlikely to be given, and in so far
endangers the safety, the life, and prosperity of the republic.
We repeat it, what we want is not the destruction of the system,
but simply its modification so far as necessary to protect the
conscience of both Catholics and Protestants in its rightful freedom.
The modification necessary to do this is much slighter than is
supposed, and, instead of destroying or weakening the system, would
really perfect it and render it alike acceptable to Protestants
and to Catholics, and combine both in the efforts necessary to
sustain it. It is simply to adopt the third solution that has been
suggested, namely, that of dividing the schools between Catholics and
Protestants, and assigning to each the number proportioned to the
number of children each has to educate. This would leave Catholics
free to teach their religion and apply their discipline in the
Catholic schools, and Protestants free to teach their religion and
apply their discipline in the Protestant schools. The system, as
a system of free schools at the public expense, with its fixtures
and present machinery, would remain unimpaired; and a religious
education, so necessary to society as well as to the soul, could be
given freely and fully to all, without the slightest lesion to any
one's conscience, or interference with the full and entire religious
freedom which is guaranteed by our constitution to every citizen.
The Catholic will be restored to his rights, and the Protestant will
retain his.

This division was not called for in New England in the beginning;
for then the people were all of one and the same religion; nor when
only those who used the schools were taxed for their support. It was
not needed even when there were only Protestants in the country. In
demanding it now, we cast no censure on the original founders of our
public schools. But now, when the system is so enlarged as to include
free schools for all the children of the state at the public expense,
and Catholics have become and are likely to remain a notable part of
the population of the country, it becomes not only practicable, but
absolutely necessary, if religious liberty or freedom of conscience
for all citizens is to be maintained; and it were an act of injustice
to Catholics, whose conscience chiefly demands the division, and
a gross abuse of power, to withhold it. It may be an annoyance to
Protestants that Catholics are here; but they are here, and here
they will remain; and it is never the part of wisdom to resist
the inevitable. Our population is divided between Catholics and
Protestants, and the only sensible course is for each division to
recognize and respect the equal rights of the other before the State.

One objection of a practical character has been brought against the
division by the New York _Tribune_. That journal says that, if the
division could be made in cities and large towns, it would still
be impracticable in the sparsely settled districts of the country,
where the population is too small to admit, without too great an
expense, of two separate schools, one Catholic and one Protestant.
The objection is one that is likely to diminish in force with time.
In such districts let each school receive its _pro rata_ amount
of the public money: if too little, let Catholic charity make up
the deficiency for the Catholic, and Protestant charity for the
Protestant school. Besides, in these sparsely settled districts there
are few Catholics, and their children are far less exposed than in
cities, large towns, and villages.

The more common objection urged is, that if separate schools are
conceded to Catholics, they must not only be conceded to the
Israelites, but also to each Protestant denomination. To the
Israelites, we grant, if they demand them. To each Protestant
denomination, not at all, unless each denomination can put in
an honest plea of conscience for such division. All Protestant
denominations, without a single exception, unless it be the
Episcopalians, unite in opposing the division we ask for, and in
defending the system as it is, which proves that they have no
conscientious objections to the public schools as they are now
constituted and conducted. The division to meet the demands of
the Catholic conscience would necessitate no change at all in
the schools not set apart for Catholic children; and the several
denominations that are not conscientiously opposed to them now
could not be conscientiously opposed to them after the division. We
cannot suppose that any denomination of Protestants would consent to
support a system of education that offends its own conscience for the
sake of doing violence to the conscience of Catholics. Do not all
American Protestants profess to be the sturdy champions of freedom
of conscience, and maintain that where conscience begins there the
secular authority ends? If the present schools do violence to no
Protestant conscience, as we presume from their defence of them they
do not, no Protestant denomination can demand a division in its
favor on the plea of conscience; and to no other plea is the state or
the public under any obligation to listen. If, however, there be any
denomination that can in good faith demand separate schools on the
plea of conscience, we say at once let it have them, for such a plea,
when honest, overrides every other consideration.

But we are asked what shall be done with the large body of citizens
who are neither Catholic nor Protestant? Such citizens, we reply,
have no religion; and they who have no religion have no conscience
that people who have religion are bound to respect. If they refuse
to send their children either to the Hebrew schools or the Catholic
schools, or, in fine, to the Protestant schools, let them found
schools of their own, at their own expense. The constitutions of
the several States guarantee to each and every citizen the right to
worship God according to the dictates of his own conscience; but this
is not guaranteeing to any one the freedom of not worshipping God,
to deny his existence, to reject his revelation, or to worship a
false God. The liberty guaranteed is the liberty of religion, not the
liberty of infidelity. The infidel has, under our constitution and
laws, the right of protection in his civil and political equality;
but none to protection in his infidelity, since that is not a
religion, but the denial of all religion. He cannot plead conscience
in its behalf, for conscience presupposes religion; and where there
is no religious faith, there is, of course, no conscience. It would
be eminently absurd to ask the state to protect infidelity, or the
denial of all religion; for religion, as we have said, is the only
basis of the state, and for the state to protect infidelity would be
to cut its own throat.

These are, we believe, all the plausible objections that can be urged
against the division of the public schools we demand; for we do not
count as such the pretence of some over-zealous Protestants that it
is necessary to detach the children of Catholics from the Catholic
Church in order that they may grow up thorough Americans; and as
the public schools are very effectual in so detaching them, and
weakening their respect for the religion of their parents, and their
reverence for their clergy, they ought on all patriotic grounds to be
maintained in full vigor as they are. We have heard this objection
from over-zealous Evangelicals, and still oftener from so-called
Liberal Christians and infidels; we have long been told that the
church is anti-American, and can never thrive in the United States;
for she can never withstand the free and enlightened spirit of the
country, and the decatholicizing influence of our common schools;
and we can hardly doubt that some thought of the kind is at the
bottom of much of the opposition the proposed division of the public
schools has encountered. But we cannot treat it as serious; for it is
evidently incompatible with the freedom of conscience which the state
is bound by its constitution to recognize and protect, for Catholics
as well as for Protestants. The state has no right to make itself a
proselyting institution for or against Protestantism, for or against
Catholicity. It is its business to protect us in the free and full
enjoyment of our religion, not to engage in the work of unmaking our
children of their Catholicity. The case is one of conscience, and
conscience is accountable to no civil tribunal. All secular authority
and all secular considerations whatever must yield to conscience.
In questions of conscience the law of God governs, not a plurality
of votes. The state abuses its authority if it sustains the common
schools as they are with a view of detaching our children from their
Catholic faith and love. If Catholics cannot retain their Catholic
faith and practice and still be true, loyal, and exemplary American
citizens, it must be only because Americanism is incompatible with
the rights of conscience, and that would be its condemnation, not the
condemnation of Catholicity. No nationality can override conscience;
for conscience is catholic, not national, and is accountable to
God alone, who is above and over all nations, all principalities
and powers, King of kings and Lord of lords. But the assumption in
the objection is not true. It mistakes the opinion of the American
people individually for the constitution of the American state. The
American state is as much Catholic as it is Protestant, and really
harmonizes far better with Catholicity than with Protestantism. We
hold that, instead of decatholicizing Catholic children, it is far
more necessary, if we are to be governed by reasons of this sort, to
unmake the children of Protestants of their Protestantism. We really
believe that, in order to train them up to be, in the fullest sense,
true, loyal, and exemplary American citizens, such as can alone
arrest the present downward tendency of the republic, and realize the
hopes of its heroic and noble-hearted founders, they must become good
Catholics.

But this is a question of which the state can take no cognizance.
We have under its constitution no right to call upon it to aid us,
directly or indirectly, in unmaking Protestant children of their
Protestantism. Of course, before God, or in the spiritual order, we
recognize no equality between Catholicity and Protestantism. Before
God, no man has any right to be of any religion but the Catholic,
the only true religion, the only religion by which men can be raised
to union with God in the beatific vision. But before the American
state, we recognize in Protestants equal rights with our own. They
have the same right to be protected by the state in the freedom of
their conscience that we have to be protected by it in the freedom
of ours. We should attack the very freedom of conscience the state
guarantees to all her citizens, were we to call upon it to found
or to continue a system of public schools, at the public expense,
intended or fitted to detach Protestant children from the religion of
their parents, and turn them over to be brought up in the Catholic
religion. We should prove ourselves decidedly un-American in so
doing. Yet, we regret to say, this is precisely what the non-catholic
majority, inconsiderately we trust, are doing; and, if the popular
ministers of the several sects, like Dr. R. W. Clark, Dr. Sheldon,
Dr. Bellows, Henry Ward Beecher, and the sectarian and secular press
have their way, they will continue to do to the end of the chapter
to us Catholics. They probably are not aware that they belie the
Americanism they profess, and abuse the power their superiority
of numbers gives them to tyrannize over the consciences of their
fellow-citizens. This strikes us as very un-American, as well as very
unjust.

We place our demand for separate schools on the ground of conscience,
and therefore of right--the right of God as well as of man. Our
conscience forbids us to support schools at the public expense
from which our religion is excluded, and in which our children are
taught either what we hold to be a false or mutilated religion, or
no religion at all. Such schools are perilous to the souls of our
children; and we dare avow, even in this age of secularism and
infidelity, that we place the salvation of the souls of our children
above every other consideration. This plea of conscience, which we
urge from the depth of our souls, and under a fearful sense of our
accountability to our Maker, ought to suffice, especially in an
appeal to a state bound by its own constitution to protect the rights
of conscience for each and all of its citizens, whether Protestant or
Catholic.

One thing must be evident from past experience, that our children
can be brought up to be good and orderly citizens only as Catholics,
and in schools under the supervision and control of their church,
in which her faith is freely and fully taught, and her services,
discipline, and influences are brought to bear in forming their
characters, restraining them from evil, and training them to virtue.
We do not say that, even if trained in Catholic schools, all will
turn out to be good practical Catholics and virtuous members of
society; for the church does not take away free-will, nor eradicate
all the evil propensities of the flesh; but it is certain that they
cannot be made such in schools in which the religion of their parents
is reviled as a besotted superstition, and the very text-books
of history and geography are made to protest against it; or in
which they are accustomed to hear their priests spoken of without
reverence, Protestant nations lauded as the only free and enlightened
nations of the earth, Catholic nations sneered at as ignorant and
enslaved, and the church denounced as a spiritual despotism, full
of craft, and crusted all over with corruption both of faith and
morals. Such schools may weaken their reverence for their parents,
even detach them from their church, obscure, if not destroy their
faith, render them indifferent to religion, indocile to their
parents, disobedient to the laws; but they cannot inspire them with
the love of virtue, restrain their vicious or criminal propensities,
or prevent them from associating with the dangerous classes of our
large towns and cities, and furnishing subjects for the correctional
police, our jails, penitentiaries, state prisons, and the gallows.

We are pointed to the vicious and criminal population of our cities,
of which we furnish more than our due proportion, as a conclusive
argument against the moral tendency of our religion, and a savage
howl of indignation, that rings throughout the land, is set up
against the legislature or the municipality that ventures to grant
us the slightest aid in our struggles to protect our children from
the dangers that beset them, though bearing no proportion to the aid
granted to non-Catholics. Yet it is precisely to meet cases like
ours that a public provision for education is needed and supposed to
be made. Protestants make the great mistake of trying to cure the
evil to which we refer by detaching our children from the church,
and bringing them up bad Protestants, or without any religion. The
thousand and one associations and institutions formed by Protestant
zeal and benevolence for the reformation or the bringing up of
poor Catholic children, and some of which go so far as to kidnap
little papist orphans or half orphans, lock them up in their orphan
asylums, where no priest can enter, change their names so that their
relatives cannot trace them, send them to a distance, and place them
in Protestant families, where it is hoped they will forget their
Catholic origin, all proceed from the same mistake, and all fail
to arrest, or even to lessen, the growing evil. They necessarily
provoke the opposition and resistance of the Catholic pastors, and
of all earnest Catholics, who regard the loss of their faith as the
greatest calamity that can befall Catholic children. So long as faith
remains, however great the vice or the crime, there is something
to build on, and room to hope for repentance, though late, for
reformation and final salvation. Faith once gone, all is gone.

It is necessary to understand that the children of Catholics must be
trained up in the Catholic faith, in the Catholic Church, to be good
exemplary Catholics, or they will grow up bad citizens, the pests
of society. Nothing can be done for them but through the approval
and coöperation of the Catholic clergy and the Catholic community.
The contrary rule, till quite recently, has been adopted, and
public and private benevolence has sought to benefit our children
by disregarding, or seeking to uproot, their Catholic faith, and
rejecting the coöperation of the Catholic clergy. The results are
apparent to all not absolutely blinded by their misdirected zeal.

The public has not sufficiently considered that by the law excluding
our religion from the public schools, the schools as established by
law are Protestant schools, at least so far as they are not pagan
or godless. We do not suppose the state ever intended to establish
Protestantism as the exclusive religion of the schools; but such is
the necessary result of excluding, no matter under what pretext,
the teaching of our religion in them. Exclude Catholicity, and what
is left? Nothing of Christianity but Protestantism, which is simply
Christianity _minus_ the Catholic Church, her faith, precepts, and
sacraments. At present the state makes ample provision for the
children of Protestants, infidels, or pagans; but excludes the
children of Catholics, unless we consent to let them be educated
in Protestant schools, and brought up Protestants, so far as the
schools can bring them up.

Now, we protest in the name of equal rights against this manifest
injustice. There is no class of the community more in need of free
public schools than Catholics, and none are more entitled to their
benefit; for they constitute a large portion of the poorer and
more destitute classes of the community. We can conceive nothing
more unjust than for the state to provide schools for Protestants,
and even infidels, and refuse to do it for Catholics. To say that
Catholics have as free access to the public schools as Protestants,
is bitter mockery. Protestants can send their children to them
without exposing them to lose their Protestantism; but Catholics
cannot send their children to them without exposing them to the loss
of their Catholicity. The law protects their religion in the public
schools by the simple fact of excluding ours. How then say these
schools are as free to us as they are to them? Is conscience of no
account?

We take it for granted that the intention of the state is that
the public schools should be accessible alike to Catholics and
Protestants, and on the same risks and conditions. We presume it
has had no more intention of favoring Protestants at the expense
of Catholics, than Catholics at the expense of Protestants. But it
can no longer fail to see that its intention is not, and cannot be
realized by providing schools which Protestants can use without risk
to their Protestantism, and none which Catholics can use without
risk to their Catholicity. As the case now stands, the law sustains
Protestantism in the schools and excludes Catholicity. This is
unjust to Catholics, and deprives us, in so far as Catholics, of all
benefit to be derived from the public schools supported at the public
expense. Were the law to admit Catholicity, it would necessarily
exclude Protestantism, which would be equally unjust to Protestants.
Since, then, Catholicity and Protestantism mutually exclude each
other, and as the state is bound to treat both with equal respect,
it is not possible for it to carry out its intention and do justice
to both parties, but by dividing the schools, and setting apart for
Catholics their proportion of them, in which the education shall be
determined and controlled by their church, though remaining public
schools supported at the public expense, under the provisions of a
general law as now.

This would be doing for its Catholic citizens only what it now does
for its Protestant citizens only; in fact, only what is done in
France, Austria, and Prussia. The division would enable us to bring
all our children into schools under the influence and management
of our pastors, and to do whatever the church and a thoroughly
religious education can do to train them up to be good Catholics,
and therefore orderly and peaceful members of society, and loyal and
virtuous American citizens. It would also remove some restraint from
the Protestant schools, and allow them more freedom in insisting on
whatever is doctrinal and positive in their religion than they now
exercise. The two classes of schools, though operating separately,
would aid each other in stemming the tide of infidelity and
immorality, now setting in with such fearful rapidity, and apparently
resistless force, threatening the very existence of our republic. The
division would operate in favor of religion, both in a Catholic sense
and in a Protestant sense, and therefore tend to purify and preserve
American society. It would restore the schools to their original
intention, and make them, what they should be, religious schools.

The enemy which the state, which Catholics, and which Protestants
have alike to resist and vanquish by education is the irreligion,
pantheism, atheism, and immorality, disguised as secularism, or
under the specious names of science, humanity, free-religion, and
free-love, which not only strike at all Christian faith and Christian
morals, but at the family, the state, and civilized society itself.
The state has no right to regard this enemy with indifference, and
on this point we accept the able arguments used by the serious
Protestant preachers and writers cited in the number of _The
Christian World_ before us against the exclusion of the Bible and
all recognition of religion from the public schools. The American
state is not infidel or godless, and is bound always to recognize and
actively aid religion as far as in its power. Having no spiritual
or theological competency, it has no right to undertake to say what
shall or shall not be the religion of its citizens; it must accept,
protect, and aid the religion its citizens see proper to adopt, and
without partiality for the religion of the majority any more than the
religion of the minority; for in regard to religion the rights and
powers of minorities and majorities are equal. The state is under
the Christian law, and it is bound to protect and enforce Christian
morals and its laws, whether assailed by Mormonism, spiritism,
free-lovism, pantheism, or atheism.

The modern world has strayed far from this doctrine, which in the
early history of this country nobody questioned. The departure may
be falsely called progress, and boasted of as a result of "the march
of intellect;" but it must be arrested, and men must be recalled to
the truths they have left behind, if republican government is to be
maintained, and Christian society preserved. Protestants who see and
deplore the departure from the old landmarks will find themselves
unable to arrest the downward tendency without our aid, and little
aid shall we be able to render them unless the church be free to use
the public schools--that is, her portion of them--to bring up her
children in her own faith, and train them to be good Catholics. There
is a recrudescence of paganism, a growth of subtle and disguised
infidelity, which it will require all that both they and we can do to
arrest. Fight, therefore, Protestants, no longer us, but the public
enemy.[14]

FOOTNOTES:

[13] _The Christian World._ The Bible in the Schools. February, 1870.
New York: Bible House.

[14] We desire to call attention to another point which could not be
discussed in the foregoing article, and to which we can at present
only allude in the briefest manner. Large sums of money have been
granted by legislatures to universities and colleges which are
controlled by the clergy of different Protestant denominations, in
which they teach their religious opinions without restraint, and
which they make, as far as they can, training-schools for their
theological seminaries. Now, if the outcry against any grant of
public funds to schools in which the Catholic religion is taught is
taken up and sustained by Protestants, it follows that they must
advocate the total secularization of all institutions, without
exception, which enjoy any state subsidies, and, if they wish to
keep control of religious instruction in any of the above-mentioned
colleges, must refund to the state every thing which they now possess
by grant from the state, and give up all claim to receive any
further endowments. Catholics would never disendow or despoil these
Protestant institutions, even if they had full power to do it; but if
the party of infidelity ever gains, by the help of Protestants, full
sway over our legislation, the latter may prepare themselves for a
wholesale spoliation.



THE NEW ENGLANDER ON THE "MORAL RESULTS OF THE ROMISH SYSTEM."[15]


The reply of the _New Englander_ to our articles of September and
October last is bristling with the most palpable and absurd mistakes.
We call them "mistakes" through the utmost stretch of Christian
charity, for there is really no excuse to be made for them. We
cannot excuse them by allowing either their author or the editors
of the _New Englander_ the benefit of the plea of ignorance; for
they were bound to inform themselves on a grave matter which they
profess to treat of; nor that of haste and carelessness. They have
had at least three months for a reply, and were at liberty to take
three months more, if necessary; and to plead carelessness in such
a matter is equivalent to a confession of culpable negligence and
want of moral principle. They were bound by the principles of the
Christian religion not to exaggerate or convey in any way a worse
impression of their fellow-Christians than the exact truth would
warrant, according to the words of St. Paul, "Charity is kind,
thinketh no evil, ... is not puffed up;" which we might paraphrase
in this way: Is not pharisaically inclined to exalt one's self at
the expense of one's neighbor, or at the sacrifice of the truth. The
_New Englander_ has made use of every artifice; and, trusting to
the unsuspecting ignorance or uncritical spirit of the community,
of a shameful perversion of the truth to effect this unworthy and
unchristian object. We speak severely because it is time the public,
both Catholic and Protestant, should frown upon such practices, and
endeavor to approach Christian unity by the practice of the most
ordinary Christian virtues. We shall now proceed to make good our
allegations against the _New Englander_.

1st. The _New Englander_ makes a comparison of the provinces of
Catholic and Protestant countries, prefaced by the following
introduction:

    "The author of _Evenings with the Romanists_, writing in 1854,
    gave the names and official returns of ten principal cities
    of Protestant Prussia and of ten principal cities of Roman
    Catholic Austria.... THE CATHOLIC WORLD admits the statements,
    ... and claims, with that air of injured innocence, which is so
    favorite a weapon in Romish polemics, that, if the returns of
    the provinces were brought into the account, they would more
    than redress the balance of the cities. We proceed to put his
    proposition to experiment."

Would our readers credit it, that he has done nothing of the kind? He
has not compared the Protestant and Catholic provinces of Protestant
Prussia and Roman Catholic Austria, between which, and which alone,
the parallel comparison of cities was made; but substituted another
comparison, entirely his own, introducing provinces belonging to
other countries to weigh down the Catholic scale, and excluding half
the Catholic provinces of Austria for the same purpose. This we will
show to a demonstration. Here is the table of the _New Englander_:

    _Illegitimacy in German Provinces._

    PROTESTANT.   PR. CT.    ROMAN CATHOLIC.           PR. CT.

    Brandenburg    12        Austria (Upper and Lower)  29.3
    Hanover         9.6      Bohemia                    16.3
    Pomerania      10        Baden                      16.2
    Prussia         6.7      Bavaria                    22.5
    Saxony         15.9      Carinthia                  11.7
    Würtemberg     16.4      Carniola                   45
                             Moravia                    15.1
                             Posen                       6.8
                             Rhineland                   3.4
                             Salzburg                   29.6
                             Styria                     30.6
                             Trieste, Gorz, etc.         9.9
                             Tyrol and Vorarlberg        6
                   ----                                 ----
      Average      11.7            Average              18.6

We repeat, the question as put by the _New Englander_ itself is not
about _German_ provinces, but of the Protestant and Roman Catholic
provinces of Prussia and Austria. Moreover, the table as it stands is
grossly untrue. The rate of illegitimacy of the province of Prussia
is 9 instead of 6.7, which materially alters the general average.

The averages of the table are falsely given as,

    Protestant 11.7       Catholic   18.6

The true averages found by balancing the populations and the rates,
according to the rules of arithmetic, are:

    Protestant 12        Catholic 16.9

Besides these grave blunders, the _New Englander_, professing to give
a statement of the _German_ provinces by taking _Germany_, "province
by province," has omitted many German provinces, which omission very
materially affects the result. We take the liberty of putting them in
to show how "economical" of truth the _New Englander_ has been.

    _Provinces omitted for which returns were given._

    PROTESTANT.          PR. CT.   CATHOLIC.        PR. CT.

    Saxon Prussia         10       Austrian Silesia  13.8
    Brunswick             18.9
    Mecklenburg-Schwerin  20.7
    Saxe-Weimar-Eisenach  15.6
    Saxe Altenburg        16.9
    Hesse                 17.2
    Bremen                 7.2

We shall now proceed to do what the _New Englander_ professed to do,
but merely shifting the question, has not done, namely, compare the
Catholic and Protestant provinces of Protestant Prussia and Roman
Catholic Austria, province by province, as they existed previous to
the last war, to correspond to the comparison of the cities of these
countries which were contained within these limits. Milan, as well as
Lemburg and Zara, are put down among the Austrian cities. We shall
give the corresponding provinces:

    _Illegitimacy in Prussian and Austrian Provinces._

                                 POPULATION
        PROTESTANT.             IN MILLIONS.   PR. CT.

    Brandenburg                     2.62        12
    Pomerania                       1.44        10
    Prussia                         3.01         9
    Saxony (province)               2.04        10
                                    ----        ----
                                    9.11        10.2

                                 POPULATION
         CATHOLIC.              IN MILLIONS.   PR. CT.

    Austria (Upper and Lower)       2.47        29.3
    Bohemia                         5.11        16.3
    Carinthia                        .34        45
    Carniola                         .47        11.7
    Moravia                         1.99        15.1
    Posen                           1.52         6.8
    Rhineland                       3.35         3.4
    Austrian Silesia                 .49        13.8
    Salzburg                         .15        29.6
    Styria                          1.09        30.6
    Trieste, etc.                    .56         9.9
    Tyrol                            .88         6
    Hungary                        10.68         6
    Galicia                         5.10         8
    Dalmatia                         .44         5
    Croatia                          .95         5.5
    Lombardy and Venice             5.55         5.1
                                   -----        ----
                                   41.14        10.3

We have thus shown, by a mathematical demonstration, that the words
which the _New Englander_ found convenient to put in our mouths,
though we really said nothing of the kind, that "if the returns of
the provinces were brought into the account, they would more than
redress the balance of the cities," are sufficiently made good. We
are glad he "proceeded to put our proposition to experiment," and
we caution him when he makes any more experiments of this kind to
reflect that, whatever may be the judgment of an uncritical public
prepared to take his statements without examination, his artifices,
misstatements, and false conclusions are sure to be detected by any
well-informed reader who will take the trouble of examining them.
The result of the comparison of the Protestant and Roman Catholic
provinces of Austria and Prussia sums up in this fashion:

    _False Average of the New Englander._

    Protestant    11.7      Catholic    18.6

    _True Average._

    Protestant    10.2      Catholic    10.3

We have thus finished this part of our task, strictly confining
ourselves to the provinces in question; but as it seems more complete
to add the other German provinces on both sides, of which returns are
given, we do so with the following result:

    _Provinces already given._

                                          POPULATION
                               PR. CT.    IN MILLIONS.

    Protestant                  10.2          9.11
    Würtemberg                  16.4          1.75
    Smaller German States[16]    14.8          6.40
                                ----         -----
                                12.5         17.26


                                          POPULATION
                               PR. CT.    IN MILLIONS.

    Catholic                    10.3         41.14
    Bavaria                     22.5          4.81
    Baden                       16.2          1.43
                                ----         -----
                                11.7         47.38

We dismiss the _New Englander_ from the examination of provinces with
the conviction that he ought now to become a wiser if not a better
man.

2dly. The _New Englander_ gives us another division of his work,
entitled thus, "3. _Comparison of mixed populations_," the object of
which seems to be two-fold: 1st, To show the wonderful effect of a
little Protestant salt in a mass of Catholic corruption; and 2dly, to
push up the rate of Catholic Austria to a high figure by excluding
the best half of it, and thus to come out with flying colors in the
grand tabular statement of all the European countries. He commences
with the following round but very novel statement: "The empire of
Austria includes a population of 31,655,746; of these, 21,082,801 or
two thirds, are non-Romanists, belonging to the Protestant church or
Greek Church."

The population of the empire of Austria is really divided as follows:

    Catholics      26,728,020
    All others      7,703,976

by which specimen we may form a good judgment of the general
accuracy of the _New Englander_.

He goes on, "In nine of the Austrian provinces the population is
almost exclusively Roman Catholic. In seven, the Roman Catholics
are, on an average, in a minority of 46 per cent." He proves these
assertions by a table of

    _Mixed Provinces._

                      ROMANISTS.   ILLEGITIMATE.

    Hungary          52 per cent.   6 per cent.
    Galicia          44    "        8    "
    Bukowina          9    "        9    "
    Dalmatia         81    "        5    "
    Militärgrenze    42    "        1.4  "
    Croatia, etc.    82    "        5.5  "
    Transylvania     11    "        7    "
                     --             ---
       Average       46    "        6    "

accompanied by the following remark: "This falling of the rate of
illegitimacy from twenty-one to six, when the proportion of Romanists
to the population falls off from ninety-seven to forty-six, indicates
the salutary effect of Protestant Christianity, not only on its own
followers, but also on the working of Romanism itself." But suppose
the population does not fall off from ninety-seven to forty-six per
cent, and that in most of these provinces, and where the rate of
illegitimacy is the lowest, there are no Protestants at all, and
a small proportion in the rest; what is shown, then, unless it be
the ignorance and bad faith of the _New Englander_, which professes
to be the "recognized exponent of those views _of religious life_
which have given character to New England, and its essays to be
among the best fruits of thought and opinion which the education
given at Yale is adapted to foster"? Alas! Messrs. Editors, you have
unceremoniously dropped nearly 4,000,000 of Roman Catholics from
your computation. Are you not aware that the United Greeks are Roman
Catholics? If you are not, we beg leave to enlighten you, and correct
the table you have so ostentatiously paraded before the public:

                                                   _Jews & Schismatic_
                   _Catholics._     _Protestants._      _Greeks._

                   POP. IN    PR.    POP. IN    PR.    POP. IN    PR.
                  THOUS'DS.   CT.   THOUS'DS.   CT.   THOUS'DS.   CT.

    Hungary          5965     61       2349     24       1449     15
    Galicia          4150     90         31      1        449      9
    Bukowina           43     10       none      0        381     90
    Dalmatia          338     81       none      0         77     19
    Militärgrenze     454     43         20      2        587     55
    Croatia, etc.     721     85       none      0        130     15
    Transylvania      775     40        510     27        637     33
                   ------     --       ----     --       ----     --
        Total      12,446     65       2910     15       3760     20

The "salutary effect of Protestant Christianity in" Galicia,
Bukowina, Dalmatia, Militärgrenze, Croatia, etc., is wonderful, and
indeed little short of miraculous, considering how exceedingly small
the quantity of it is. If the presence of one per cent of Protestants
can so ameliorate the condition of things in Galicia, what a land
of heavenly purity Connecticut must be! But we arouse ourselves
to finish our task, or we shall become entirely absorbed in these
sublime reflections.

The _New Englander's_ "experiment" with mixed populations is an
entire failure. We will give a much more reliable table, to show the
influence of the Catholic and Protestant religion among people of the
same race, and living together in the same communities, and under
the same laws. The census of illegitimacy has been taken in Prussia
according to the religious faith of the people.

    _Illegitimacy in Prussia._

                        AMONG                 AMONG
                     PROTESTANTS.           CATHOLICS.
                  Pop. in               Pop. in
                  thous'ds.  pr. ct.    thous'ds.  pr. ct.

    Brandenburg     2509      12.05         66       8.40
    Silesia         1704      12.03       1756      10.07
    Saxony          1903      10.35        130       6.05
    Pomerania       1401      10.35         15       9.31
    Prussia         2137       9.67        815       7.45
    Posen            502       7.06        950       6.82
    Westphalia       740       4.18        907       3.35
    Rhineland        826       3.35       2494       3.67
                  ------      -----       ----       ----
    Total         11,722      10.01       7123        6.4

We take our leave of the "comparison of mixed populations." If the
_New Englander_ is satisfied with our treatment of the subject, we
are sure we are with his; for it enables us to put this matter once
more before an enlightened public, leaving them to form their own
opinions about it.

We now come to the _New Englander's_ final division of the subject:
"4. Comparison of nations."

Here is the grand extinguisher of all Catholic pretensions. The whole
question is to be put in a nut-shell in the following table, and that
according to the very criterion proposed by THE CATHOLIC WORLD.

    _New-Englander's Table of Illegitimacy in European Countries._

    PROTESTANT.      PR. CT.            CATHOLIC.         PR. CT.

    Denmark             11            Baden                16.2
    England, Scotland, and            Bavaria              22.5
      Wales              6.7          Belgium               7.2
    Holland              4            France                7.5
    Prussia, including                German Austria       18.1
      Saxony & Hanover   8.3          ? Italy (defective)    5.1
    Sweden, with Norway. 9.6          ? Spain (defective)    5.5
    Switzerland          5.5
    Würtemberg          16.4
                        ----                                ----

        Average          8.8              Average           11.7
                                      Or rejecting Italy
                                        and Spain           14.5

What strikes us first of all is the richness of these averages. Dear
_New Englander_, you will be the death of us with your averages. Not
that we shall literally be killed off by them; but when we think of
the "best fruits" of the scholarship of Yale College producing such
averages, by adding up a lot of rates of all sorts of countries, big
and little, and dividing the sum by the number of countries, the idea
is absurd enough to kill any one with laughter. Exuberance of fancy
has evidently exercised an unfavorable influence on the mathematical
ability of the author of this article, and neutralized the effect of
the excellent mathematical course given at Yale College.

We find in the table Italy and Spain marked with a note of
interrogation, as much as to say, "What business have you here with
such low averages? You ought to look a great deal worse than that,
being such black and benighted Romanist countries as you are." And
after them the word "defective" in brackets. No doubt the best of
reasons will be given for this. Let us see. "The returns for Italy
and Spain are utterly defective and untrustworthy. Assuming the
ordinary birth-rate, the returns show that in Italy _more than one
fourth_ of the births fail to be registered." Why does not the _New
Englander_ give the figures, that we may judge for ourselves? What he
has not done we will do for him:

    _Births in Italy._

    1863            881,342
    1864            859,663
    1865            878,952
                    -------
        Average     873,319

The population of Italy is 24,231,860, and the birth-rate of Europe,
according to the _New Englander_, is 1 to 28. Dividing the number of
the population by 28, we get 865,608. The number of actual births
_exceeds_ the number expected, instead of being _defective by "more
than a fourth."_ As the reason alleged proves to be utterly false, we
shall strike off the marks of interrogation from Italy, and leave out
the "defective" in the brackets.

In like manner, the returns for Spain are treated. "As for Spain,
its census returns, if quoted at all among statistics, are quoted at
even a larger discount than its financial securities. The sum of the
Spanish censuses for the last forty years has been up and down after
the following zigzag fashion:

   "1828          13,698,029
    1837          12,222,872
    1842          12,054,000
    1846          12,164,000
    1850          10,942,000
    1861          16,000,000
    1864          15,752,807"

Not having found our friend of the _New Englander_ very precise
heretofore in his figures, we did not exactly take them on trust this
time, but looked in our "Handbuch," and found the following

    _Table of Censuses in Spain._

    1822          11,661,865
    1832          11,158,264
    1846          12,162,872
    1857          15,464,340
    1860          15,673,536

which does not exhibit any great "zigzag" propensity.

The following table of births does not show any mark of being either
untrustworthy or defective, but is uncommonly complete and steady:

                 LEGITIMATE.  ILLEGITIMATE.
    1858           516,118       30,040
    1859           525,243       31,080
    1860           541,231       32,222
    1861           577,484       34,125
    1862           573,646       33,416
    1863           565,144       32,997
    1864           586,993       34,458
    1865           581,686       33,227

So much for the romancing of the _New Englander_, which we might
appropriately designate as building "castles in Spain."

We beg our readers' pardon for these long lists of figures, but they
are really necessary for the correct understanding of the matter.
As to Austria, we shall take the liberty to bring down her figure
from 18.1 to 11.1; not that it would make so very much difference in
the general average of the nations, except in the clap-trap mode of
calculation adopted by the _New Englander_, but because justice, as
we have amply shown, demands it.

We shall now present a true table of the European countries, slightly
modifying some of the rates, to correspond to later and better
information, and inserting all the omitted countries of which returns
are given:

    _Table of Illegitimacy in European Countries._

                                        POPULATION
       PROTESTANT.           PR. CT.    IN MILLIONS.

    Denmark[17]                11            2.73
    England and Wales          6.5         20.07
    Scotland                  10.1          3.06
    Holland                    4            3.53
    Prussia                    8.6         18.94
    Sweden and Norway          9.6          5.81
    Switzerland                5.5          2.51
    Würtemberg                16.4          1.75
    Other German States[18]    14.8          6.40
                              ----         -----
         Average               8.7         64.80

                                        POPULATION
       CATHOLIC.             PR. CT.    IN MILLIONS.

    Baden                     16.2          1.43
    Bavaria                   22.5          4.81
    Belgium                    7.2          4.98
    France                     7.2         38.07
    Austria                   11.1         34.98
    Italy                      5.1         24.23
    Spain                      5.5         15.67
                              ----        ------
         Average               8.4        124.17

The _New Englander_ has been quite hard on us for classing Holland
and Switzerland, in which there are very large Catholic minorities,
as mixed countries, and remanded them with an air of injured
innocence forthwith into the Protestant column, where it will be
observed they present an uncommonly good appearance, being the lowest
on the list. We have shown by documentary evidence that in Prussia in
1864, when there was a Catholic minority of thirty-eight per cent,
the rate of illegitimacy was brought down by it from 10 to 8.46, or,
in other words, if all the Catholics could be removed at once out of
the land, the rate of Prussia would stand 10, whereas it appears now
8.6. For this reason we thought fit to make some distinction, lest
there should be any strutting around in borrowed plumes, and to form
a table of mixed countries. We shall, therefore, carefully avoiding
any further wounding of the delicate susceptibilities of the _New
Englander_, append a table, making allowances for the minorities on
both sides, coming just as near to the exact truth as it is possible:

    _Table of Illegitimacy, including Majorities and Minorities._

                                     PROT. POP.   CATH. POP.
                           PR. CT.   IN MILL'S.   IN MILL'S.

    Holland                  4.0        2.01         1.23
    Italy                    5.1         .33        23.90
    Spain                    5.5         .12        15.55
    Switzerland              5.5        1.48         1.02
    Catholics in Prussia     6.5         --          7.20
    England and Wales        6.5       19.00         1.20
    France                   7.2         .77        34.93
    Belgium                  7.2         .02         4.97
    Sweden and Norway        9.6        5.81          --
    Protestants in Prussia  10.0       11.74          --
    Scotland                10.1        3.00          .16
    Denmark                 11          2.73          --
    Austria                 11.1        3.45        26.73
    German States           14.8        5.88          .52
    Würtemberg              16.4        1.20          .53
                            ----       -----       ------
    Mean Protestants         8.3       57.54       117.94
    Mean Catholics           7.4

To sum up, we have for our final result:

    _New Englander's Averages._

    Protestant    8.8
    Catholic     11.7; or, omitting Italy and Spain  14.5

    _True Averages._

    Protestant    8.3
    Catholic      7.4

Here we are glad to end the general investigation, and to show
that, if we are not very much better than our neighbors, we are not
any worse, and are not to be hounded down with the cry of vice and
immorality by a set of Pharisees who are constantly lauding their own
superiority, and thanking God they are so much better than we poor
Catholics.

We must notice, before we conclude, some minor points of the _New
Englander's_ reply to THE CATHOLIC WORLD. He insists that it is
highly improbable that any of the foundlings received into the
hospital at Rome come from the provinces, and says we have not
adduced a particle of proof to the contrary. Well, as far as the
readers of the _New Englander_ are concerned, what is the use of
adducing any proof?--for that very Christian journal takes no notice
of any refutations of its statements, nor concedes any point,
however strongly proved, but is solely occupied in showing, by
fair means or foul, our "total depravity," as if the very life and
breath of the Protestant religion depended on maintaining a deep
and bitter hatred and contempt of Catholics. To our own readers,
we do not think it worth while to adduce any particular proof of a
self-evident proposition. If there be a foundling hospital, receiving
infants left at its door, it requires no proof that it will serve the
adjacent country as well as the city. We have documentary evidence
to prove this point; but the _New Englander_ contains so many errors
which require our attention, that we have not space for so trivial
a matter. We would like, however, to ask our friend of the _New
Englander_ whether he believes any of the _three thousand_ infants
received in the foundling hospital of Amsterdam come from the country.

2d. The _New Englander_ says, "But where do the infants come from that
are received in the multitudes of _country_ nunneries that abound
throughout the rural districts, and commonly have each its _crèche_,
or cradle, in which the child of shame may be dropped in secret with
a ring of the bell, and left?"

It is time enough to answer this question when any proof of its truth
is brought forward; but we can assure our friend that if any infants
are so received, they all find their way to the hospital in short
order.

3d. We find the following unique and highly gentlemanly insinuation
in the _New Englander_:

    "'The _Civilta Cattolica_ says, "This proportion of 28.3 of
    legitimate births for every one thousand of the population
    speaks very well for a capital city." And so it does; it shows,
    what we have always understood them to be, that the Romans are
    as virtuous and moral as any people of the world.' Thus THE
    CATHOLIC WORLD; to which it might safely add, that it shows
    that the separation of an enormous mass of the most vigorous
    part of the people under vows of celibacy and continence does
    not necessarily check the multiplication of the population."

Weakness in arithmetic and a prurient imagination have, no doubt,
given rise to the above elegant extract; but we rebut it by informing
our friend of the _New Englander_ that there is a difference between
28.3 to the thousand and 1 to 28.3. Had he noticed this difference,
he would not have digged this pit for himself. The figures prove
nothing more than his own ignorance, putting the most charitable
construction on it.

We must give a specimen of the _New Englander's_ idea of fairness in
controversy:

    "In his _Evenings with the Romanists_, Mr. Seymour,
    anticipating the _tu quoque_ retort of the Roman Catholics,
    said, 'If any man will name the worst of the Protestant
    countries, I care not which, I will name a Roman Catholic
    country still worse.' In this way, he proceeded to compare, in
    1854, Saxony with Carinthia and sundry other regions on either
    side, whereupon THE CATHOLIC WORLD has a violent outbreak of
    mingled indignation and erudition at the extreme trickiness of
    comparing Styria, Upper and Lower Austria, Carinthia, Salzburg,
    Trieste, which are not countries at all, but simply the German
    provinces of the Austrian Empire, and Bavaria, with countries
    so different and wide apart as Norway, Sweden, Saxony, Hanover,
    and Würtemburg; the regions in question seem to have been
    selected for their approximate equality in population."

Well, as probably most people have not heard of the _countries_ of
Carinthia, Styria, etc., we confess we were "erudite" enough to know
and to point out that they were slices of Austria carved for the
occasion, and we were a little indignant at the carving operation.

"Show me a bad _Protestant country_ where you please, and I will
show you a _Roman Catholic country still worse_." Hence, we have,
according to Mr. Seymour:

    PROTESTANT     ROMAN CATHOLIC
     COUNTRIES.      COUNTRIES.

      Norway,          Austria,
      Sweden,          Austria,
      Saxony,          Austria,
      Denmark,         Austria,
      Hanover,         Austria,

We suppose this is all fair enough; but we cannot see it, our moral
vision being so infirm.

"But these regions seem to have been selected for their approximate
equality in population." So it seems, and our friend, Mr. S., has
_made it seem_ so in this fashion: "We compare Protestant Norway with
1,194,610, and Roman Catholic Styria (Austria) with 1,006,971. Again,
we compare Protestant Sweden with 2,983,144, and Roman Catholic
Upper and Lower (Austria) with 2,244,363." All very good; but now
let us go on: "We compare Protestant Saxony _with its population_,
and Roman Catholic Carinthia _with its population_. And we compare
Hanover _with its Protestant population_, and Salzburg _with its
Roman Catholic population_." "'Of course these countries are selected
_for their approximate equality in population_.'" In order that our
readers may see how much _equality_ there is in the populations of
these countries, we give the following

    _Table of Populations._

        PROTESTANT.                 CATHOLIC.

    Saxony     2,343,994      Carinthia    342,469
    Hanover    1,923,492      Salzburg     147,191

Saxony is only seven times greater than Carinthia. Hanover only
twelve times greater than Salzburg. Very excellent is Mr. Seymour in
"anticipating the _tu quoque_ of the Roman Catholics."

We now desire to call the attention of our readers to one very
remarkable phenomenon of the statistics. In Protestant England the
cities have a lower rate of illegitimacy than the country, while in
France the case is reversed, the countries are low and the cities
high. The following table will show this:

    _Rates of Illegitimacy in City and Country Districts of England._

       CITY.   PR. CT.    COUNTRY.    PR. CT.

    London       4.2    Nottingham      8.9
    Liverpool    4.9    York, N. R.     8.9
    Birmingham   4.7    Salop           9.8
    Manchester   6.7    Westmoreland    9.7
    Sheffield    5.8    Norfolk        10.7
    Leeds        6.4    Cumberland     11.4

    The rate for all England is 6.5.

    _In France._

    Rate in all France   7.2
    Rate in cities      11.4
    Rate in the country  4.4

From this we draw the conclusion that for Protestants city life is
decidedly the best, and it will be the duty of ministers to crowd
as many of their flocks as possible out of the polluted air of the
country into the moral atmosphere of the cities, and in England
to endeavor to concentrate them particularly in the very virtuous
communities of London and Liverpool. But we are sorry the gospel
trumpet gives such a feeble sound in the country districts, and we
hope some of the city clergy will get _a call_ to go into these
benighted districts, (abjuring the brown-stone fronts and high
salaries,) and bring them back at least to the level of the city
population, where there are _so many and varied temptations, and
such surprising purity_. Our Catholic people seem to flourish better
in the country, and we sincerely hope that those who come over from
Europe will get farms out West, instead of settling down in New-York
or other cities. We did have an idea that the influence of religion
was best exerted in the country, where the pastor knows each one
of his flock, and would rather have compared the country people in
Protestant lands with the country people in Catholic lands, to test
the influence of religion upon them; but as the _New Englander_ seems
to think the comparison is best made in the cities, we leave every
reflective person to form his own judgment. If the _New Englander_
is right, we fear our Lord was wrong in asking us to pray, "Lead us
not into temptation;" but Protestants should rather pray, "Lead us
into temptation," because it is precisely in temptation they are most
virtuous.

We did not intend to say a single word on the subject of murders,
etc., because we have not any complete statistics on the subject, and
because we do not like the labor of hunting them up, just at present;
but as this thing is paraded before us like a red rag before a bull,
we will just make one dash at it, and, giving it a blow sufficient to
dispatch it, leave the rest of the matter until we find it convenient
to take it up. Mr. Seymour gave the following items in his book:

    Ireland   19 homicides to the million.
    France    31     "       "       "
    England    4     "       "       "

and we find the following table in the _New Englander_:

    _To the Million of Population._

                                                   ENGLAND.  FRANCE.

    Convictions of murder and attempts              1½        12
    Convictions of infanticide in various degrees   5         10

We give the latest returns on the subject from the "Handbuch" for
France and from _Thom's Official Directory for England and Ireland_,
1869.

                        CONVICTIONS AND
                      SENTENCES TO DEATH.   EXECUTIONS.

    1864. France                9                5
    1867. England and Wales    27               10
    1867. Ireland               3                0

It will not require much ingenuity to see where the truth lies. "_Ex
uno disce omnes._"

We advise the _New Englander_ to subject in future the articles of
its unfortunate correspondent, of whom it is evidently ashamed, to
the revision of a professor of mathematics.

FOOTNOTES:

[15] _New Englander_, January, 1870. Article entitled, "Moral Results
of the Romish System."

_Handbuch der vergleichenden Statistik._ Leipzig. 1868.

_Historisch-politische Blätter._ Neuntes Heft, Munich. 1867. Article
entitled, "Allgemeine und confessionelle Statistik in Preussen."

[16] Including kingdom of Saxony, Brunswick, Hanover,
Mecklenburg-Schwerin, Saxe-Weimar-Eisenach, Saxe-Altenburg, Hesse,
and Bremen.

[17] Including Schleswig-Holstein.

[18] Saxony, Brunswick, Hanover, Mecklenburg-Schwerin,
Saxe-Weimar-Eisenach, Saxe-Altenburg, Hesse, and the city of Bremen.



TO THE RAINBOW.


    All-glorious shape that fleet'st, wind-swept,
      Athwart the empurpled, pine-girt steep,
    That sinless, from thy birth hast wept,
      All-gladdening, till thy death must weep;

    That in eterne ablution still
      Thine innocence in shame dost shroud,
    And, washed where stain was none, dost fill
      With light thy penitential cloud;

    Illume with peace our glooming glen;
      O'er-arch with hope yon distant sea,
    To angels whispering, and to men,
      Of her whose lowlier sanctity

    In God's all-cleansing freshness shrined,
      Disclaimed all pureness of her own,
    And aye her lucent brow inclined,
      God's handmaid meek, before his throne.

                                             AUBREY DE VERE.



THE FIRST ŒCUMENICAL COUNCIL OF THE VATICAN.

NO. THREE.


The second month of the Vatican Council has seen no interruption
of its labors, nor of the intense interest which these labors seem
to excite on every side. In truth, the intensity of this interest,
especially among those who are not friendly to the council, would be
inexplicable, did we not feel that there is in reality a struggle
involved therein between the cause of religion and the cause of
irreligion. The meetings of the prelates are private and quiet. The
subjects under discussion are, at best, only vaguely known outside.
The names of the speakers may be learned. You may ascertain, if
you persist in the effort, that one bishop has a fine voice, and
was well heard; that another has an exceedingly polished delivery;
that a third is remarkable for the fluency, and a fourth for the
classic elegance with which he spoke in Latin. But all your efforts
will fail to elicit a report of the substance of the speech of
any prelate. These speeches are for the council itself--for the
assembled fathers to whom they are delivered--and are not for the
public at large, nor for Buncombe. They are under the guard of the
honor of the bishops and the oath of the officials, and are to be
kept secret until the acts of the council are lawfully published.
And yet "own correspondents," "occasional correspondents," "special
correspondents," and "reliable correspondents" from Rome have failed
not, day after day, to fill the columns of newspapers--Italian,
French, English, German, Belgian, and Spanish, and doubtless others
also, if we saw them--with their guesses and suspicions, their
tiny grains of truth and bushels of fiction. Ponderous columns of
editorial comments are often superadded, as it were, to increase the
amount of mystery and the mass of errors. Even the brief telegraphic
notices seem to be often controlled or made to work in this sense.
The telegrams from Rome itself ought to be, and we presume are,
correct. The author of a flagrant misstatement sent from this city
could be identified and held responsible. But it is said that,
outside of the limits of the Pontifical States, there is a news-agent
who culls from letters sent him for that purpose most of those
wonderful statements about the council which the telegraph wires are
made to flash over Europe, and even across the Atlantic to America.
The result of all this on the mind of one in Rome is ofttimes
amusing. During our civil war, we once found ourselves in a railway
car with an officer who had lost an arm. "Colonel," asked some one,
"in what battle were you wounded?" The colonel laid down the papers
he had been reading, sighed heavily, as if wearied, at least in
mind, and answered, "At the time, I thought it was at the battle
of Chancellorsville; but since I have been reading these newspaper
accounts of that battle, I have come to the conclusion that I was not
there at all." The newspaper reporters of the council labor under
far greater difficulties than did the army correspondents, and are
proportionately inaccurate.

Meanwhile, the council moves on in its direct course, like a
majestic steamer on the ocean, undisturbed by these winds blowing
alternately from every point of the compass, and unheeding the
wavelets they strive to raise. Within the council, every thing is
proceeding smoothly and harmoniously, some think more slowly than was
anticipated. But the fathers of the council feel they have a great
work to do conscientiously, and they are engaged earnestly and in the
fear of God in its performance.

As yet, a third public session of the council has not been held,
nor has any public announcement been made of the day when it may be
looked for. But the time is busily employed. We stated in our last
number that a _schema_ or draft on some doctrinal points had been
given to the prelates early in December, and had been learnedly
discussed, no less than thirty-five speakers having canvassed its
merits. At the conclusion of the discussion, the _schema_ was
referred to the Deputation, or Committee on Faith. All the discourses
had been taken down and written out by stenographers, with an
accuracy which astonished and elicited the commendation of such
bishops as examined the report of their own speeches. These reports
were likewise handed over to the committee, that no remark might be
overlooked or forgotten. All will be taken into consideration and
duly weighed, together with further remarks before the committee,
by the theologians who drew up the _schema_ in the Preparatory
Committee. The committee is charged to present the matured result to
the assembled congregation at the proper time, when it will again be
considered, perhaps discussed, and finally voted on.

On January 14th, the fathers again assembled in a general
congregation in the council-hall, altered and restricted as we have
already described it. Mass was celebrated at nine A.M., as is always
done, by one of the senior prelates. At its conclusion, the five
presiding cardinals took their place. Cardinal De Angelis, the chief
one, took his seat for the first time, and recited the usual opening
prayer.

At the previous congregations, five of the _deputations_ of the
council had been filled by election. The sixth--that on oriental
rites and on missions--still remained to be filled. Twenty-four
members were to be elected by ballot.

The election was held in the usual form. The bishops had brought with
them their ballots already written out. Several attendants passed,
two and two, along the seats of the prelates, one of them bearing a
small wicker-work basket. Each prelate deposited therein his ballot.
In a few moments all had quietly voted. The baskets were borne to the
secretary's table in the middle, in front of the presiding cardinals.
The ballots were placed in boxes prepared to receive them. The boxes
were closed and sealed, to be opened afterward before the regular
committee for this purpose, when the votes would be counted, and the
result ascertained.

The following prelates were elected:

    Most Rev. Peter Bostani, Archbishop of Tyre and Sidon,
    Maronite, Asia.

    Most Rev. Vincent Spaccapietra, Archbishop of Smyrna, Asia.

    Most Rev. Charles Lavigerie, Archbishop of Algiers, Africa.

    Rt. Rev. Cyril Behnam-Benni, Bishop of Moussoul, (Syrian,)
    Mesopotamia.

    Rt. Rev. Basil Abdo, (Greek Melchite,) Bishop of Mariamne, Asia.

    Rt. Rev. Joseph Papp-Szilagyi, (Roumenian,) Bishop of Gross
    Wardein.

    Most Rev. Aloysius Ciurcia, Archbishop of Irenopolis, Egypt.

    Rt. Rev. Aloysius Gabriel de la Place, Bishop of Adrianople,
    Bulgaria.

    Rt. Rev. Stephen Louis Charbonneaux, Bishop of Mysore, India.

    Rt. Rev. Thomas Grant, Bishop of Southwark, England.

    Rt. Rev. Hilary Alcazar, Bishop, Vicar Apostolic of Tonking.

    Rt. Rev. Daniel McGettigan, Bishop of Raphoe, Ireland.

    Rt. Rev. Joseph Pluym, Bishop of Nicopolis, Bulgaria.

    Most Rev. Melchior Nazarian, (Armenian,) Archbishop of Mardin,
    Asia.

    Rt. Rev. Stephen Melchisedeckian, (Armenian,) Bishop of
    Erzeroum, Asia.

    Rt. Rev. Augustin George Bar-Scinu, (Chaldean,) Bishop of
    Salmas, Asia.

    Rt. Rev. John Lynch, Bishop of Toronto, Canada.

    Rt. Rev. John Marangò Bishop of Tenos, Greece.

    Rt. Rev. Francis John Laouenan, Bishop, V.A. of Pondicherry,
    India.

    Rt. Rev. Anthony Charles Cousseau, Bishop of Angoulême, France.

    Rt. Rev. Louis De Goesbriand, Bishop of Burlington, United
    States.

    Most Rev. Joseph Valerga, Patriarch of Jerusalem.

    Rt. Rev. James Quin, Bishop of Brisbane, Australia.

    Rt. Rev. Charles Poirier, Bishop of Roseau, West Indies.

    His Eminence Cardinal Alexander Barnabò, Prefect of the
    Propaganda, was appropriately named chairman of this committee.

No one in Rome, or elsewhere, could be found better qualified for
this position than this eminent and well-known cardinal, who has for
so many years, and so ably, presided over the congregation specially
charged with superintending the world-wide missions of the Catholic
Church. Born in the year 1798, he was in his early boyhood when
Napoleon annexed Italy to his empire. When the conqueror, in order
to bind the country to him, ordered that a number of the sons of the
noble and most respectable families of Italy should be sent to the
Ecole Polytechnique at Paris, to be educated, as it were, under his
own eye, the bright-eyed Alessandro Barnabò was selected with others.
He continued in that school until the fall of Napoleon restored
Pius VII. to Rome. The lad could soon return home likewise, and
devote himself, according to the aspirations of earlier years, to
the service of God in the sanctuary. He pursued his ecclesiastical
studies with distinction under De Rossi, Finotti, Graziosi, Palma,
and the giant professors of those years in Rome; became priest; and
naturally, with his learning, his energy, his amiability, was soon
selected to give assistance in the congregations for the transaction
of ecclesiastical business of the church in Rome. In due time he
became secretary to the Congregation of the Propaganda, and made
himself familiar with the affairs and men of the church throughout
the world. Subsequently raised to the cardinalate, amid the applause
of Rome, he succeeded Cardinal Fransoni in the prefectship of the
same Congregation of the Propaganda where he had been secretary, and
over which he, for many years, presided with an executive ability not
equalled since the days of Cardinal Capellarò, afterward Gregory XV.

This election having been finished, the bishops then entered on
the examination of matters of ecclesiastical discipline, several
_schemata_, or draughts, on which had been presented to them for
private study some time before. It is the ordinary usage of councils
to examine matters of faith and matters of discipline as nearly _pari
passu_ as can conveniently be done. It seems this usage will be
observed in the Vatican Council. There is a fundamental difference
between matters of faith and matters of discipline.

The faith of the church is ever one--that originally delivered
to her by the apostles. A council cannot alter it. The errors or
heresies prevailing at any time, the uncertainty in some minds, or
other needs of a period, may render it proper or necessary to give
a fuller, clearer, and more definite expression of that faith on
points controverted or misunderstood. The question always is, What
has really been the faith held in the past, from the beginning, by
the church on these points? The answer is sought in the words of Holy
Writ, in the past declarations of the church, whether in the decrees
of her councils or in the authoritative teachings of her sovereign
pontiffs, and in her traditions, as shown in the liturgies and forms
of prayer, in the testimony of her ancient doctors and fathers, and
in the concurrent teachings of the general body of her pastors and
her theologians. The whole field of evidence is searched, and the
answer stands forth in noon-day light; and the council declares
what really and truly has been and is the belief and teaching of
the Catholic Church on the question before it. And that declaration
is accepted by the Catholic world, not simply on the word of men,
however great their knowledge or accurate and scrutinizing their
research--nor simply on account of their holiness of life, their
sincerity of heart, or the impartiality of their decision. These are,
indeed, high motives, such as the world must always respect, and
perhaps enough ordinarily to satisfy human minds. But, after all,
they are but human motives. The Catholic is taught to base his belief
on a higher motive--the divine assurance of our Saviour himself that
he would always be with his church until the end of time, that he
would send the spirit of truth to teach her all truth and to abide
with her for ever, and that the gates of hell should never prevail
against her. Our ears catch the words of the Saviour, "Whosoever
heareth you, heareth me;--whosoever despiseth you, despiseth me;"
and we know that the church is thus made the pillar and ground of
truth, and that he that will not hear the church is like the heathen
and the publican. Hence on his divine word, which must stand though
the heavens and the earth pass away, we accept the declarations and
teachings of the church, through her councils, as the continuation of
the teaching of Christ himself.

Such was the examination made in the Council of Nice, A.D. 325; such
was the spirit of faith in which its words were received when it
declared the original and true belief of the church on the doctrines
of the trinity and incarnation, and condemned the novelties of Arius
and his followers. Such was the examination made in the councils of
Ephesus, Constantinople first and second, and of Chalcedon; such the
filial faith in which their decrees were received as they declared
more and more fully and explicitly the true Catholic doctrine of the
incarnation, and condemned successively the errors of the Nestorians,
the Monophysites, and the Monothelites. Such was the course pursued
in the various œcumenical councils which followed, down to and
including the Council of Trent. Such was the spirit in which their
declarations of the faith have ever been received. To us, the
Catholic Church of Christ is a living church, possessing, by the gift
of her divine Founder, authority to teach in his name all that he
taught, and ever guarded by his divine power from so falling under
the assaults of hell as to teach error to man in his name, instead of
the divine truth which he established and commissioned her to teach.
Her authority is ever the same--the same in the first and second
centuries as in the fourth and fifth, in the tenth and twelfth, in
the sixteenth, and in this nineteenth century; and it will continue
the same until time shall be no more.

It is thus that the Vatican Council takes up matters of faith, not
to add to the faith, but to declare it and to establish it, where
it has been impugned or doubted or misunderstood. The question is,
What are the points on which the errors and the needs of this age
render it proper and necessary to give a renewed, perhaps a fuller,
clearer, and more emphatic declaration of the doctrine of the church;
and in what form of words shall such declarations be expressed?
To all these questions the bishops are bringing their calmest and
maturest judgment. There will be, as there must and should be, a free
and frank interchange of views and arguments, in all sincerity and
charity, even as in the council of the apostles at Jerusalem there
was a great discussion before the definitive result was declared with
authority: _It hath seemed good to the Holy Ghost and to us._ When,
after such a discussion, the council shall give forth its decisions
and decrees, they will be accepted by the children of the church.
They will not be new doctrines. The Catholic heart and conscience
will recognize them as portions of that faith which has heretofore
ever been held. So true will this be, that we feel certain that one
of the points which many of the enemies of the church will bring
against this council, after its conclusion, will be, that it has done
comparatively nothing, that all that it taught was known and believed
among Catholics before it was convened. But the same thing was said
at the time of former councils, even of those which proved to be the
most important and influential in the history of Christianity.

But if faith is one and unchangeable, ecclesiastical discipline, at
least in most of its details, is not. The church has received power
to bind and to loose, and necessarily has authority to establish
a discipline, not simply for the purpose of securing order within
her fold, but to reach the further and higher purpose for which
she herself has been established and exists. Men must not merely
believe the truth speculatively and with a dead faith. They must,
by practical obedience to the law of God, by avoidance of sin
through the assistance of divine grace, by practice of virtue and
by holiness of life, be guided to keep the word which they have
heard, and so come to be saved. This practical guidance is her
discipline. The general principles on which her action is based are
the maxims and precepts of our divine Lord himself, the character
of the holy sacraments which he established in his church to be
the channels of grace, the institutions which came to her from the
apostles, and which she will ever preserve, and those principles of
right and morality which God has planted in the heart of man, and
of which her divine commission makes her the highest and the most
authoritative exponent. These principles are sacred and unchangeable.
But in applying them to men there must be a large body of laws and
regulations in detail. These are of her own institution, and form
her ecclesiastical discipline. She can revoke some, amend or alter
others, and add still others, as she judges such action to be best
adapted, under the ever-varying circumstances of the world, to secure
the great end for which she must ever labor--the salvation of souls.

As in all previous councils, so in this Vatican Council, these
matters of discipline have naturally and unavoidably come up for
consideration.

We said that, in the General Congregation, held on the 14th of
January, immediately after the election of which we have spoken, the
discussion of them commenced. It was continued in other congregations
held on January 15th, 19th, 21st, 22d, 24th, 25th, 27th, 28th, 31st;
February 3d, 4th, 7th, 8th, 10th, 14th, and 15th. It is not yet
closed. So far, ninety-five prelates have addressed the council on
the various points of discipline that came under examination.

If the discussion on matters of faith, of which we spoke in our last
number, was worthy of admiration for the vast learning it displayed,
and the intellectual powers of the speakers, this one on discipline
was even more interesting for its practical bearing and the personal
experience, so to speak, which it recorded. The questions came up
whether this or that law of discipline, established eight hundred
or five hundred or three hundred years ago, however wise and
efficacious at the period of its institution, could now be looked on
as sufficiently accomplishing its original purpose; or whether, on
the contrary, some new law, proposed for the consideration of the
prelates, might not now be wisely substituted for it. Bishops from
every part of the world brought the light of their own experience to
illustrate the subject. They bore, as it were, personal testimony
to the good effects and to the inconveniences of those rules and
laws in their respective dioceses. It was indeed most touching;
and it is said that the assembly was moved to tears as an eloquent
bishop, burning with zeal for the house of the Lord, told, with
accents of apostolic grief, of the woes of religion, and of disorders
that almost broke his heart--disorders against which he struggled,
seemingly in vain, because they arose from, or were supported by, the
intermeddling and abuses, and tyranny of the civil government, which
claims to be "free and progressive," but is ever grasping at things
ecclesiastical, ever striving to wield ecclesiastical power, and at
times pretending to uphold and defend such intrusion by pretext of
the laws and privileges of other times, when rulers and people alike
professed to fear God and to respect his church.

Every portion of the world was heard from. The East, through
Chaldeans, Maronites, and Armenians. The West, through Italian,
French, German, Hungarian, Spanish, Mexican, Peruvian, Brazilian,
English, Irish, and American bishops. The past was interrogated as to
the reasons and motives on which the olden laws were based, and the
special purposes they were intended to effect; and the present, as to
their actual observance and effects in this century. Even the future
was examined, so far as men may look into it, to conjecture what
course the world was taking; and what, on the other hand, would be
the most proper course for the church to pursue in her legislation,
in order to secure the fullest observance of the laws of God, and the
truest promotion of his glory.

We might well be assured that, even humanly speaking, such abundance
of knowledge and experience, such careful examination of all the
past and present bearings of the subjects, such a keen, calm
scrutiny of the future, would secure to the church from such men an
ecclesiastical legislation of the highest practical wisdom, as well
in what is retained as in what is changed or added as new. But, as
Catholics, we should never lose sight of that higher wisdom with
which the Holy Ghost, according to the words of Christ, and in answer
to the prayers of the Catholic world, will not fail to guide the
fathers of the council.[19]

It will thus be seen that during this month the council has steadily
pursued the even tenor of its way, without any public session. In
fact, no day has as yet been assigned even as the proximate date of
the third public session. No one outside the council seems able to
say precisely what progress has been made in discussing and disposing
of matters. Still less can we say when the council will close. There
seems to be a feeling that the discussions will continue until
June, when the almost tropical heat of a Roman summer must set in.
This will, of course, necessitate an adjournment until the close
of October, when the bishops would probably reassemble to continue
their work. Time only can show whether there is any truth in this
prognostication. Some of the bishops, of a more practical turn of
mind, or more desirous of returning soon to their dioceses, are
striving to find a mode of conciliating the most perfect freedom
of discussion with a more rapid progress in the matters before the
council. The most sacred right in a council is freedom to state
one's views on matters in controversy, and to uphold them by all
the arguments in one's power. This right has so far been most fully
enjoyed and freely used. No plan that would take it away would be
entertained.

Every day in Rome now convinces a sojourner more and more strongly of
the unity, the catholicity, and the sanctity of the church of Christ.
Faith that heretofore was almost extinct beneath the ashes of worldly
thoughts, here glows again and bursts into a bright flame. Elsewhere
we believed these truths; here we seem to behold with our eyes, and
to touch with our hands their reality. No one can be privileged
to mingle with the bishops here without being impressed with their
perfect unity in all things declared and taught by the church, and
with the undisguised readiness or rather firm intention of all, to
accept and to hold and to teach all that, under the light of the Holy
Ghost, shall be declared of faith in this Vatican Council. If, during
the discussion and examination, they may take different views, this
does not disturb the cordial affection among them. They can array
their strongest arguments without ever descending to personalities.
They are chary of indulging even in witticism calculated to relieve
the solemnity of the debate by a smile. In all the discussion there
is not only the highest gentlemanly courtesy, but also that true
charity and union of hearts which must accompany that unity of faith
which they solemnly professed to hold, and which must, if possible,
be confirmed and strengthened in this Vatican Council.

To be fully impressed with this perfect unity, one must be privileged
to mingle somewhat with the bishops. But even the cursory glance of a
stranger sees the evidence of the catholicity of the church presented
by the gathering of so many bishops from so many portions of the
world around the central chair of unity. We have already spoken of
this in our former articles. We will now give a summary, almost
official, which has just been made out, classifying the prelates who
have attended, according to their nationalities and dioceses:

        EUROPE.

    Austria and Tyrol,                              10
    Bohemia and Moravia,                             5
    Illyria and Dalmatia,                           13
    Hungary and Gallicia,                           20
    Belgium,                                         6
    France,                                         84
    Germany, North Confederation,                   10
    Germany, South Confederation,                    9
    England,                                        14
    Ireland,                                        20
    Scotland,                                        2
    Greece,                                          5
    Holland,                                         4
    Lombardy,                                        3
    Venice,                                          8
    Naples, Kingdom of,                             65
    Sicily and Malta,                               13
    Sardinia, Kingdom of,                           25
    Tuscany and Modena,                             19
    States of the Church, including cardinals,
      and also all the bishops from sees in
      those portions seized by Victor Emmanuel,    143
    Portugal,                                        2
    Switzerland,                                     8
    Spain,                                          41
    Turkey in Europe,                               12
    Russia, an administrator of a diocese who
      has escaped,                                  1

        ASIA.

    China and Japan,                                15
    Hindostan and Cochin China, etc.,               18
    Persia,                                          1
    Turkey in Asia,                                 49

        AFRICA.

    Algeria,                                         3
    Canary Islands and the Azores,                   3
    Egypt and Tunis,                                 3
    Senegambia,                                      1
    Southern Africa,                                 4

        OCEANICA.

    Australia and the Islands of the Pacific
      Ocean,                                        14

        AMERICA.

    Dominion of Canada, and other British
      Provinces of North America,                   16
    United States,                                  49
    Mexico,                                         10
    Guatemala,                                       4
    West Indies,                                     5
    New Granada,                                     4
    Ecuador,                                         4
    Guyana,                                          1
    Venezuela,                                       2
    Peru,                                            3
    Brazil,                                          6
    Bolivia,                                         2
    Argentine Republic,                              5
    Chili,                                           3

    That is, Europe,   541
             America,  114
             Asia,      83
             Africa,    14
             Oceanica,  14
                       ---
                       766

Divided according to rites, they stand as follows:

    Latin Rite,         706
    Greek Rite,           3
    Greek Bulgarian,      1
    Greek Melchite,      10
    Greek Roumenian,      2
    Greek Ruthenian,      1
    Armenian,            21
    Chaldean,            10
    Syrian,               7
    Maronite,             4
    Coptic,               1
                        ---
                        766

Truly, it is such a gathering as no human power could assemble. Only
the Catholic Church could effect it. No wonder that strangers from
every clime, especially devout Catholics, have flocked to Rome these
months as they never flocked before.

The splendor of the ceremonies of our holy church, as celebrated
in Rome, especially in St. Peter's, is unequalled in the whole
world. A gray-haired ambassador was present some years ago in St.
Peter's at the celebration of high mass by the sovereign pontiff
on Easter-Sunday. He had been present at two imperial and several
royal coronations, where every effort was made to give a national
magnificence to the ceremony; had witnessed several royal marriages,
and grand court celebrations of every character. But he declared
that every thing he had ever seen sank into insignificance before
the grandeur and the sublime magnificence of that high mass. Never
were the religious celebrations of Rome so magnificent as they have
been and are during this council, when the sanctuary is filled with
more than half a thousand prelates, Latin and oriental, in their
rich and varied vestments. Strangers and Romans alike crowd the
grand basilica. Yet the stranger often fails to see, what the Roman
feels, as it were, by instinct, that all this effort at splendor
and magnificence is purely and wholly a tribute of man to honor the
religion which God in his love and mercy has given, and that no
part of it is for man's own honor. If the stranger would realize
this truth, which is the soul of the ceremonial of the church, he
has but to follow these prelates from the sanctuary to their homes,
and witness the simplicity and self-denial of their private lives.
Perhaps he will be shocked at the unexpected discovery of what he
would term discomfort and poverty.

In such personal simplicity and self-denial the sovereign pontiff
himself gives the example in the Vatican. The palace is large--very
large; but the libraries, the archives, the various museums, and
the galleries and halls of paintings, of statuary, and of art,
occupy no small portion of it. Other portions of it are devoted to
the vast workshops of the unrivalled Roman mosaics, others still to
the mint. The offices of the secretary of state, and the bureaus of
other departments are there. The Sixtine, and Pauline, and other
chapels are found in it; and the various officers and attendants of
the court have many of them their special apartments. The pontiff
has his suite of rooms, as well those of state as those that are
private. You enter a large, well-proportioned hall, rich with gilding
and arabesque and fresco paintings. A company of soldiers might
manœuvre on its marble floor. It is large enough to receive the
fullest suite of a sovereign who would visit the pope. Just now,
eight or ten soldiers in a rich military uniform are lounging here,
as it were, for form's sake. In the next room--a smaller and less
ornamented one, yet in something of the same style, and with a few
benches for furniture--a servant will take your hat and cloak. In
a third room, you find some ecclesiastical attendants. You pass
through a fourth room of considerable size. It is now empty. At times
a consistory or meeting of the cardinals for business is held here;
at other times, an ascetic Capuchin father, with his tonsured head,
his long beard, his coarse brown woollen cassock fastened around the
waist by a cord, and with sandalled feet, preaches to the cardinals
and bishops and officials of the court, and to the pope himself. With
the freedom and bravery of a man who, to follow Christ, has given up
the world, and hopes for nothing from man, and fears nothing save to
fail in his duty, he reminds those whom men honor of their duties and
obligations, and in plain, ofttimes unvarnished language, will not
shrink from speaking the sternest, strongest home truths of religion.
You pass through the silent hall in reverence. A fourth hall, with a
better carpeting, (for it is winter,) and tolerably warmed, is the
ante-chamber proper, where those are waiting who are to be admitted
to an audience of the pope. In another smaller room, opening from
this one, those are waiting whose turn it will be to enter next; or
perhaps a group is assembled, if the pope will come out hither to
receive them, as he sometimes does, when the audience is simply one
not of business, but simply for the honor of being presented to him
and of receiving his blessing. All these which we have enumerated
are the state or ceremonial apartments. From the last one, you pass
to the private office or sitting-room of the sovereign pontiff. It
is a plain room, about fifteen feet by twenty, not lofty, lighted by
a single window, and without a fire-place. Two or three devotional
paintings hang against the walls; a stand supports a small and
exquisitely chiselled statue of the Blessed Virgin. At one side of
the room, on a slight platform, is the pope's arm-chair, in which he
is seated, clothed in his white woollen _soutane_. Before him is his
large writing-table, with well-filled drawers and pigeon-holes. On it
you see pens, ink, sand, and paper, his breviary, perhaps, and one
or two volumes, and an ivory crucifix. A small case in the corner of
the room contains some other books, some objects of _vertu_, medals,
and such articles as he designs to give as mementoes. There is a thin
carpet on the floor, and a couple of plain wooden chairs are near the
table. Here Pius IX. ordinarily spends many hours each day, as hard
worked as any bank clerk. He is exceedingly regular in his habits.
He rises before five in summer, at half-past five in winter. In half
an hour he passes to his private chapel and gives an hour and a half
to his devotions, and to the celebration of two masses; the first
by himself, the second by one of his chaplains. A cup of chocolate
and a small roll of bread suffices for his breakfast. He at once
passes to his office, and works for one hour alone and undisturbed.
Then commence the business audiences of the heads or secretaries
of the various departments, civil and ecclesiastical; a long and
tedious work, in which he gives a conscientious attention to every
detail. By half-past eleven A.M., he commences to receive bishops
and ecclesiastics or strangers from abroad. This usually ends by one
P.M., when he retires for his midday devotions, and for his dinner,
and repose. This may be followed by more work, alone in his office.
At half-past three in winter, at half-past four in summer, if the
weather allows it, he gives an hour and a half to a drive and a walk.
Returning home, he takes a slight repast, and again the audiences
for business or for strangers commence, and last until after eight.
At nine punctually he retires, to commence again the same routine
the next day. Such are his regular days. At other times he must be
in church, or must visit one institution or establishment or another
in the city, spend an hour or two in ceremony or business, and hurry
home. Near this sitting-room is a smaller room where he takes his
meals alone; for the pope neither gives nor accepts entertainments.
His table does not cost more than thirty cents a day. Not far off is
his sleeping chamber, small as the other, with a narrow bed and hard
couch. Truly, his is no life of ease and pampered indulgence. There
is a stern meaning in his title, _Servant of the Servants of God_.

The same simplicity and austereness marks the private life of the
cardinals. There is now, indeed, an outward show, for they rank as
princes of the blood royal. There are the richly-ornamented carriages
drawn by brilliantly-harnessed horses, and attended by servants in
livery. There are the decorated state ante-chambers and halls. All
these things are for the public, and are prescribed by rule. If a
cardinal has not himself the means to support them, he would be
entitled to a state salary for the purpose of keeping them up. But
back of all these may be found a plain, almost unfurnished room, in
which he studies and writes, and a bed-chamber--we have seen some not
ten feet by twelve, carpetless and fireless. Oftentimes, too, the
cardinal lives in the religious house of some community, and then
much of the state can be dispensed with. But for the red calotte
which he wears on his head, you often could not distinguish him from
the other clergymen in the establishment.

The same spirit seems to characterize the bishops who are now
gathered together in Rome. All their splendor is in the church
and for religion. In their private life they certainly do not
belong to that class of strangers from whose lavish expenditures
in fashionable life the Romans will reap a rich harvest. They live
together in groups, mostly in religious houses or colleges, or in
apartments, which several club together to take at moderate rates.
Thus the Chaldean patriarch, a venerable, white-bearded prelate, near
eighty years of age, with the other bishops of his rite, and their
attendant priests, all live together in one monastery, not far from
St. Peter's. Whatever the weather, they go on foot in their oriental
dress to the council, and when the meeting is over, return on foot.
Their stately, oriental walk, their calm, thoughtful countenances,
the colored turbans on their heads, the mixture of purple and black
and green and red, in their flowing robes, set off by the gold of
their massive episcopal chains, and their rich crosses sparkling with
diamonds, never fail to attract attention. But one should see them
in their home, which they have made as Eastern as they could. The
orientals are exceedingly temperate in their meals, and as regards
wine, are almost "teetotalers." But they do love to smoke. As the
visitor is ushered into a room, where the only piece of furniture
is a broad cushioned seat running round along the walls, on which
are seated a dozen or more of long-bearded men, their feet gathered
up under them in oriental fashion, and each one smoking a pipe a
yard long, and filling the atmosphere with the clouds of Latakia, he
almost thinks himself in Mossoul. The pipes are gravely withdrawn on
his entrance, that the right hand may go to the forehead, and the
heads may bow. The welcome, _schalom_, "peace," is gravely spoken,
with perhaps a smile. He takes a seat on the divan and is asked
to take a pipe, if so minded. From time to time, the silence is
interrupted by some remark in a full, sedate voice, and intensely
guttural words of Chaldee or Arabic, whether on the last debate of
the council or on some new phase of the Eastern question, it is
probable the visitor will never learn. But he has caught a glimpse of
quiet Chaldean life. Fourteen or fifteen of the Armenian prelates,
with their patriarch, live in a not very dissimilar manner. But the
Armenians are much more akin to Europeans in their education and
character of thought. They are good linguists. All of them speak
Italian fluently, many of them French, and some a little English.
Their society is agreeable and instructive, and is much sought.

In like manner eighteen of the American bishops are domiciled in the
American College. Some others are with the Lazarists at their mother
house, others again are at St. Bridget's or St. Bartholomew's, or
with the Dominicans. Those that have taken apartments have contrived
with a very few exceptions to live together in groups. The English,
the Irish, in fact, nearly all the bishops, have followed the same
plan. Some laughingly say that their college days have come back to
them, with their regularity and their accommodations. But these are
not quite as agreeable at fifty or sixty as they were at the age
of twenty. Yet all feel, and none more thoroughly than the bishops
themselves, that this life of comparative retirement, of quiet and
study, and of continued and closest intercourse with each other, must
tend to prepare them, and to qualify them for the great work on which
they are engaged.

Another special feature of Rome in this season, dependent on the
council, is the frequency of sermons in various languages, and of
various religious services in the churches. Rome as the centre of
Catholicity is never without a certain number of clergymen from every
nation of Europe. Each winter, too, sees thousands of visitors,
Catholics, Protestants, and unbelievers, crowding her streets, drawn
hither by motives of religion, of science, of curiosity, or of
fashion. It was natural that visitors should be enabled to listen to
the truths of our holy religion preached in their own languages. This
year it could be done much more fully, and the opportunity has not
been allowed to pass by unregarded. For example, "The Pious Society
for Missions," an excellent community of priests, established in
this city over thirty years ago by the saintly Abbate Pallotta, has
the custom of celebrating the festival and octave of Epiphany each
year by appropriate religious exercises, and introducing sermons
in several languages. This year they selected the larger and noble
church of San Andrea della Valle, and continued their exercises for
eleven days. The following was the programme which they followed:
At 5.30 A.M., mass; at 6 A.M., Italian sermon and benediction; at
9 A.M., high mass of the Latin rite; at 10 A.M., high mass in an
oriental rite, (Armenian, Greek, Copt, Chaldean, Roumenian, Melchite,
Bulgarian, Maronite, Armenian again, Syrian, Ambrosian;) at 11 A.M.,
a sermon in some foreign language--that is, Polish once, German
twice, Spanish twice, English six times, (Archbishop Spalding,
Father Hecker, and Bishop McGill, Bishop Moriarty of Kerry, Bishop
Ullathorne, and Archbishop Manning were the English preachers.) At
1.30 P.M. each day, a French sermon by a bishop; at 3.30 P.M., an
Italian sermon and benediction; at 6 P.M., another sermon in Italian
with benediction. The sermons were all, of course, of a high order
of merit. The church was crowded morning, forenoon, afternoon, and
evening.

French sermons have been continued ever since, mostly by the eloquent
Bishop Mermillod, of Geneva, and English sermons on Sundays and
Wednesdays by F. Burke, an eloquent Dominican of St. Clement's, and
by Monsignor Capel. During Lent there will be an additional series of
English sermons, to be delivered by the American bishops.

On the 20th of January, the American episcopate and the American
College received from the Holy Father a very signal and agreeable
mark of his good will. It was meant, one might almost think, as a
return visit on his part, in the only way which court etiquette
allows. He chose the church of the college as the place where he
would pronounce a decree in the cause of the venerable servant of
God, John Juvenal Ancina, Bishop of Saluzzo, in Northern Italy.
In that church he would, of course, be surrounded by the American
prelates, priests, and students, and from the church would pass to
the college.

John Juvenal Ancina was born in Fossano, in Piedmont, in 1545.
Having finished his course of collegiate studies, he graduated in
medicine, and for years practised that profession with great ability,
and greater charity toward the poor, to whom he devoted himself. In
course of time he lost every near relation except one brother. Both
determined with common accord to enter the sanctuary, and came to
Rome for that purpose, and there joined the Oratorians under St.
Philip Neri. John spent years in the priesthood, honored for his
learning, and still more for his piety and sweetness, and zeal in
the ministry, which he exercised in Rome, in Naples, and in Turin.
Much against his will, and only after repeated injunctions from the
pope, he was forced to accept the charge of the diocese of Saluzzo.
He had been the intimate and dear friend of St. Francis de Sales
for years of his priesthood, and their friendship continued until
the close of his short and fruitful episcopacy. He died in 1604,
and St. Francis preached his funeral eulogy. He is the one with
whom the saint had the oft-cited exchange of puns complimentary,
"Tu vere _Sal es_." "Immo, tu _Sal_ et _Lux_." The reputation of
the virtues of such a man could not die with him. Not long after
his death, the episcopal authority of Saluzzo allowed and directed
that full testimony should be taken under oath, from those who lived
with him and knew him well, as to the truth of his holy life. This
was fully and searchingly done throughout the diocess of Saluzzo.
Similar investigations were instituted, under similar authority,
in Rome, in Naples, and in Turin, where at different times he had
lived, and wherever such testimony could be found. The original
depositions--and they are a large mass, and are still extant--were
sent to Rome. The pontiff directed that they should be laid before
the proper tribunal--the Congregation of Rites. They were found to
fulfil the requirements of the canons, and to present such a _primâ
facie_ case as would authorize that congregation to proceed. This
meant that, after a certain lapse of time, during which affection and
human feelings might die out, and any hidden truth might work its way
to the light, the congregation should go over the ground a second
time, taking through other persons a second and independent mass of
testimony. This was done, and its results were compared with those of
the first mass of testimony. There was no contradiction; but on the
contrary, full and ample confirmation. Still, the opinion and belief
of the witnesses was not yet deemed of itself sufficient. Taking
the facts of his life, his words and writings, and acts and habits,
as they were thus proved, they were all studied out and carefully
weighed in the scales of the sanctuary. There was no hurry--there
never is at Rome, as this council fully shows--and the decision
of the congregation was not given until the year 1767. Then came
many political vicissitudes; first of northern Italy, as it passed
from the domination of one power to that of another, and later, the
convulsions of all Europe consequent on the French revolution. The
whole matter slumbered until 1855, when it was again taken up. The
examination of the life and acts was gone over again as before. Step
by step matters advanced until last November, at a general meeting
of the Congregation of Rites, held in the presence of his holiness,
it was decided _That the servant of God, John Juvenal Ancina, had in
his lifetime practised the theological virtues of faith, hope, and
charity, toward God and his neighbor, and the cardinal virtues of
prudence, justice, fortitude, and temperance, and their accessory
virtues, in an heroic degree_. It was to announce this decision,
in a formal decree, that the pontiff came on the 29th January, the
festival of St. Francis de Sales, to the church of the American
College. He arrived at ten A.M., and was received at the portal
of the college by the rector of the college, and all the American
bishops now at Rome, and by a dozen others, Irish, English, Scotch,
and Italian. He proceeded at once to the church, which, though
small, is one of the handsomest in Rome for its beautiful marbles
and fine statuary. The pontiff knelt, while one of his chaplains
celebrated mass. The bishops, all the American priests in the city,
the students of the college, and many Catholics from the United
States, and some other strangers, filled the little church. After the
mass, the pontiff ascended to the throne prepared for him. Cardinal
Patrizi, prefect of the Congregation of Rites Cardinal Capalti, who
had special charge of this case, and Cardinal Barnabò, protector
of the college, stood next to him. The formal decree was read,
proclaiming the decision in virtue of which we shall henceforth say,
"_the_ VENERABLE _John Juvenal Ancina_."[20] The superior general of
the Oratorians, to which community, as we have said, he belonged,
returned thanks in an eloquent and brief discourse in Latin. The
pope then, taking his theme from the life of the VENERABLE bishop,
addressed to the prelates present a short and feeling discourse, in
Italian, on the character and virtues which should adorn a bishop.
Though he did not mention the council, it was evident that the
thought of it filled his heart. He spoke of the servant of God whom
he had just declared venerable as imitating the apostles. They, from
being fishermen, were called to be fishers of men; and he too, from
being a physician of the body, was called to be a physician of souls.
This holy man he showed to be a model of bishops, and enlarged on the
text of St. Gregory the Great, that a bishop should be "in thought,
pure; in deeds, eminent; in silence, discreet; in word, useful; in
the contemplation of heavenly things, elevated." "Who will ascend
to the mountain of the Lord? Let him be of pure hands and clean
heart." Let him be single-minded, doing every thing for the glory
of God, without any admixture of human motives. Let him be first in
all good works, so as to be a pattern to his flock. He did not speak
of that silence which means cowardice, or indifference to whatever
evil goes on in the world. There is a time to speak, as well as a
time to be silent. The bishop must be useful in words, speaking out
boldly whenever it is for the advantage of the Christian people. He
must be a man of prayer. What is the origin of the evils which we
see in the world? The prophet answers, "Because there is no one who
thinketh in his heart." The pontiff dwelt for a few moments on all
these points, and in conclusion quoted St. Gregory again, who said,
"I have given you a beautiful picture of a bishop, though the painter
be bad." "What the saint says out of humility, I must say," he added,
"of myself in truth. But pray for me that God may give me strength
to bear the heavy weight he has laid upon me. Let us pray for each
other. Do you pray for me; and I call on the Almighty to bless you,
and your dioceses, and your people."

The words of the pontiff were simple, because full of devotion and
truth; and the delivery was exquisitely perfect, in the earnest,
heart-felt, subdued tones of his voice, and the chaste dignity of his
gesture. All felt that the pontiff spoke from his paternal heart.

The Bishop of Saluzzo, the successor in this century of the VENERABLE
_Ancina_, returned thanks; and all proceeded from the church to the
grand hall of the college. The cloister of the court-yard and the
broad stairways and corridors were adorned with drapery, tapestry,
and evergreens. A splendid life-size portrait of his holiness, just
painted by the American artist, Healy, for the exhibition about
to be opened, had been sent to the college for the occasion, and
was placed in a prominent position. In the hall, the pontiff again
spoke a few kind and paternal words, and Archbishop Spalding, in
the name of the American church, clergy and laity, made an address
to the pope in Latin. The discourse was excellent in language and
happy in thought. His grace referred to the fact that Pius VI. had
given us our first bishop, (Dr. Carroll, of Baltimore;) Pius VII. had
multiplied dioceses, and given us our first archiepiscopal see; and
he, Pius IX., had established six other archiepiscopal sees. So that
in a country where sixty years ago there was but one bishop, there
are now sixty, three fourths of whom are here in Rome to attend the
general council. Toward the end of his discourse, the good archbishop
brought in a few touches of true American wit. This is what Italians
would scarcely venture on, on such an occasion, and it was to them
unexpected. Even the pope looked for a moment puzzled, as if he could
not conjecture what was coming; but as he caught the point, a smile
spread over his countenance, and the smile developed into a hearty
laugh. As for the Italian prelates, at first they wondered--as who
would not, at an American joke in the language of Cicero?--but at
last not all their stately dignity could resist its force, and they
laugh yet, as they repeat it.

The bishops, the superiors, and students of the college, the priests
who were present, and the laity, approached to offer their homage to
the pontiff and receive his blessing. This over, he departed, but not
until he had declared that he was delighted, more than delighted,
with his visit.

ROME, February 17, 1870.

FOOTNOTES:

[19] We have studiously avoided entering on the specific subjects
of the debate among the fathers. So far as they have come to our
knowledge, we are of course not allowed to speak of them, at
least at present. But we trust we shall not be held as violating
any confidence when we repeat a statement made to us on the best
authority. Many of the fathers of the Vatican Council seem well
acquainted with our Second Plenary Council of Baltimore. More
than once it was referred to with special commendation as having
thoroughly seized the character of this modern age in which we live.
And the desire was expressed that its special regulations on one
or two points for the church in the United States could be made
universal laws for the whole church.

[20] When it shall have been established with the evidence required
by the Congregation of Rites that it has pleased God to work two
miracles, of the first class, after the death of this venerable
servant, through his intercession, a decree may be issued stating
that fact, and allowing his beatification. When two other miracles of
the same class shall have been proved with the same certainty to have
occurred, after his beatification, the blessed servant of God may be
canonized and enrolled among the saints of the church.



FOREIGN LITERARY NOTES.


For the sake of making a point against the Catholic Church,
Protestants and indifferents are frequently so poverty-stricken
in authorities as to quote Voltaire. When told that they cite the
authority of a man who was unprincipled, cynical, and impious, they
answer that such an estimate is simply the result of a bigoted and
narrow-minded prejudice, and that the great French philosopher was
liberal, honorable, and conscientious.

An incident has lately occurred in France to call forth the
deliberate opinion of a body of men eminently fitted from superior
education, elevated position, and freedom from any possible suspicion
of Catholic bias, to form an estimate which to our friends above
referred to must be looked upon as authoritative and decisive,
although open to the objection of being too mild and qualified.

Some fifteen years ago, a proposition was started in a Paris daily
newspaper for the popular collection, in small sums, of a sufficient
amount to erect a statue to Voltaire in the French capital. When the
success of the subscription seemed sufficiently assured, petition
was made to the government to grant a site on some public square on
which to place the statue. After long delay, and some appearance of
unwillingness, the petition was finally granted; but the announcement
of this fact was immediately followed by the presentation of a large
number of protests against the erection of the statue, which came
in from all parts of the empire. One of these protests, signed by a
thousand inhabitants of the departments of Le Gard and the Drôme, and
the city of Nîsmes, and addressed to the senate, was referred to a
committee of senators for consideration and report. The committee has
made a report, which is understood to be written by M. Silvestre de
Sacy, well known as former chief editor of the _Journal des Débats_,
and a distinguished member of the French Academy. From it we learn
something of the petition, but not as much as we would like to
know. After a recital of the facts we have stated, the report goes
on to say: Undoubtedly, the government had authority to refuse the
permission asked, and still has the power to withdraw it. The right
of private persons to award statues to whomsoever they please, and
to meet and raise money to pay for them, is certainly lawful. But
the public streets and squares are not their property. The number
of these persons does not increase their right. They act, in such
a matter, solely for themselves, and not for the whole country, of
which they have no right to pretend to be the representatives. Among
the serious considerations which might have made the government
hesitate, is the very name Voltaire, which has two significations:
the one glorious for the human intellect and for French literature;
the other for which Voltaire himself would now blush, dragging down
as it does the great historian and great poet to the miserable
calling of an impious and cynical pamphleteer. But it appears that
the subscribers have obtained the permission asked for. The site
has been selected, and the statue will be erected in one of the
squares of the new _Rue de Rennes_. The petition before us protests
against this permission, and prays the intervention of the senate
with the government to obtain the withdrawal of a permission which
it characterizes in the strongest terms. These petitioners see but
one Voltaire--an impious, immoral Voltaire, hostile to all religion;
a Voltaire who conspired with all the enemies of France for the
humiliation and ruin of his country; a Voltaire who, Prussian at
Rosbach with King Frederick, Russian with Catherine II., against
unfortunate Poland, the violator of our purest glory in his poem
_Jeanne d'Arc_, the enemy of liberty, equality, and fraternity, as
may be shown from a hundred passages in his correspondence and
writings, an abject courtier and a servile adulator of kings. "I
ask," says the first petitioner, speaking for all the others--"I ask
that the image of this man shall not appear upon our public squares,
to cast insult in the face of the country. I ask that this disgrace
be spared France." The senatorial report then goes on to say that
there are two Voltaires--the Voltaire described in the petition, and
the Voltaire who wrote _La Henriade_, who, by various masterpieces
in poetry and the drama, placed himself near Horace, Corneille, and
Boileau; Voltaire the historian, to whom we are indebted for _Le
Siècle de Louis XIV._, the essay _Sur l'Esprit et sur les Mœurs
des Nations_, and that perfect model of rapid and lively narration,
_L'Histoire de Charles XII._; the Voltaire, in fine, whose name could
not be covered with oblivion without obscuring some of the glories of
French literature. No, continues the report, whatever may be asserted
to the contrary, all of Voltaire is not in some shafts of satire
which fell from the ill-humor of the partisan and the angry writer,
in pamphlets against religion, as poor in good taste and good sense
as in true science, in a poem in which it is most sad to see wit
and talent pressed into the disreputable service of ornamenting the
wretched obscenity of the argument; all of Voltaire is not in single
passages selected from a correspondence of sixty years. If in these
were the whole of Voltaire, his memory would long since have been
accursed or dead, his works long since have been without readers or
publishers, and the idea of raising a statue in his honor would have
occurred to no one. Although the avowal is a painful one, it must be
confessed that Voltaire has himself and the deplorable errors of his
genius alone to blame for the bitterness of the recriminations which
injure his brilliant fame. He has too often been unjust to others not
to expect that others should be unjust to him. It is his own fault
if his name recalls to pious thinkers, to timid hearts, to the faith
of ardent souls, only the writer who would not respect in others the
noble hopes he himself had lost. Voltaire desired to be the leader
of incredulity. He was; and now he pays the penalty for it. Something
equivocal remains, and will ever remain associated with his fame.
Respectable people can consent to award him eulogies and statues
only with distinctions and reserves. The declared enemy of disorder
and demagogism, he is sometimes invoked as a seditious tribune, as
a burner of churches; and one of the most elegant minds has left in
his writings, along with a great many marvellous works, food for
passions which, in his better days, his good taste and his good sense
would energetically condemn. The report concludes against asking the
revocation of the permission granted by the government, on the ground
that it will be understood by all that the honor of a statue is
conceded not to the Voltaire with reason petitioned against, but to
the author whose works are subjects of legitimate national pride.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the year 400, a Buddhist priest, Fah-Hian, commenced the long
journey from China to India and back, and left a narrative of his
travels. A century later, a similar journey was made by another
Buddhist priest, Sung-Yun, who also left an account of his foreign
experiences. Singularly enough, these works have survived all
these centuries, and have long been objects of great interest to
the oriental scholars of Europe. Remusat and Klaproth published a
translation of Fah-Hian at Paris in 1836. This work, in quarto,
was soon followed by an English translation by Laidley. Many
serious errors, especially in geography, were pointed out in these
translations by St. Julien, and Professor Neumann also gave a
translation of the two Buddhist works, in the _Zeitschrift für
historische Theologie_, vol. iii., 1833. Meantime, additional light
had been thrown upon the subject by such publications as Edkin's
Notice of Buddhism in China, and General Cunningham's work; and a
full and amended version of the Buddhist priests' travels, together
with an interesting treatise on Buddhism, is now published in London
by Trübner & Co. Its title is, _Travels of Fah-Hian and Sung-Yun,
Buddhist Pilgrims, from China to India_, (400-518 A.D.,) translated
from the Chinese by Samuel Beal.

       *       *       *       *       *

The completion of Alfred von Reumont's History of the City of Rome,
(_Geschichte der Stadt Rom_,) which has now reached its third volume,
is looked for by European scholars with great interest. It is
universally praised as a work of remarkable research, learning, and
unusual impartiality.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Testamenta XII Patriarcharum, ad fidem Cantabrigiensis edita;
accedunt lectiones cod. Oxoniensis. The Testaments of the XII.
Patriarchs; an Attempt to estimate their Historic and Dogmatic
Worth._ By R. Sinker, M.A., Chaplain of Trinity College. Cambridge:
Deighton, Bell. London: Bell & Daldy. 1869.

An elegant edition of this apocryphal work, carefully revised and
annotated from manuscripts preserved at Cambridge and Oxford, with
a learned and judicious treatise. Ecclesiastical antiquity has left
us but little positive information concerning these testaments. We
are certain that the testaments of the twelve patriarchs were known
to Tertullian and to Origen, but we do not know who wrote them. Was
the author a Jew, a Christian from among the Gentiles, or a Christian
of Jewish race? Was he an Ebionite or a Nazarene? Is the work all
from one hand, or is it interpolated? On all these points there is a
difference of opinion. Equally in doubt are the points, When was the
book written? for what class of readers was it specially intended?
and what was the author's object in writing it? Mr. Sinker discusses
the subject with great firmness, and concludes, but without any
dogmatism, that the author was a Jewish Christian of the sect of the
Nazarenes, and that the work was composed at a period between the
taking of Jerusalem by Titus and the revolt of the Jew Barcochba
in 135. One of the most important portions of Mr. Sinker's work
is on the _Christology_ of the Testaments, (pages 88-116.) He is
satisfied that the author expresses his belief in the mystery of the
incarnation, and he sets forth the doctrine of the Testaments on
the Messiah, king and pontiff, descendant of Juda and Levi, priest
and victim, Lamb of God, Saviour of the world, etc. etc. The work
really merits a longer notice, and should be in the hands of all
who can profit by its perusal. Many important questions concerning
the primitive history of Christianity, obscured by the fallacious
conjectures of anti-Christian critics, may have much light thrown
upon them.

       *       *       *       *       *

Some of the English periodicals are not especially brilliant
or profound in their appreciation of and comments upon foreign
literature. Take the London _Athenæum_, for instance, the same
periodical which last year approved with such an air of wisdom the
author who undertook to revive the old exploded fable of a female
pope. It informs its readers, (number of 6th November last,) "The
Man with the Iron Mask continues to occupy the learned in search of
problematical questions. M. Marius Topin has come to the conclusion
that Lauzun was the man. We believe this theory has already been
advocated." Now, from the most superficial reading of M. Topin's
work, (provided the reader knows a little more French than the
_Athenæum_,) it is perfectly clear that, although M. Topin speaks
of Lauzun as a prisoner at Pignerol, he expressly says that it is
impossible to think seriously of him as a candidate for the iron
mask, for the simple reason that Lauzun was set at liberty some years
before the death of the masked prisoner.

       *       *       *       *       *

_A Scripture Concordance_, prepared and written by a lawyer, is
something of a novelty in Catholic ecclesiastical literature. And
the concordance is not an ordinary one of words and names. It is
exclusively of texts of Scripture and words relating to our ideas
and sentiments, our virtues and our vices, our duties to God and our
neighbor, our obligations to ourselves, thus strikingly demonstrating
the grandeur of its precepts, the beauty of its teachings, and
the sublimity of its moral. Texts purely doctrinal are rigorously
excluded, and but one name is retained--the divine name of the
Saviour. The book is entitled, _SS. Scripturæ Concordantiæ Novæ, seu
Doctrina moralis et dogmatica e sacris Testamentorum Codicibus ordine
alphabetico desumpta, in qua textus de qualibet materia facilius
promptiusque quam in aliis concordantiis inveniri possunt, auctore
Carolo Mazeran, Advocato_. Paris and Brussels. 1869. 8vo.

       *       *       *       *       *

Two distinguished Catholic artists have lately died at Rome, Overbeck
the painter, and Tenerani the sculptor. Overbeck's graceful and
inspired religious compositions are too well-known to need comment
here. Tenerani was a pupil of Canova and of Thorwaldsen. His "Descent
from the Cross," in the church of St. John Lateran, and his "Angel of
the Last Judgment," sculptured on a tomb in the church of St. Mary of
Rome, have been often admired by many American travellers.

       *       *       *       *       *

_S. Clement of Rome, the two Epistles to the Corinthians._ A revised
Text, with Introduction and Notes, by J. B. Lightfoot, D.D., Hulsean
Professor of Divinity and Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge.
London: Macmillan. 1869. 8vo. Professor Lightfoot appears to have
suspended the publication of his commentaries on the epistles of St.
Paul, and to have taken up the apostolic fathers. The first epistle
of St. Clement, addressed to the Corinthians, is of well-settled
authenticity from the testimony of Hermas, Dionysius, Bishop of
Corinth, Hegesippus, (cited by Eusebius, iv. 22,) and numerous
others. Although not classed among the canonical books, this epistle
has always been highly prized as what may be called a liturgical
document. St. Jerome bears testimony that it was read publicly in
the churches, (_in nonnullis locis publice legitur_.) So also does
Eusebius. Dr. Lightfoot's task is well performed. In his preface
he develops the statements above mentioned, enumerates the various
writings ascribed to St. Clement of Rome, and in speaking of the
_recognitiones_, relates the history of the false decretals. In
this work, as in many others on very ancient manuscripts, the art
of topography has been of the greatest service. The codex from
which these two epistles of St. Clement are taken, is the celebrated
one presented by Cyril Lucar to Charles I., and now preserved in
the British Museum. The authorities of the museum had it carefully
photographed, so that the author could make use of it at his own
pleasure, and at his own house, as, of course, no such manuscript
would be allowed to leave the museum even for an hour. A second
volume of this work of Professor Lightfoot is promised, which will
contain the epistles of St. Ignatius and St. Polycarp.

       *       *       *       *       *

_A Comparative Grammar of Sanskrit, Greek, and Latin_, by William
Hugh Ferrar, Fellow and Tutor of Trinity College, Dublin. Vol. I.
London: Longman. 1869. 8vo. Studies in philology and comparative
grammar appear to be on the increase in Great Britain, and are now
pursued with great industry. Mr. Ferrar freely uses the labors of
Bopp, Schleicher, Corssen, Curtius, and Max Müller, but by no means
slavishly. He criticises their various systems with great freedom and
intelligence, and produces a really meritorious work.

       *       *       *       *       *

We remark the publication in Paris of a French translation of the
first volume of the _History of the United Provinces_, by our
countryman, John Lothrop Motley, the work to be completed in eight
volumes.

       *       *       *       *       *

We see announced, and as soon to appear, the first part of a work
entitled, _Alexandre VI. et les Borgia_. The author is the reverend
Father Ollivier, of the order of _Fréres Prêcheurs_.

       *       *       *       *       *

_L'Histoire de la Restauration_, vol. vii., is the last work of
M. Alfred Nettement, a distinguished, conscientious, and talented
journalist and historian, who lately died in France, regretted and
honored by men of all parties. He was sixty-four years of age, and
had been an industrious author for forty years. Count Montalembert
called him the type of the journalist and historian, _sans peur et
sans reproche_.

       *       *       *       *       *

The result of the chronological researches of M. Zumpt concerning
the year of the birth of our Saviour (_Das Geburtsjahr Christi.
Geschichtlich-chronologische Untersuchungen_) is rather severely
commented upon by the German critics, notwithstanding his high
historical reputation. They claim that he has not solved the problems
presented by himself.

       *       *       *       *       *

Volume iii. of the series of _Lives of the Archbishops of
Canterbury_, by Dr. Hook, dean of the cathedral of Chichester,
contains a biography of Cardinal Pole. It is said to contain much new
material on the subject, from the MSS. collections of Simancas and
the Record Office.

       *       *       *       *       *

The readers of Sir Walter Scott are aware that he made frequent use
of an old poetical history of Robert Bruce. Traces of it are frequent
in his _Lord of the Isles_, and he gives an analysis of it in his
_Tales of a Grandfather_. The poem was written in the fifteenth
century by John Barbour, Archdeacon of Aberdeen, and is lately
published in Scotland, _The Bruce; or, The Metrical History of Robert
I., King of Scots_. By Master John Barbour, Archdeacon of Aberdeen.
Published from a MS. dated 1489; with notes and a memoir of the life
of the author. 8vo. Glasgow, 1869.

       *       *       *       *       *

A very remarkable work is one lately published at Milan, _Della
Schiavitù e del servaggio e specialmente dei servi agricoltori_.
Milano. Two vols. in 8vo. It is by the learned Count Cibrario, and
treats of slavery from the period of the Romans down to that of the
rebellion in the United States. His researches among old collections
of MSS. at Venice and Genoa develop the fact that slaves were held in
those cities down to a much later period than is generally supposed.

       *       *       *       *       *

Giovanni Michiel was ambassador of Venice at the court of England
from 1554 to 1557, that is to say, during the reign of Mary. His
dispatches were written in cipher, and during all these years it has
been impossible to copy or use them for want of a key to the cipher.
M. Pasini, an employee in the Venetian archives, has long been
engaged on a complete history of the different ciphers used by the
Venetian ambassadors, and has succeeded in deciphering the letters of
Michiel, which he has lately had published, _I dispacci di Giovanni
Michiel, Ambasciator Veneto in Inghilterra_. Venezia, 1869.

       *       *       *       *       *

Here is a work of remarkable erudition, and unusual interest for
the classical scholar: _Notices sur Rome. Les Noms Romains et les
Dignités mentionnées dans les Légendes des Monnaiés Impériales
Romaines_. Par L'Abbé I. Marchant. Paris, 1869. Imperial 8vo. It is a
learned dissertation upon the origin and signification of the titles,
dignities, and offices mentioned in inscriptions on imperial Roman
coins, the names, surnames, filiation, adoption, and dignities of
emperor, Cæsar, Augustus, censor, pontiff, grand pontiff, princeps
juventutis, proconsul, etc., etc.; the surnames taken from vanquished
nations, _Britannicus_, _Germanicus_, _Dacicus_, _Pannonicus_,
_Parthicus_, _Sarmaticus_; titles seldom merited, and grossly
exaggerated, bestowed upon emperors by the servile flattery of senate
or people, such as _Pater Patriæ_, _Dominus Noster_, _Senior_,
_Pius_, _Felix_, _Felicissimus_, _Beatissimus_, _Nobilissimus_,
_Optimus_, _Maximus_, _Deus_, _Divus_, _Æternus_, _Invictus_,
_Triumphator Gentium_, _Barbararum_, etc. For empresses, _Augusta_,
_Diva_, _Felix_, _Nobilissima_, _Fœmina_, _Mater Castrarum_,
_Mater Augustorum_, etc., etc. Then follow the subordinate titles
of _Questor_, _Triumvir_, _Prefect_, etc., etc. The work is by no
means one of dry nomenclature, and the author, by his fulness of
illustration and attractive style, has produced an admirable work.



NEW PUBLICATIONS.


    CONVERSATIONS ON LIBERALISM AND THE CHURCH. By O. A. Brownson,
    LL.D. New York: D. & J. Sadlier & Co.

This is the first production of the pen of Dr. Brownson which has
appeared under his own name for several years. During this time he
has been a constant contributor to this magazine, and has furnished
a considerable number of valuable articles to other periodicals,
particularly the _Tablet_, of which he has for some time past had
the principal editorial charge. Those who are familiar with the
leonine style of the great publicist cannot have failed to recognize
it even in his anonymous productions, or to admit, whether with
good or with ill grace, that he still remains _facile princeps_
in that high domain which he has chosen for himself. We welcome
the venerable author most heartily on his reappearance upon the
field of intellectual combat with his visor up, and his own avowed
recognizance upon his shield. He appears as the champion of the
encyclical of Pius IX. against that conglomeration of absurd and
destructive errors which its advocates have decorated with the name
of liberalism, and as the defender of the true, genuine principles
of liberty--that liberty which Catholic training and Christian
civilization prepare the greatest possible number of men to enjoy,
to the greatest possible extent, with the least possible danger to
themselves and society.

The volume is small in size, but weighty and precious in matter,
like a lump of gold. There is enough precious metal in it to keep an
ordinary review-writer a-going for three years. The wretched, flimsy
sophistries and falsehoods with which we are bored to death every day
by the writers for the daily papers, screaming like macaws the few
changes of their scanty vocabulary, Railroads, railroads! progress,
progress! mediæval fossil! nineteenth century! are all summed up by
Dr. Brownson in a few sentences much better than one of themselves
can do it. These expressions of the maxims of our _soi-disant_
liberal editors are put into the mouth of an imaginary representative
of the class, who is supposed to be conversing with a Catholic
priest at an unfashionable watering-place. The author, by the mouth
of the priest, answers him fully, and makes an exposition of his
own views and opinions. The editor has nothing to say in rejoinder,
except to repeat over his tiresome, oft-refuted platitudes, ignoring
all his antagonist has alleged and proved against him. Perhaps it
will be said that the doctor has purposely put a weak defence into
the editor's mouth. Not at all. It is no sport to such an expert
swordsman to run a tilt against any but an expert and doughty
antagonist. Give him his choice, and he would prefer to contend with
one who would make the best possible fight for liberalism. In this
case, as the doctor has been obliged to play both sides of the game,
one hand against the other, he has carefully avoided the common
fault of collusion between the right and left hand. He has made his
imaginary editor say all that the real editors can say, and in better
fashion than they can say it. Any person who has taken the trouble
to read the comments of the writers for the press on the massive
arguments of Dr. Brownson's articles, or their other lucubrations
on the subjects treated in this book, will perceive that its author
has not diluted them at all, but has rather infused some of his own
strong tea into their tepid dish-water.

The errors of the liberalists have been to a certain extent already
discussed in our pages, and will be probably discussed more fully and
to greater advantage after the decrees of the Council of the Vatican
are published.

We therefore confine ourselves at present to a particular notice
of one point only in Dr. Brownson's argument, to which we desire
to call special attention. We allude to his exposition of his
views in regard to the relation of the Catholic religion to the
principles of the American constitution. Dr. Brownson is a thorough
Catholic and a thorough American. As a Catholic, he condemns all
the errors condemned by the syllabus of Pius IX. As an American,
he accepts all the principles of the constitution of the United
States. As a philosopher, he reconciles and harmonizes the two
documents of the ecclesiastical and political sovereignties to
which he owes allegiance. If he were wavering or dubious in obeying
the instructions of the encyclical, his exposition of the relation
between Catholic and American principles would have no weight
whatever; for it would be merely an exposition of his own private
version of Catholicity and not of the authorized version. If he were
not thoroughly American, his exposition of the Catholic's ideal
conception of the relations of the church and civil society might
be very perfect, but it would rather confirm than shake the common
persuasion that there is a contrariety between the principles of our
political order and those of the Catholic Church. If he were not a
philosopher, he might present both his religious and his political
doctrines, separately, in such a way as to satisfy the claims both
of orthodoxy and of patriotism; but he would not be able to show how
these two hemispheres can be joined together in a complete whole.
It is one of his greatest merits that he is perpetually aiming at
the construction of these synthetic harmonies of what we may call,
for the sake of the figure, the different gospels of truth, and is
perpetually approximating nearer and nearer to that success which
perhaps cannot be fully achieved by any human intellect. We think he
has substantially succeeded in the task undertaken in the present
volume, and we commend it to the perusal of all Americans, whether
Catholics or non-Catholics, in the hope that it may strengthen both
in the determination to do no injustice to each other, and to remain
always faithful to the allegiance we owe to the American republic. We
recommend it also to Dr. Brownson's numerous admirers and friends in
Europe as a valuable aid to the understanding of what are commonly
called American principles.

So far as the exterior is concerned, this is one of the very finest
books which the Sadliers have yet published.

       *       *       *       *       *

    THE END OF THE WORLD, AND THE DAY OF JUDGMENT. Two Discourses
    preached to the Music Hall Society, by their minister, the
    Rev. William Rounseville Alger. Published by request. Boston:
    Roberts Brothers.

Considering what are the contents of these "discourses," for which,
naturally, the preacher failed to find any text, their title seems
like a dismal jest. There is nothing, however, too absurd for the
Music Hall of Boston, not even the amalgamation of puritanism and
pantheism. We have two palmary objections to the argument of these
discourses, which is, of course, intended to disprove the Christian
doctrine respecting the last judgment and the end of the world. The
first is, the boundless credulity which underlies the whole series
of assumptions on which it is founded; the second is, its total
want of scientific method and accuracy. Mr. Alger has an extensive
knowledge of certain departments of literature, a vivid imagination,
a certain nobleness of sentiment, and a considerable power of graphic
delineation and combination of his intellectual conceptions; but no
logic or philosophy, very little discriminative or analytic skill,
and nothing of the judicial faculty. Wherever his imagination leads,
his intellect follows, and willingly lends itself to clothe all the
visions which are met with on the aerial journey with the garb of
real and rational discoveries. Therefore, we say that his argument
in these discourses rests on credulity, a basis of vapor, like that
which supports a castle in the clouds. We proceed to give some
instances. Mr. Alger has fashioned to himself a conception of what
our Lord Jesus Christ ought to have been, and ought to have said and
done. Throughout these discourses, and his other works, he explains
every thing recorded of the sayings and doings of our divine Lord in
the New Testament according to this _à priori_ conception of his own,
without regard to common sense or sound criticism. This is credulity,
and nothing more. As well might we say, Mr. Alger is a man of sense
and honesty, and therefore he can never have meant any of the absurd
things he seems to say against the Catholic doctrine. Another
extraordinary instance of credulity is the theory of accounting for
the similarity to the principal Catholic dogmas which is seen in the
religious beliefs of heathen nations. It is a fanciful conjecture,
and, as a philosophical theory, untenable, that the same myths had
an independent origin and development among distinct races. There
must have been a common cause and origin of religious traditions, as
well as of languages. Another instance of credulity is found in the
following passage: "It is confidently believed that within twenty
years the views adopted in the present writing will be established
beyond all cavil from any fair-minded critic." Here is a heavy strain
indeed on our faith, worse than that which Moses makes upon poor
Colenso! Worse than all is the following, which we will not credit
to the author's credulity any further than he himself warrants us
in doing by his own language, which we will quote entire, that the
reader may judge for himself of the extent to which it shows in the
author a _penchant_ for the marvellous, provided that the marvellous
is in no way connected with revelation. "A brilliant French writer
has suggested that even if the natural course of evolution does
of itself necessitate the final destruction of the world, yet our
race, judging from the magnificent achievements of science and art
already reached, may, within ten thousand centuries, which will be
long before the foreseen end approaches, obtain such a knowledge
and control of the forces of nature as to make collective humanity
master of this planet, able to shape and guide its destinies, ward
off every fatal crisis, and perfect and immortalize the system as now
sustained. It is an audacious fancy. But, like many other incredible
conceptions which have forerun their own still more incredible
fulfilment, the very thought electrifies us with hope and courage."
(P. 18.)

This is indeed brilliant! It surpasses the famous moon-hoax of Mr.
Locke, and the balloon-voyages of that wild genius Edgar A. Poe, from
whom we have some recent and interesting intelligence, contained in
a volume which we recommend to the congregation of Music Hall; the
volume being entitled _Strange Visitors, by a Clairvoyant_. In those
days, probably, our Congress will have a committee on comets, and
make appropriations for a railroad to the Dog-star.

The second objection to Mr. Alger's argument runs partly into the
first. It is, we have said, totally wanting in scientific method and
accuracy. This is true of the entire process by which the thesis
of the discourses is sustained. This thesis is, that the present
constitution of the world and the human race will endure for ever,
or at least for an indefinitely long period. If there were no light
to be had on this point except the light of nature, the opinion
maintained by the author would be at best only a conjecture. It could
not be made even solidly probable, unless some rational theory were
first established concerning the ultimate destiny of the human race,
and the end for which the present miserably imperfect constitution of
the world had been decreed by the Creator, and the perpetuity of the
existing order on the earth were shown to have a reason in this final
cause of man's creation. The author has not done this, and we do not
believe that it is possible to do it, even prescinding all question
of revelation. Even on scientific grounds--that is, reasoning
from all the analogies known to us, and from purely rational and
philosophical data--it is far more probable and reasonable to suppose
that the present state of the world is merely preparatory to a far
higher and more perfect state, and will be swept away to make place
for it. But when we consider the universality and antiquity of this
latter belief, and the solid mountain of historical, miraculous, and
moral evidence on which rests the demonstration that this belief
proceeds from a divine revelation, it is the most unscientific
method that can be conceived to ignore it, or leap over it by the
aid of fanciful hypotheses, as Mr. Alger does. The manner in which
the Catholic doctrine is distorted and misrepresented, in extremely
bad rhetoric, is also unscientific. Nearly all the pith of this
so-called argument consists in a violent invective against the
notion of a partial, unjust, vindictive Divinity, who rewards and
punishes like an ambitious tyrant, without regard to necessary and
eternal principles of truth, right, and moral laws. So far as this
invective is directed against Calvinism, considered in its logical
entity, and apart from the correctives of common sense and sound
moral sentiment which practically modify it, we give the author the
right of the case. But it is palpably false, as the author has had
ample opportunity of knowing, as respects the Catholic doctrine. He
is unscientific, moreover, in confusing the substance of the doctrine
that the generation of the human race will cease, all mankind be
raised from the dead in their bodies immortal, the ways of God to
man be openly vindicated before the universe, and each one assigned
to an immutable state according to his deserts or fitness, this
visible earth also undergoing a corresponding change of condition;
with the scenic act of proclaiming judgment and inaugurating the
new, everlasting order, which is commonly believed in, according to
the literal sense of the New Testament. If Mr. Alger can show good
reasons for substituting a figurative, metaphorical interpretation of
the passages depicting this last grand scene in the drama of human
history for the literal sense, he is welcome to do it; but he has not
touched the substance of the Catholic dogma which he gratuitously
denies. Mr. Alger tells us, (p. 46,) "Loyalty to truth is the first
duty of every man." It is also one in which he himself signally
fails, by a persistent misrepresentation of Catholic doctrines, by
disregarding the evidence which has been clearly set before him
of their truth, subjecting his intellect to his imagination, and
preaching as "truth" opinions which he cannot possibly prove, in the
teeth of arguments which he cannot possibly refute. One who wilfully
sins against "the first duty of man," by rejecting the faith and law
of his Sovereign Creator when sufficiently proposed to him, must
surely be condemned by divine justice; and it is only such who, the
Catholic Church teaches, will be condemned for infidelity or heresy
at the tribunal of Christ. "The judgment of God," says the author,
"is the return of the laws of being on all deeds, actual or ideal."
(P. 66.) God, therefore, will judge all men by acting toward them
throughout eternity in accordance with that revealed law which is
the transcript of his own immutable nature, and which assures us
that beatitude is gained or lost by the acts which every responsible
creature performs during the time of probation, and that every merit
or demerit has its appropriate retribution in another life. Perhaps
the most foolish thing in these discourses is the gleeful assurance
to the congregation of Music Hall that the world will not come to
an end because it has gone on so long already, although many people
expected the end before this. A great pope has already cautioned us
against this error, in an encyclical of the first century, beginning
_Simon Petrus, Servus et Apostolus Jesu Christi_. "In the last days
there shall come scoffers with deceit, walking according to their
own lusts, saying, Where is his promise, or his coming? For since
the fathers slept, all things continue so from the beginning of the
creation," (2 Pet. iii.)

The good people of the Boston Music Hall who requested the
publication of these discourses, no doubt because they were so much
delighted to think that the world may stand for ever, have been a
little premature in their exultation. The publication of Mr. Alger's
manifesto against St. Peter only gives another proof that the first
of the popes was also a prophet. Who is more likely to be infallible,
Mr. Alger or St. Peter?

       *       *       *       *       *

    LIFE DUTIES. By E. E. Marcy, A.M., M.D. New York: D. & J.
    Sadlier & Co. 1870.

This book contains many good things, and is written in a very
pleasing, literary style. The portions of it which treat of moral
and religious duties are likely to be useful to a certain class of
persons who seldom or never read a book containing so much sound
doctrine and wholesome advice. The author, no doubt, wrote with a
good intention, and endeavored to teach what he sincerely thinks to
be Catholic doctrine, and, of course, the publishers have issued
the book in good faith, without any suspicion that it contains any
thing erroneous. The author has, however, made a great mistake in
supposing that he is sufficiently learned in theology to be able
to distinguish, in all cases, sound Catholic doctrine, from his
own imperfect, and frequently incorrect, opinions, or that he is
authorized to teach the faithful in doctrinal and spiritual matters,
without first submitting his book to revision by a competent
authority. He has, in consequence, made some very grave mistakes in
doctrine, or at least in his manner of expressing himself on matters
of doctrine, and also said a number of things which are very rash
and unsuitable in a Catholic writer. On page 13 he says, "It is
doubtful whether any human being has ever passed through a life of
ordinary duration without an occasional violation of them"--that
is, of the commandments of God. If this refers to grievous sins,
it is contrary to the universal sentiment of Catholics, that very
many persons have passed through even a long life without committing
any grievous sin; if it refers to venial sin, it is false, at
least as respects the blessed Virgin Mary, who was wholly sinless.
The phraseology employed respecting the sacraments of penance and
extreme unction is altogether deficient, diverse from that which
is sanctioned by ecclesiastical usage, and suggestive of errors.
The sacrament of penance is called, "repentance, acknowledgment,
reformation," without express mention of sacramental absolution, and
extreme unction is designated as "prayer for the sick," whereas
the holy oil is the matter of the sacrament which was prescribed by
the command of Jesus Christ. The fathers, doctors, and scholastic
theologians, and the methods of scholastic theology, are criticised
with an air of superior wisdom unbefitting any Catholic writer,
but especially a tyro in theological science. After saying that
the disbelief of the real presence is partly due to the neglect of
religious teachers "to make such clear and just explanations as
the Holy Scriptures authorize them to make," (p. 250,) the author
undertakes to correct the method of St. Thomas, Suarez, Bellarmine,
and the other theologians who have hitherto been considered as our
masters and teachers, to supply for their defects, and to explain the
mystery of transubstantiation in such a clear manner as to remove
all difficulty out of the way of believing it. The good doctor
has unfortunately, however, proposed a theory which subverts the
Catholic doctrine of the incarnation, and that of the resurrection
of the body. So far as we can understand his meaning, he holds
that the spiritual or glorified body is the same thing with the
spirit or soul. In other words, the spirit or soul is an ethereal
substance which is called spirit, inasmuch as it is intelligent;
and body, inasmuch as it is visible and subsisting under a certain
configuration. This is the doctrine of the spiritists, and not that
of the Catholic Church. The Catholic doctrine is, that soul and body
are distinct, diverse substances; that the souls of the departed are
existing now in a separate state, and that they will receive again
their bodies at the resurrection. The author of course explains the
resurrection and present state of our Lord in harmony with this
notion; but in contradiction to the Catholic doctrine that our Lord
raised up, glorified, and elevated to heaven that same flesh and
blood which he took of the Virgin in the incarnation. He moreover
confuses the human with the divine nature of Christ, by affirming,
with the Lutherans, the ubiquity of the sacred humanity of Christ,
whom he calls the "spirit Christ," and affirms to be everywhere by
virtue of his divine omnipresence. This again is erroneous doctrine.
The way is prepared by these statements for an explanation of the
presence of Christ in the eucharist, and transubstantiation. It is
not difficult to believe that God annihilates the bread and wine,
but still causes a miraculous appearance to make the same impression
on our senses which the bread and wine made before the consecration.
Christ, being everywhere present, imparts the special effects of his
grace at the time of consecration and communion. The only trouble
in the matter is, that the theory is not true or orthodox. The body
and blood of Christ are made present under the sacred species by the
force of the consecrating words, _not_ his soul or divinity. The
soul and divinity of our blessed Lord are present by concomitance;
but transubstantiation is the change of the substance of the bread
into the body, and of the wine into the blood of Christ, and here is
the chief mystery of the dogma which the author, in endeavoring to
explain, has explained away. It is possible that the author's sense
is more orthodox than his language, and no doubt his intention is
more orthodox than either. His language, however, bears on the face
of it the appearance of a sense which is, in itself, contrary in some
points to definitions of faith, and in others to the common doctrine
of theologians.

It is very necessary that all Catholics should understand that they
are not at liberty to interpret either the scripture, tradition, or
the definitions of councils in contradiction to the Catholic sense
and acceptation made known by the living voice of the pastors and
teachers who are authorized by the church. Those who desire to feed
on the pure milk of sound doctrine will find their best security
against error in selecting for their theological or spiritual reading
those books which they are well assured have the sanction and
approbation of their pastors.

       *       *       *       *       *

    THE VISIBLE UNITY OF THE CATHOLIC CHURCH MAINTAINED AGAINST
    OPPOSITE THEORIES. With an explanation of certain passages
    in Ecclesiastical History erroneously appealed to in their
    support. By M. J. Rhodes, Esq., M.A. Dedicated by permission
    to the Right Rev. William Delany, D.D., Lord Bishop of
    Cork. London: Longmans, Green & Co. New York: The Catholic
    Publication Society.

The superb exterior of this book, published in the best English
style, leads the reader to expect something unusually excellent in
the contents. Nor will he be disappointed. This work is no mere
repetition of other books. It is learned, original, carefully
prepared, well written, and has undergone an examination by competent
theologians, not only in England, but also at Rome. The genuine
doctrine of Catholic unity, as opposed to the pseudo-catholicity of
Anglicans, is exposed in it, with a refutation of the objections of
Bishop Forbes, Dr. Pusey, and others. The questions of the Easter
controversy, the dispute between St. Cyprian and Pope St. Stephen,
the dispute between Paulinus and St. Meletius of Antioch, the Celtic
controversies, etc., are fully discussed. The only criticism we have
to make is concerning the manner of treating the question of the
divided obediences at the epoch between the pontificate of Urban VI.
and that of Martin V. The author thinks that the adherents of Peter
de Luna, called Benedict XIII., were really in schism, although
most of them were innocent of any sin. We think otherwise, and our
opinion has been derived from the most approved Catholic authors.
Without doubt, the authors of the division were formal schismatics.
Yet they were able to make out such a plausible case against Urban
and in favor of Benedict, that for the time being Urban's right was
doubtful in a large portion of Christendom. Those who refused to
recognize him were not therefore guilty of rebellion against the
Roman pontiff as such, any more than those would be who should refuse
to obey a papal rescript of doubtful authenticity. After the election
of Alexander V. there was much greater reason to doubt which of the
three rival claimants, Gregory XII., Benedict XIII., or Alexander V.,
was the true pope. It is now perfectly certain that Gregory XII. was
canonically elected, and we suppose it is by far the more probable
opinion that he remained in possession of his right as legitimate
pope until his voluntary resignation at the Council of Constance.
Nevertheless, his claim, at the time, was a doubtful one, and the
majority of the cardinals and bishops adhered, after the Council of
Pisa, to Alexander V. and his successor John XXIII. Peter de Luna was
a schismatic in the fullest extent of the word. But what shall we
say of Alexander and John? Their names still appear on the lists of
popes, and some maintain that they were true popes. They undoubtedly
believed that a council could depose doubtful popes, and that
therefore the Council of Pisa could deprive both Gregory and Benedict
of whatever claim either of them might have to the papal throne.
They believed themselves lawfully elected, and were not, therefore,
schismatics, even though they were not lawful popes. If the author
maintains that two of the three obediences which eventually concurred
at Constance in the election of Martin V. were in a state of schism
until that time, we cannot agree with him, and we think we have
the best authorities on our side. For, if these obediences were in
schism, they were no part of the true church, the jurisdiction of
their bishops and priests was forfeited, and the Catholic Church
was limited to the obedience of the legitimate pontiff. This theory
would involve the author in considerable difficulties, and we wonder
that it was allowed to escape the notice of his Roman examiners. The
case is very plain, to our thinking. Neither of these three parties
rebelled against the Roman see, or refused to obey the laws of any
pontiff whose legitimacy was unquestionable. It was a dispute about
the succession, not a revolt against the principle of authority.
There was, therefore, no schism in the case; all were equally members
of the Catholic Church, and jurisdiction remained in the bishops
of all the contending parties. Those who wilfully promoted this
dissension were grievously culpable, but the rest were free from sin,
as long as they acted in good faith. The author devotes only a short
space to this question, and with this exception his work is most
admirable, and worthy of a most extensive circulation.

       *       *       *       *       *

    THE EVIDENCE FOR THE PAPACY. By the Hon. Colin Lindsay. London:
    Longmans & Co. For sale by the Catholic Publication Society,
    New York.

Mr. Lindsay was president of the Anglican Union when, after long
study, he submitted to the authority of the holy Roman Church. His
conversion made a great sensation, and called out the usual amount of
foolish, ill-natured twaddle. In this volume he has given a masterly,
lawyer-like, and extensive summary, richly furnished with evidences
and authorities, of the scriptural and historical argument for the
supremacy of St. Peter and his successors. We welcome and recommend
this admirable work most cordially. The author is a convert of the
old stamp of Newman, Wilberforce, Oakeley, Faber, and Manning; that
is, a convert to genuine and thorough-going Catholicity; and not one
of those who has been spoiled by the fatal influence of Munich. The
spurious coin which dealers in counterfeit Catholicism are seeking
just now to palm off on the unwary is distinguished from the genuine
by its faint delineation of the pope's effigy on its surface. A
primacy in the universal church similar to that of a metropolitan
in a province is all they will admit the pope to possess _jure
divino_. The true Catholicity brings out the divine supremacy of
the successor of St. Peter into bold relief. This is just now the
great question, the criterion of orthodox belief, the touchstone of
faith, the one great fact and doctrine to be insisted on against
every form of anti-Catholic error, from that of the Greeks to that
of the atheists. The pope is the visible representative of Christ on
the earth, of God's law, of revealed religion, of the supernatural,
and of moral and political order. The one question of his supremacy
in the true and full sense of the word being settled, every thing
else follows as a necessary consequence, and is established. It is
very important, therefore, that books should be multiplied on this
topic, and that the utmost pains should be taken by the clergy to
indoctrinate the people and instruct fully converts concerning that
loyal allegiance and unreserved obedience which all Catholics owe to
the vicar of Christ. This book will be found to be one of the best.
We have received also from London a very clever critique on "Janus,"
by F. Keogh, of the Oratory, and are glad to see that the learned Dr.
Hergenröther, of Würzburg, is preparing an elaborate refutation of
that mischievous production. The second part of F. Bottalla's work on
the papacy is also announced as soon to appear.

       *       *       *       *       *

    GEOLOGY AND REVELATION; OR, THE ANCIENT HISTORY OF THE EARTH,
    CONSIDERED IN THE LIGHT OF GEOLOGICAL FACTS AND REVEALED
    RELIGION. By the Rev. Gerald Molloy, D.D., Professor of
    Theology in the Royal College of St. Patrick, Maynooth. London:
    Longmans, Green, Reader & Dyer. 1870. For sale by the Catholic
    Publication Society, New York.

The author discusses in this volume two interpretations of the Mosaic
account of creation: 1st, that a long interval may have elapsed
between the creation and the work of the six days; 2d, that the six
days themselves may be long periods of time; and shows that they
are both admissible, and that the last corresponds pretty well with
the present state of geological science. In a subsequent work, he
proposes to discuss the question of the antiquity of man.

Though he does not claim to have written a manual of geology, the
first and larger part of the work is in fact an excellent compendium
of the science, and is written in a remarkably interesting and
readable style. A few such books would do much to remove the
dislike and distrust of geology which still prevails to some extent
among religious people, and perhaps also to convince scientific
unbelievers.

       *       *       *       *       *

    REPORTS ON OBSERVATIONS OF THE TOTAL ECLIPSE OF THE SUN,
    Aug. 7, 1869. Conducted under the direction of Commodore B.
    F. Sands, U.S.N., Superintendent of the United States Naval
    Observatory, Washington, D.C. Washington: Government Printing
    Office. 1869.

This volume contains the reports of the parties sent from the
Naval Observatory to Des Moines, Iowa, Plover Bay, Siberia, and
Bristol, Tennessee; as well as those of Mr. W. S. Gilman, Jr., and
General Albert J. Myer, at St. Paul Junction, Iowa, and Abingdon,
Va., respectively, who also communicated their observations to the
superintendent. The latter saw the eclipse from the top of White Top
Mountain, 5530 feet high; the effect was, of course, magnificent.
The papers of Professor Harkness on the spectrum, and of Dr. Curtis
on the photographs which they obtained at Des Moines, are specially
interesting. One hundred and twenty-two photographs were taken in
all, two during the totality, fac-similes of which last are appended,
together with other representations of the total phase, and copies of
the spectra observed, etc. Professor Harkness observed what appears
to be a very decided iron line in the spectrum of the corona, which
was otherwise continuous, and he considers it quite probable that
this mysterious halo is to a great extent or even perhaps principally
composed of the vapor of this metal. He saw magnesium and hydrogen in
the prominences, and the unknown substance which has been elsewhere
observed.

Professor Hall, who went to Siberia, was unfortunate, the
weather being cloudy during the eclipse, though clear before and
afterward; but he made what observations were practicable under the
circumstances.

       *       *       *       *       *

    A TEXT-BOOK OF PRACTICAL MEDICINE. By Dr. Felix Von Niemeyer,
    Professor of Pathology and Therapeutics; Director of the
    Medical Clinic of the University of Tübingen. Translated from
    the seventh German edition, by special permission of the
    author, by George H. Humphreys, M.D., and Charles E. Hackley,
    M.D. In two volumes octavo, 1500 pp. New York: D. Appleton & Co.

These books place at once before the American practitioner the most
advanced scientific knowledge on the general practice of medicine
possessed by the German school, of which Professor Niemeyer is
considered, and justly, one of the most erudite and brilliant
ornaments.

Each subject treated shows the profound and masterly manner in which
its details have been garnered by him from the only reliable source
of such knowledge, the hospital clinic.

The rapidity with which it has passed through seven German editions,
the last two of triple size, and the fact that it has been translated
into most of the principal languages of the old continent, afford
ample proof of its appreciation in Europe.

The medical student is here presented with a solid, comprehensive,
and scientific foundation upon which to rear his future
superstructure of learning, while the over-worked practitioner will
find a never-failing source of gratification in the work for casual
reference and study.

Nothing can so much advance truly Catholic science and literature
as the free interchange of national ideas and opinions, expressed
through the master minds of the various professions and pursuits.

       *       *       *       *       *

    LIFE PICTURES OF THE PASSION OF OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST.
    Translated from the German of Rev. Dr. John Emmanuel Veith,
    formerly Preacher of St. Stephen's Cathedral, Vienna. By Rev.
    Theodore Noethen, Pastor of the Church of the Holy Cross,
    Albany, N. Y. Boston: P. Donahoe.

The various personages connected with the sufferings and death
of our Saviour--Judas Iscariot, Caiaphas, Malchus, Simon Peter,
etc.--receive each a chapter in this book, in which their characters
are portrayed with appropriate reflections and illustrations drawn
from history, religious and secular.

The author is one of the most distinguished preachers in Europe.
The translator is a clergyman well and favorably known for the many
excellent translations of German religious books which he has given
to the American public.

_Life Pictures_ will be found very suitable reading for this season
of the year.

       *       *       *       *       *

    HEALTH BY GOOD LIVING. By W. W. Hall, M.D. New York: Hurd &
    Houghton. 1870. Pp. 277.

This work is intended to show that good health can be maintained,
and many diseases prevented, by proper care in eating. The doctor
does not use the phrase "good living" in its ordinary meaning; he
defines it to be a good appetite followed by good digestion. His
rules for obtaining this two-fold blessing are generally sensible;
but a few of his statements are somewhat exaggerated. We have no
doubt that the health of the community would be improved by following
the common-sense directions of Dr. Hall; but unfortunately, as the
doctor himself remarks, not one person in a thousand of his readers
will have sufficient control over his appetite to carry out these
suggestions, which require so much self-denial. We are glad to see
the doctor recommends a strict observance of Lent.

       *       *       *       *       *

    A GENERAL HISTORY OF MODERN EUROPE, FROM THE BEGINNING OF THE
    SIXTEENTH CENTURY TO THE COUNCIL OF THE VATICAN. Third edition,
    revised and corrected. By John G. Shea. New York: T. W. Strong,
    (late Edward Dunigan & Brother.)

The merit of this history as a text-book has been long and widely
recognized. The correction, revision, and addenda do not call for any
special notice.

       *       *       *       *       *

    THE FERRYMAN OF THE TIBER. An Historical Tale. Translated from
    the Italian of Madame A. K. De La Grange. New York: P. O'Shea,
    27 Barclay street. 1870.

This is a beautiful story of the early days of the church, when the
effeminacy and luxury of the pagans made the noble virtues of the
Christians shine with the greater splendor; when St. Jerome lived in
Rome, and the Roman matrons and virgins, following his instructions,
gave to the world such beautiful examples of virtue, and to the
church so many saints. It is a book that should be read now; for
though we do not live in a pagan age, we surely are not living in an
age of faith; and the example of a Jerome, a Melania, and a Valeria
are as necessary as when the light of Christianity had but just begun
to shine upon the world.

       *       *       *       *       *

    THE GRAMMAR OF ASSENT. By John Henry Newman, D.D.

This is a treatise on the _science_, not the _art_ of logic, with
application to religious belief and faith in the divine revelation.
We have only had time to glance at its contents, and must, therefore,
postpone any critical judgment upon them. What we have seen in
looking over the leaves of the advanced sheets sent us by the
kindness of the author is enough, however, to show that in this book
Dr. Newman has put thought and language under a condenser which has
compressed a folio of sense into a duodecimo of size.

The Catholic Publication Society will issue the work in a few weeks.

       *       *       *       *       *

    THE EARTHLY PARADISE. A Poem by William Morris. Part III.
    Boston: Roberts Brothers. Printed at the Cambridge University
    Press.

An extremely beautiful book, which it is a luxury to handle and
look at. Every body knows, long before now, that Mr. Morris is a
true poet, and there is no need of our saying what will be no news
to any one who loves poetry. We will only say, therefore, that we
like Mr. Morris, because he is antique, classical, and pure, and
it is refreshing to get away from the dusty, hot highway of recent
literature into his pages.

       *       *       *       *       *

    THE DOUBLE SACRIFICE; OR, THE PONTIFICAL ZOUAVES. A Tale of
    Castelfidardo. Translated from the Flemish of the Rev. S.
    Daems. Baltimore: Kelly, Piet & Co. Pp. 242.

A well-deserved tribute to those gallant youths who cheerfully
offered up their all, home, friends, life itself, for Peter's chair,
and in defence of holy church. As a story it has no particular merit.

       *       *       *       *       *

BOOKS RECEIVED.

    From SCRIBNER, WELFORD & CO., New York: Sermons bearing on the
    Subjects of the Day. By John Henry Newman, B.D. New edition.
    Rivingtons: London, Oxford, and Cambridge. 1869.

    From ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston: A Day by the Fire; and other
    papers hitherto uncollected. By Leigh Hunt. 1870.

    From CARLETON, New York: Strange Visitors.

    From P. FOX, Publisher, 14 South Fifth street, St. Louis:
    Letters on Public Schools, with special reference to the system
    as conducted in St. Louis. By the Hon. Charles R. Smythe. 1870.

    From the University, Ann Arbor: Report on a Department of
    Hygiene and Physical Culture in the University of Michigan, by
    a Committee of the University Senate. 1870.

    From MURPHY & CO., Baltimore: General Catechism of the
    Christian Doctrine; for the Use of the Catholics of the Diocese
    of Savannah and Vicariate Apostolic of Florida. 1869.--Peabody
    Memorial. January, 1870.

    From JAMES MILLER, 647 Broadway, New York: History of American
    Socialisms. By John Humphrey Noyes.



THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. XI., No. 62.--MAY, 1870.


CHURCH AND STATE.[21]


Il Signor Cantù is one of the ablest men and most distinguished
contemporary authors of Italy. He is a layman, and has usually been
reckoned among the better class of so-called liberal Catholics, and
certainly is a warm friend of liberty, civil and religious, a sincere
and earnest Italian patriot, thoroughly devoted to the holy see, and
a firm and fearless defender of the rights, freedom, independence,
and authority of the spiritual order in its relation to the temporal.

We know not where to look for a truer, fuller, more loyal, or more
judicious treatment in so brief a compass of the great and absorbing
question in regard to the relation of church and state, than in his
article from the _Rivista Universale_, the title of which we give at
the foot of the page. He is an erudite rather than a philosopher,
a historian rather than a theologian; yet his article is equally
remarkable for its learning, its history, its philosophy, its
theology, and its canon law, and, with slight reservation, as to
his interpretation of the bull _Unam Sanctam_ of Boniface VIII. and
some views hinted rather than expressed as to the origin and nature
of the _magisterium_ exercised by the popes over sovereigns in the
middle ages, we believe it as true and as exact as it is learned and
profound, full and conclusive, and we recommend its careful study to
all who would master the question it treats.

For ourselves, we have treated the question of church and state so
often, so fully, and so recently, in its principle and in its several
aspects, especially in relation to our own government, that we know
not that we have any thing to add to what we have already said, and
we might dispense ourselves from its further discussion by simply
referring to the articles, _Independence of the Church_, October,
1866; _Church and State_, April, 1867; _Rome and the World_, October
of the same year; and to our more recent articles on _The Future of
Protestantism and Catholicity_, especially the third and fourth,
January, February, March, and April, of the present year; and also to
the article on _The School Question_, in the very last number before
the present. We can do, and we shall attempt, in the present article,
to do, little more than bring together and present as a whole what is
scattered through these several articles, and offer respectfully and
even timidly such suggestions as we think will not be presumptuous
in regard to the means, in the present emergency, of realizing more
perfectly at home and abroad the ideal of Christian society.

We assume in the outset that there really exist in human society
two distinct orders, the spiritual and the temporal, each with its
own distinctive functions, laws, and sphere of action. In Christian
society, the representative of the spiritual order is the church,
and the representative of the temporal is the state. In the rudest
stages of society the elements of the two orders exist, but are
not clearly apprehended as distinct orders, nor as having each its
distinct and proper representative. It is only in Christian society,
or society enlightened by the Gospel, that the two orders are duly
distinguished, and each in its own representative is placed in its
normal relation with the other.

The type, indeed the reason, of this distinction of two orders in
society is in the double nature of man, or the fact that man exists
only as soul and body, and needs to be cared for in each. The church,
representing the spiritual, has charge of the souls of men, and looks
after their minds, ideas, intelligence, motives, consciences, and
consequently has the supervision of education, morals, literature,
science, and art. The state, representing the temporal, has charge
of men's bodies, and looks after the material wants and interests of
individuals and society. We take this illustration from the fathers
and mediæval doctors. It is perfect. The analogy of church and state
in the moral order, with the soul and body in the physical order,
commends itself to the common sense of every one, and carries in
itself the evidence of its justness, especially when it is seen to
correspond strictly in the moral order, to the distinction of soul
and body in the physical order. We shall take, then, the relation of
soul and body as the type throughout of the ideal relation of church
and state.

Man lives not as body alone, nor as soul alone, but as the union of
the two, in reciprocal commerce. Soul and body are distinct, but not
separate. Each has its own distinctive properties and functions,
and neither can replace the other; but their separation is death,
the death of the body only, not of the soul indeed, for that is
immortal. The body is material, and, separated from the soul, is dust
and ashes, mere slime of the earth, from which it was formed. It is
the same in the moral order with society, which is not state alone,
nor church alone, but the union of the two in reciprocal commerce.
The two are distinct, each has its distinctive nature, laws, and
functions, and neither can perform the functions of the other, or
take the other's place. But though distinct, they cannot in the
normal state of society be separated. The separation of the state
from the church is in the moral order what the separation of the
body from the soul is in the physical order. It is death, the death
of the state, not indeed of the church; for she, like the soul, nay,
like God himself, is immortal. The separation of the state from the
church destroys its moral life, and leaves society to become a mass
of moral rottenness and corruption. Hence, the holy father includes
the proposition to separate church and state, in his syllabus of
condemned propositions.

The soul is defined by the church as the _forma corporis_, the
informing or vital principle of the body. The church in the moral
order is _forma civitatis_, the informing, the vital principle of the
state or civil society, which has no moral life of its own, since
all moral life, by its very term, proceeds from the spiritual order.
There is in the physical order no existence, but from God through the
medium of his creative act; so is there no moral life in society,
but from the spiritual order which is founded by God as supreme
law-giver, and represented by the church, the guardian and judge
alike of the natural law and the revealed law.

The soul is the nobler and superior part of man, and it belongs to
it, not to make away with the body, or to assume its functions,
but to exercise the _magisterium_ over it, to direct and govern it
according to the law of God; not to the body to assume the mastery
over the soul, and to bring the law of the mind into captivity to
law in the members. So is the church, as representing the spiritual
order, and charged with the care of souls, the nobler and superior
part of society, and to her belongs the _magisterium_ of entire human
society; and it is for her in the moral order to direct and control
civil society, by judicially declaring, and applying to its action,
the law of God, of which she is, as we have just said, the guardian
and judge, and to which it is bound by the Supreme Law-Giver to
subordinate its entire official conduct.

We note here that this view condemns alike the absorption of the
state in the church, and the absorption of the church in the state,
and requires each to remain distinct from the other, each with its
own organization, organs, faculties, and sphere of action. It favors,
therefore, neither what is called theocracy, or _clerocracy_, rather,
to which Calvinistic Protestantism is strongly inclined, nor the
supremacy of the state, to which the age tends, and which was assumed
in all the states of Gentile antiquity, whence came the persecution
of Christians by the pagan emperors. We note farther, that the
church does not make the law; she only promulgates, declares, and
applies it, and is herself as much bound by it as is the state
itself. The law itself is prescribed for the government of all men
and nations, by God himself as supreme law-giver, or the end or
final cause of creation, and binds equally states and individuals,
churchmen and statesmen, sovereigns and subjects.

Such, as we have learned it, is the Catholic doctrine of the relation
of church and state, and such is the relation that in the divine
order really exists between the two orders, and which the church
has always and everywhere labored with all her zeal and energy to
introduce and maintain in society. It is her ideal of catholic or
truly Christian society, but which has never yet been perfectly
realized, though an approach to its realization, the author thinks,
was made under the Christian Roman emperors. The chronic condition
of the two orders in society, instead of union and coöperation, or
reciprocal commerce, has been that of mutual distrust or undisguised
hostility. During the first three centuries, the relation between
them was that of open antagonism, and the blood of Christians made
the greater part of the world then known hallowed ground, and the
Christians, as Lactantius remarks, conquered the world, not by
slaughtering, but by being slaughtered. The pagan sovereign of Rome
claimed, and was held to unite both powers in himself, and was at
once _imperator_, _pontifix maximus_, and _divus_, or god. The
state, even after the conversion of the empire and of the barbarians
that overturned it and seated themselves on its ruins, never fully
disclaimed the spiritual faculties conceded it by Græco-Roman or
Italo-Greek civilization.

All through the middle ages, Kenelm Digby's ages of faith, when it
is pretended the church had every thing her own way, and the haughty
power of her supreme pontiffs and their tyranny over such meek and
lamb-like temporal princes as Henry IV., Frederick Barbarossa, and
Frederick II. of Germany, Philip Augustus of France, Henry II. and
John Lackland of England, have been the theme of many a school-boy
declamation against her, and adduced by grave statesmen as an excuse
for depriving Catholics of their liberty, confiscating their goods,
and cutting their throats--all through those ages, we say, she
enjoyed not a moment's peace, hardly a truce, and was obliged to
sustain an unceasing struggle with the civil authority against its
encroachments on the spiritual order, and for her own independence
and freedom of action as the church of God. In this struggle, the
struggle of mind against matter, of moral power against physical
force, the church was far from being, at least to human eyes, always
victorious, and she experienced more than one disastrous defeat.
In the sixteenth century, Cæsar carried away from her the north of
Europe, as he had long since carried away the whole east, and forced
her, in the nations that professed to recognize her as representing
the spiritual order, to make him such large concessions as left her
little more than the shadow of independence; and the people and
their rulers are now almost everywhere conspiring to take away even
that shadow, and to render her completely subject to the state, or
representative of the temporal order.

There is no opinion more firmly fixed in the minds of the people
of to-day, at least according to the journals, than that the union
of church and state is execrable and ought not to be suffered to
exist. The words cannot be pronounced without sending a thrill of
horror through society, and calling forth the most vigorous and
indignant protest from every self-appointed defender of modern
civilization, progress, liberty, equality, and fraternity. What is
called the "Liberal party," sometimes "the movement party," but what
we call "the revolution," has everywhere for its _primum mobile_,
its impulse and its motive, the dissolution of what remains of the
union of church and state, the total separation of the state from
the church and its assertion as the supreme and only legitimate
authority in society, to which all orders and classes of men, and
all matters, whether temporal or spiritual, must be subjected. The
great words of the party, as pronounced by its apostles and chiefs,
are "people-king," "people-priest," "people-God." There is no denying
the fact. Science, or what passes for science, denies the double
nature of man, the distinction between soul and body, and makes the
soul the product of material organization, or a mere function of the
body; and the more popular philosophy suppresses the spiritual order
in society, and therefore rejects its pretended representative; and
the progress of intelligence suppresses God, and leaves for society
only political atheism pure and simple, as is evident from the savage
war-whoop set up throughout the civilized world against the syllabus
of condemned propositions published by our holy father, December,
1864. This syllabus touched the deep wound of modern society, probed
it to the quick, and hence the writhings and contortions, the groans
and screechings it occasioned. May God grant that it touched to heal,
exposed the wound only to apply the remedy.

But the remedy--what is it, where shall we seek it, and how shall
it be applied? The question is delicate as well as grave, let it
be answered as it may. The principles of the church are inflexible
and unalterable, and must be preserved inviolate; and even the
susceptibilities of both statesmen and churchmen, in regard to
changes in old customs and usages, even when not unchangeable in
their nature, are to be gently treated. The church is not less
bound by the law of God than is the state; for she does not, as we
have said, make the law, she only administers it. Undoubtedly, she
has in a secondary sense legislative authority or power to enact
canons or rules and regulations for preserving, carrying out, and
applying the law, as the court adopts its own rules and regulations,
or as does the executive authority, even in a government like ours,
for executing the law enacted by the legislative power. These may
no doubt be changed from time to time by the church as she judges
necessary, proper, or expedient in order the better to meet the
changing circumstances in relation to which she is obliged to act.
But even in these respects, changes must be made in strict conformity
to law; and although they may be so made and leave the law intact,
and affect only the modes or forms of its administration, they are
not without a certain danger. The faithful may mistake them for
changes or innovations in the law itself, and enemies may represent
them as such, and sophistically adduce them against the church as
disproving her immutability and infallibility.

There have been, and no doubt are still, abuses in the church
growing out of its human side, which need changes in discipline to
reform them; but these abuses have always been exaggerated by the
best and holiest men in the church, and the necessity of a change
in discipline or ecclesiastical law, as distinguished from the law
of God, is seldom, if ever, created by them. When evils exist that
menace both faith and society, it is not the church that is in fault,
but the world that refuses to conform to the law as she declares
and applies it. It was not abuses in the church that were the chief
cause of the revolt, the heresy, and schism of the reformers in the
sixteenth century; for they were far less then than they had been
one, two, three, or even four centuries previous. The worst abuses
and greatest scandals which had previously obtained had already been
corrected, and Leo X. had assembled the Fifth Council of the Lateran
for the purpose of restoring discipline and rendering it still more
effective. The evil originated in the temporal order as represented
by the state, and grew out of secular changes and abuses. It was so
then, it is so now, always was and always will be so. Why, then,
demand changes or reform in the church, which cannot reach them? The
church causes none of the evils at any time complained of, and offers
no obstacle to their removal, or the redress of social grievances.
It is for the temporal to yield to the spiritual, not for the
spiritual to yield to the temporal. Very true; and yet the church may
condescend to the world in its weakness for the sake of elevating
it to harmony with her own ideal. God, when he would take away sin,
and save the souls he had created and which he loved, did not stand
aloof, or, so to speak, on his dignity, and bid the sinner cease
sinning and obey him, without stretching forth his hand to help him;
but made himself man, humbled himself, took the form of a servant,
and came to the world lying in wickedness and festering in iniquity,
took it by the hand, and sweetly and gently led the sinner away from
sin to virtue and holiness.

For four hundred years, the church has sought to maintain peace and
concord between herself and the state by concordats, as the wisest
and best expedient she found practicable. But concordats, however
useful or necessary, do not realize the ideal of Christian society.
They do not effect the true union of church and state, and cannot
be needed where that union exists. They imply not the union, but
the separation of church and state, and are neither necessary nor
admissible, except where the state claims to be separate from and
independent of the church. They are a compromise in which the church
concedes the exercise of certain rights to the state in consideration
of its pledge to secure her in the free and peaceable exercise of the
rest, and to render her the material force in the execution of her
spiritual canons, which she may need but does not herself possess.
They are defensible only as necessary expedients, to save the church
and the state from falling into the relation of direct and open
antagonism.

Yet even as expedients concordats have been at best only partially
successful, and now seem on the point of failing altogether. While
the church faithfully observes their stipulations so far as they bind
her, the state seldom observes them in the respect that they bind it,
and violates them as often as they interfere with its own ambitious
projects or policy. The church has concordats with the greater part
of the European states, and yet while in certain respects they
trammel her freedom, they afford her little or no protection. The
state everywhere claims the right to violate or abrogate them at
will, without consulting her, the other party to the contract. It
has done so in Spain, in Italy, and in Austria; and if France at
present observes the concordat of 1801, she does it only in the sense
of the "organic articles," never inserted in it, but added by the
First Consul on his authority alone, and always protested against by
the supreme pontiff and vicar of Christ; and there is no foreseeing
what the present or a new ministry may do. Even if the governments
were disposed to observe them, their people would not suffer them
to do so, as we see in Spain and Austria. Times have changed, and
the governments no longer govern the people, but the people, or the
demagogues who lead them, now govern the governments. The European
governments sustain their power, even their existence, only by the
physical force of five millions of armed soldiers.

There is evidently, then, little reliance to be placed on the
governments; for they are liable, any day, to be changed or
overthrown. The strongest of them hope to sustain themselves and
keep the revolution in check only by concessions, as we see in the
extension of suffrage in England, and the adoption of parliamentary
government, under a constitutional monarch, in Austria, France, North
Germany, and elsewhere. But as yet the concessions of the governments
have nowhere strengthened them or weakened the revolution. One
concession becomes the precedent for another, and one demand
satisfied only leads to another and a greater demand, while it
diminishes the power of the government to resist. What is more, the
closer the union of the church with the government the more helpless
it becomes, and the greater the hostility it incurs. The _primum
mobile_ of the movement party, as we now find it, is not the love of
honest liberty, or a liberty compatible with stable government, or
the establishment of a democratic or republican constitution; and it
is not hostile to the church only because she exerts her power to
sustain the governments it would reform or revolutionize, but rather,
because it regards them as upholding the church, which they detest
and would annihilate. The _primum mobile_ is hatred of the church.
This is the reason why, even when the governments are well disposed,
as sometimes they are, the people will not suffer them to observe
faithfully their engagements to the church.

Here was the mistake of the brilliant but unhappy De la Mennais.
He called upon the church to cut herself loose from her entangling
alliance with the state, and throw herself back on the people; which
would have been not bad counsel, if the people were hostile to her
only because they supposed her allied with despotic governments, or
if they were less hostile to her than the governments themselves. But
such is not the fact at present. The people are to-day controlled
by Catholics who care little for any world but the present, by
Protestants, rationalists, Jews, infidels, and humanitarians; and to
act on the Lamennaisian counsel would seem very much like abandoning
weak, timid, and too exacting friends, to throw one's self into the
arms of powerful and implacable enemies. When, in the beginning of
his reign, the holy father adopted some popular measures, he was
universally applauded, but he did not win those who applauded him
to the church; and his measures were applauded by the outside world
only because believed to be such as would tend to undermine his
own authority, and pave the way for the downfall of Catholicity.
The movement party applauded, because they thought they could use
him as an instrument for the destruction of the church. In the
French Revolution of February, 1848, originating in deep-seated and
inveterate hostility to the church, the ready acceptance of the
republic, the next day after its proclamation, by the French bishops
and clergy, did not for a moment conciliate the hostility in which
the revolution had its origin. They were applauded indeed, but only
in the hope of making use of them to democratize, or secularize, and
therefore to destroy the church as the authoritative representative
of the spiritual order. The bishops and priests, all but a very
small minority, showed that they understood and appreciated the
applause they received, by abandoning the revolution at the earliest
practicable moment, and lending their support to the movement for
the Establishment of imperialism; for they felt that they could more
safely rely on the emperor than on the republic.

These facts and the reminiscences of the old French Revolution, have
created in the great majority of intelligent and earnest Catholics,
wisely or unwisely, we say not, a profound distrust of the movement
party, which professes to be the party of liberty, and which carries
in its train, if not the numerical majority, at least the active,
energetic, and leading minds of their respective nations, those
that form public opinion and give its direction, and make them
honestly believe that Catholic interests, which are not separable
from the interests of society, will be best protected and promoted
by the church's standing by the governments and aiding them in their
repressive measures. Perhaps they are right. The church, of course,
cannot abandon society; but in times like ours, it is not easy to say
on which side lie the interests of society. Is it certain that they
lie on either side, either with the governments as they are, or with
the party opposed to them? At present the church neither directs the
governments nor controls the popular or so-called liberal movement;
and we confess it is difficult to say from which she and society have
most to dread. Governments without her direction want morality,
and can govern only by force; and popular movements not inspired or
controlled by her are blind and lawless, and tend only to anarchy,
and the destruction of liberty as well as of order, of morality as
well as of religion as a directing and governing power. We distrust
both.

For ourselves personally, we are partial to our own American system,
which, unless we are blinded by our national prejudices, comes nearer
to the realization of the true union as well as distinction of church
and state than has heretofore or elsewhere been effected; and we
own we should like to see it, if practicable there, introduced--by
lawful means only--into the nations of Europe. The American system
may not be practicable in Europe; but, if so, we think it would be an
improvement. Foreigners do not generally, nor even do all Americans
themselves fully understand the relation of church and state, as it
really subsists in the fundamental constitution of American society.
Abroad and at home there is a strong disposition to interpret it by
the theory of European liberalism, and both they who defend and they
who oppose the union of church and state, regard it as based on their
total separation. But the reverse of this, as we understand it, is
the fact. American society is based on the principle of their union;
and union, while it implies distinction, denies separation. Modern
infidelity or secularism is, no doubt, at work here as elsewhere to
effect their separation; but as yet the two orders are distinct, each
with its distinct organization, sphere of action, representative, and
functions, but not separate. Here the rights of neither are held to
be grants from the other. The rights of the church are not franchises
or concessions from the state, but are recognized by the state as
held under a higher law than its own, and therefore rights prior to
and above itself, which it is bound by the law constituting it to
respect, obey, and, whenever necessary, to use its physical force to
protect and vindicate.

The original settlers of the Anglo-American colonies were not
infidels, but, for the most part, sincerely religious and Christian
in their way, and in organizing society aimed not simply to escape
the oppression of conscience, of which they had been the victims in
the mother country, but to found a truly Christian commonwealth; and
such commonwealth they actually founded, as perfect as was possible
with their imperfect and often erroneous views of Christianity. The
colonies of New England inclined, no doubt, to a theocracy, and
tended to absorb the state in the church; in the Southern colonies,
the tendency was, as in England, to establish the supremacy of the
civil order, and to make the church a function of the state. These
two opposite tendencies meeting in the formation of American society,
to a great extent, counterbalanced each other, and resulted in the
assertion of the supremacy of the Christian idea, or the union and
distinction under the law of God, of the two orders. In principle, at
least, each order exists in American society in its normal relation
to the other; and also in its integrity, with its own distinctive
nature, laws, and functions, and therefore the temporal in its proper
subordination to the spiritual.

This subordination is, indeed, not always observed in practice,
nor always even theoretically admitted. Many Americans, at first
thought, when it is broadly stated, will indignantly deny it. We
shall find even Catholics who do not accept it, and gravely tell us
that their religion has nothing to do with their politics; that is,
their politics are independent of their religion; that is, again,
politics are independent of God, and there is no God in the political
order; as if a man could be an atheist in the state, and a devout
Catholic in the church. But too many Catholics, at home and abroad,
act as if this were indeed possible, and very reasonable, nay, their
duty; and hence the political world is given over to the violence and
corruption in which Satan finds a rich harvest. But let the state
pass some act that openly and undisguisedly attacks the rights,
the freedom, or independence of the church, in a practical way, it
will be hard to find a single Catholic, in this country at least,
who would not denounce it as an outrage on his conscience, which
shows that the assertion of the separation of politics from religion
so thoughtlessly made, really means only the distinction, not the
separation of the two orders, or that politics are independent, so
long as they do not run counter to the freedom and independence of
religion, or fail to respect and protect the rights of the church.
Inexactness of expression, and bad logic do not necessarily indicate
unsound faith.

Most non-Catholics will deny that the American state is founded on
the recognition of the independence and superiority of the spiritual
order, and therefore, of the church, and the confession of its own
subordination to the spiritual, not only in the order of logic, as
Il Signor Cantù maintains, but also in the order of authority; yet a
little reflection ought to satisfy every one that such is the fact,
and if it does not, it will be owing to a misconception of what is
spiritual. The basis of the American state or constitution, the real,
unwritten, providential constitution, we mean, is what are called
the natural and inalienable rights of man; and we know no American
citizen who does not hold that these rights are prior to civil
society, above it, and held independently of it; or that does not
maintain that the great end for which civil society is instituted
is to protect, defend, and vindicate, if need be, with its whole
physical force, these sacred and inviolable rights for each and every
citizen, however high, however low. This is our American boast,
our American conception of political justice, glory. These rights,
among which are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, are the
higher, the supreme law for civil society, which the state, however
constituted, is bound to recognize and obey. They deny the absolutism
of the state, define its sphere, restrict its power, and prescribe
its duty.

But whence come these rights? and how can they bind the state, and
prescribe its duty? We hold these rights by virtue, of our manhood,
it is said; they are inherent in it, and constitute it. But my
rights bind you, and yours bind me, and yet you and I are equal; our
manhoods are equal. How, then, can the manhood of either bind or
morally oblige the other? Of things equal one cannot be superior to
another. They are in our nature as men, it is said again, or, simply,
we hold them from nature. They are said to be natural rights and
inalienable, and what is natural must be in or from nature. Nature
is taken in two senses; as the physical order or the physical laws
constitutive of the physical universe, and as the moral law under
which all creatures endowed with reason and free-will are placed by
the Creator, and which is cognizable by natural reason or the reason
common to all men. In the first sense, these rights are not inherent
in our nature as men, nor from nature, or in nature; for they are not
physical. Physical rights are a contradiction in terms. They can be
inherent in our nature only in the second sense, and in our moral
nature only, and consequently are held under the law which founds
and sustains moral nature, or the moral order as distinct from the
physical order.

But the moral law, the so-called law of nature, _droit naturel_,
which founds and sustains the moral order, the order of right, of
justice, is not a law founded or prescribed by nature, but the law
for the moral government of nature, under which all moral natures
are placed by the Author of nature as supreme law-giver. The law of
nature is God's law; and whatever rights it founds or are held from
it are his rights, and ours only because they are his. My rights, in
relation to you, are your duties, what God prescribes as the law of
your conduct to me; and your rights are, in relation to me, my duties
to you, what God prescribes as the rule of my conduct to you. But
what God prescribes he has the right to prescribe, and therefore can
command me to respect no rights in you, and you to respect no rights
in me, that are not his; and being his, civil society is bound by
them, and cannot alienate them or deny them without violating his
law, and robbing him of his rights. Hence, he who does an injury to
another wrongs not him only, but wrongs his Maker, his Sovereign, and
his Judge.

Take any of the rights enumerated as inalienable in the preamble to
the Declaration of Independence. Among these is the right to life.
This right all men and civil society itself are bound to treat as
sacred and inviolable. But all men are created equal, and under the
law of nature have equal rights. But how can equals bind one another?
By mutual compact. But whence the obligation of the compact? Why am
I obliged to keep my word? Certainly not by the word itself; but
because I should deprive him of his right to whom I have pledged
it. But I have given my word to assist in committing a murder. Am I
bound to keep it? Not at all. Why not? Because I have pledged myself
to commit a crime, to do a wrong or unjust act. Evidently, then,
compacts or pledged words do not create justice, they presuppose it;
and it is only in virtue of the law of justice that compacts are
obligatory, and no compacts not conformable to that law can bind.
Why, then, am I bound to respect your life? It is not you who can
bind me; for you and I are equals, and neither in his own name can
bind the other. To take your life would be an unjust act; that is,
I should rob justice of its right to your life. The right to life
is then the right of justice. But justice is not an abstraction; it
is not a mental conception, but a reality, and therefore God; and
hence the right for you or me to live is the right of him who hath
made us and whose we are, with all that we are, all that we have,
and all that we can do. Hence, the right to life is inalienable even
by myself, and suicide is not only a crime against society, but a
sin against God; for God owns it as his right, and therefore he has
the right to command all men to hold it in every man sacred and
inviolable, and never to be taken by other men or even civil society,
but at his order. So of all the other rights of man.

If the rights of man are the rights of God in and over man as his
creature, as they undeniably are, they lie in the spiritual order,
are spiritual, not temporal. The American state, then, in recognizing
the independence, superiority, and inviolability of the rights of
man, does recognize, in principle, the independence, superiority,
and inviolability of the spiritual order, and its own subordination
to it, and obligation to consult it and conform to it. It then
recognizes the church divinely appointed and commissioned by God with
plenary authority to represent it, and apply the law of God to the
government of the people as the state no less than to the people as
individuals. This follows as a necessary consequence. If God has made
a supernatural revelation, we are bound by the natural law to believe
it; and if he has instituted a church to represent the spiritual, or
concreted the spiritual in a visible organism, with plenary authority
to teach his word to all men and nations, and to declare and apply
his law in the government of human affairs, we are bound to accept
and obey her the moment the fact is brought sufficiently to our
knowledge. This shows that the true church, if such church there be,
is sacred and inviolable, and that what she declares to be the law
of God is his law, which binds every conscience; and all sovereigns
and subjects, states and citizens are alike bound to obey her. He who
refuses to obey her refuses to obey God; he who spurns her spurns
God; he who despises her despises God; and he who despoils her of
any of her rights or possessions despoils God. Kings and the great
of the earth, statesmen and courtiers, demagogues and politicians
are apt to forget this, and because God does not instantly punish
their sacrilege with a visible and material punishment, conclude that
they may outrage her to their heart's content with impunity. But the
punishment is sure to follow in due course, and so far as it concerns
states, dynasties, and society, in the shape of moral weakness,
imbecility, corruption, and death.

That the American state is true to the order it acknowledges, and
never usurps any spiritual functions, we do not pretend. The American
state copies in but too many instances the bad legislation of
Europe. It from the outset showed the original vice of the American
people; for while they very justly subjected the state to the law
of God, they could subject it to that law only as they understood
it, and their understanding of it was in many respects faulty, which
was no wonder, since they had no infallible, no authoritative, in
fact, no representative at all of the spiritual order, and knew the
law of God only so far as taught it by natural reason, and spelled
out by their imperfect light from an imperfect and mutilated text
of the written word. They had a good major proposition, namely, the
spiritual order duly represented is supreme, and should govern all
men collectively and individually, as states and as citizens; but
their minor was bad. But we with our reading of the Bible do duly
represent that order. Therefore, etc. Now, we willingly admit that
a people reverencing and reading the Bible as the word of God, will
in most respects have a far truer and more adequate knowledge of
the law of God than those who have neither church nor Bible, and
only their reason and the mutilated, perverted, and even travestied
traditions of the primitive revelation retained and transmitted by
Gentilism, and therefore that Protestantism as understood by the
American colonists is much better for society than the liberalism
asserted by the movement party either here or in Europe; but its
knowledge will still be defective, and leave many painful gaps on
many important points; and the state, having no better knowledge,
will almost inevitably misconceive what on various matters the law of
God actually prescribes or forbids.

The American state, misled by public opinion, usurps the functions
of the church in some very grave matters. It assumes the control
of marriage and education, therefore of all family relations, of
the family itself, and of ideas, intelligence, opinions, which we
have seen are functions of the church, and both are included in the
two sacraments of marriage and orders. It also fails to recognize
the freedom and independence of the spiritual order in refusing to
recognize the church as a corporation, a moral person, as capable of
possessing property as any natural or private person, and therefore
denies to the spiritual order the inalienable right of property. The
American state denies to the church all possessory rights unless
incorporated by itself. This is all wrong; but if no better, it is no
worse than what is assumed by the state in every European nation; and
the most that can be said is, that in these matters the state forgets
the Christian commonwealth for the pagan, as is done everywhere else.

But except in these instances, the American state is, we believe,
true to the Christian principle on which it is based, as true,
that is, as it can be in a mixed community of Catholics, Jews, and
Protestants. The state has no spiritual competency, and cannot
decide either for itself or for its citizens which is or is not
the church that authoritatively represents the spiritual order.
The responsibility of that decision it does and must leave to its
citizens, who must decide for themselves, and answer to God for the
rectitude of their decision. Their decision is law for the state,
and it must respect and obey it in the case alike of majorities and
minorities; for it recognizes the equal rights of all its citizens,
and cannot discriminate between them. The church that represents for
the state the spiritual order is the church adopted by its citizens;
and as they adopt different churches, it can recognize and enforce,
through the civil courts, the canons and decrees of each only on its
own members, and on them only so far as they do not infringe on the
equal rights of the others. This is not all the state would do or
ought to do in a perfect Christian society, but it is all that it
can do where these different churches exist, and exist for it with
equal rights. It can only recognize them, and protect and vindicate
the rights of each only in relation to those citizens who acknowledge
its authority. This recognizes and protects the Catholic Church in
her entire freedom and independence and in teaching her faith, and in
governing and disciplining Catholics according to her own canons and
decrees, which, unless we are greatly misinformed, is more than the
state does for her, in any old Catholic nation in the world.

This is not tolerance or indifference; it only means that the state
does not arrogate to itself the right to decide which is the true
church, and holds itself bound to respect and protect equally the
church or churches acknowledged as such by its citizens. The doctrine
that a man is free before God to be of any religion, or of no
religion as he pleases, or the liberty of conscience, as understood
by the so-called liberals throughout the world, and which was
condemned by Gregory XVI. of immortal memory, in his encyclical of
August 15th, 1832, receives no countenance from the American state,
and is repugnant to its fundamental constitution. Heretical and
schismatic sects have, indeed, no rights; for they have no authority
from God to represent the spiritual order, and their existence is,
no doubt, repugnant to the real interests of society as well as
destructive to souls; but in a community where they exist along with
the true church, the state must respect and protect in them the
rights of the spiritual order, not indeed because they claim to be
the church, but because they are held to be such by its citizens,
and all its citizens have equal rights in the civil order, and the
equal right to have their conscience, if they have a conscience,
respected and protected. The church of God exacts nothing more of it
in this respect than to be protected in her freedom to combat and
vanquish the adherents of false churches or false religions with her
own spiritual weapons. More she might exact of the state in perfect
Christian society; but this is all that she can exact in an imperfect
and divided Christian society, as is the case in nearly all modern
nations.

This is the American system. Is it practicable in the old Catholic
nations of Europe? Would it be a gain to religion, if suffered to
be introduced there? Would the government, if it were accepted by
the church, understand it as implying its obligation to respect and
protect all churches equally as representing the spiritual order, or
as asserting its freedom to govern and oppress all at will, the true
church as the false? There is danger of the latter, because European
society is not based on the Christian principle of the independence
and inviolability of the rights of man, that is, the rights of God,
but on the pagan principle of the state, that all rights, even the
rights of the church, and society emanate from the state, and are
revocable at its will. Hence the reason why the church has found
concordats with the secular powers so necessary. In the sense of
the secular authority, these concordats are acts of incorporation,
and surrendering them by the church would be the surrender of its
charter by a corporation. It would be to abandon all her goods to
the state, leave her without a legal _status_, and with no rights
which the state holds itself bound to recognize, protect, or enforce
through its courts, any more than she had under the persecuting
Roman emperors. This would be the farthest remove possible from the
American system. Before the American system could be introduced into
European states in the respect that it affords freedom and protection
to the church in the discharge of her spiritual functions, the whole
structure of European society would need to be reconstructed on
the Christian foundation, or the basis of the inherent rights and
supremacy of the spiritual order, instead of its present pagan or
_Græco-Roman_ basis of the supremacy of the city or state.

Undoubtedly, the liberals, or movement party, are, and have been, for
nearly a century, struggling by all the means in their power, fair or
foul, to overthrow European society, and reconstruct it after what
they suppose to be the American model, but in reality on a basis,
if possible, more pagan and less Christian than its present basis.
They assert the absolute supremacy of the state in all things; only,
instead of saying with Louis XIV., "L'état, c'est moi," they say
"L'état, c'est le peuple," but they make the people, as the state, as
absolute as any king or kaiser-state ever pretended to be. The church
would, in their reconstructed society, not have secured to her the
rights that she holds under our system, by the fact that it is based
on the equal and antecedent rights of all citizens, really the rights
of God, which limit the power of state, of the people in a democratic
state, and prescribe both its province and its duty.

Even with us, the American system has its enemies, and perhaps only
a minority of the people understand it as we do, and some of the
courts are beginning to render decisions which, if in one part, they
sustain it, in another part flatly contradict it. The Supreme Court
of Ohio, in the recent case of the School Board of Cincinnati, has
decided very properly that the board could not exclude religion;
but, on the other hand, it maintains that a majority of the people
in any locality may introduce what religion they please, and teach
it to the children of the minority as well as to their own, which is
manifestly wrong; for it gives the majority of the people the power
to establish their own religion, and exclude that of the minority
when, in matters of religion, that is, in matters of conscience,
votes do not count. My conscience, though in a minority of one, is as
sacred and inviolable as it would be if all the rest of the community
were with me. As in the Polish Diet, a single veto suffices to arrest
the whole action of the state. The American democracy is not what it
was in 1776. It was then Christian after a Protestant fashion; it is
now infected with European liberalism, or popular absolutism; and if
we had to introduce the American system now, we should not be able to
do it.

There are serious difficulties on both sides. The church cannot
confide in the revolution, and the governments cannot or will not
protect her, save at the expense of her independence and freedom of
action. They, if we may believe any thing the journals say, threaten
her with their vengeance, if she dares to make and publish such or
such a dogmatic decision, or to define on certain points which they
think touch them, what her faith is and always has been. This is
a manifest invasion of her right to teach the word of God in its
integrity, and simply tells her, with the sword suspended over her
head, that she shall teach only what is agreeable to them, whether
in God's word or not. This insolence, this arrogant assumption,
applauded by the universal sectarian and secular press, if submitted
to, would make the church the mere tool of the secular authority, and
destroy all confidence in her teaching.

We know not how these difficulties on either side are to be overcome.
The church cannot continue to be shorn of her freedom by the secular
governments, and made to conform to their ambitious or timid
politics, without losing more and more her hold on the European
populations. Nor can she side with the revolution without perilling
the interests of society from which her own cannot be separated. We
see no way out of the dilemma but for her, trusting in the divine
protection, to assert simply and energetically her independence of
both parties alike, and confide in the faithful, as she did in the
martyr ages, and as she does now in every heathen land.

We do not assume the propriety or necessity of trying to introduce
the American system into the old world, nor do we urge the church to
break either with the governments or with the people; but we may,
we hope, be permitted to say that what seems to us to be needed is,
for the church to assert her independence of both so far as either
attempts to control her in the free discharge of her functions as
the church of God; and we think the faithful should be prepared
for the consequences of such assertion, whatever they may prove to
be. The church cannot fulfil her mission, which is not confined to
the Catholic nations of Europe, but embraces the whole world, if
she is thus denied her independence and crippled in her freedom of
action. If the assertion of her independence in face of the temporal
order deprives her of her legal status, and places her out of the
protection of the civil law, it perhaps will, in the end, prove to be
no serious calamity, or at least a less evil than her present cramped
and crippled condition. She has held that position heretofore, and,
aided by Him whose spouse she is, and who hath purchased her with his
precious blood, she in that very condition conquered and subdued the
world against the hostility of the most powerful empire that ever
existed. What she has done once, she is no less able to do again. The
worst that the state can do is to strip her of her temporalities, and
forbid her to preach in the name of Jesus. The worst the revolution
can do is the same, and in its fury to massacre bishops and priests,
monks and nuns, men and women, because they choose to obey God rather
than men.

Well, all this has been more than once. We have seen it in Ireland,
where the church was despoiled of her revenues, the people of their
churches, schools, colleges, and religious houses, and only not of
the use of the graveyard; where Catholic worship was prohibited
under pain of death, and armed soldiers hunted and shot down as a
wild beast the priest who ventured to say mass in a private house,
in a remote morass, or a cave in the mountain, and the faithful were
slaughtered as sheep by fiery zealots or the graceless myrmidons of
power; where not only the church was despoiled and left naked and
destitute, but her children were also despoiled of their estates and
reduced to poverty, while laws were devised with satanic ingenuity
and enforced with savage ferocity to degrade and debase them, and
to prevent them from escaping from their poverty or their enforced
secular ignorance. Yet we have seen the faith in spite of all live
and gain on its enemies, the church survive and even prosper; and
only the last year, when offered freely a government subsidy for her
clergy and her services, we have seen the noble Irish hierarchy,
without a dissenting voice, refuse it, and prefer to rely on the
voluntary offerings of the faithful to coming under any obligation to
the temporal power.

In this country the people were, in the outset, as hostile to the
church as they could be anywhere or in any age, and they are not
even yet converted, very generally, into warm and eager friends;
yet without any public provision, relying solely on the alms of the
faithful at home and abroad, principally at home, the missionaries
of the cross have been sustained, the widow's handful of meal and
cruse of oil have not failed; and yet we have founded and sustained
schools, colleges, universities, erected convents for men and for
women, and are erecting throughout the whole country churches, the
finest in it, and some of which may be regarded as architectural
ornaments; and nearly all this has been achieved within a single
lifetime.

Men who sit at their ease in Zion, and find their most engrossing
occupation in solving an antiquarian problem, or disserting on some
heathen relic just dug up, though the world is breaking up and
falling to pieces around them, may be frightened at the prospect of
being deprived of comforts they are used to; but let governments
and peoples do their worst, they cannot do worse than heathen Rome
did, worse than France did in the revolution of 1789, or England has
been doing in Ireland for three hundred years. Fear! What is there
to fear? If God be for us, who can be against us? The danger seems
great, no doubt, to many; but let Catholics have the courage of their
faith, and they will no longer fear him who can kill the body, and
after that hath no more power. The danger before men of Christian
courage will disappear as the morning mist before the rising sun. Can
a Catholic fear poverty, want, labor, suffering, torture, or death
in His cause who for our sakes became poor, and had not where to lay
his head; who took the form of a servant, and obeyed unto death, even
the death of the cross? Know we not that Catholic faith and Catholic
charity can weary out the most cruel and envenomed persecutors,
and in the end gain the victory over them? If the church finds it
necessary, then, in order to maintain her independence, to incur the
hostility of kings or peoples, and the loss of her goods, there need
be no fear; God will not forsake her, and the charity of the faithful
never faileth.

FOOTNOTE:

[21] _Chiesa e Stato_: Rapsodie di C. Cantù, dalla _Rivista
Universale_. Corretto e riveduto dall' Autore. 1867. 8vo, pp. 94.



DION AND THE SIBYLS.

A CLASSIC, CHRISTIAN NOVEL.

BY MILES GERALD KEON, COLONIAL SECRETARY, BERMUDA, AUTHOR OF "HARDING
THE MONEY-SPINNER," ETC.


CHAPTER III.

Tiberius, when all had disappeared along the road, suddenly stopped
in his walk.

His companion, toward whom he had turned, did the same, and looked at
him with an air of expectation.

"I leave all details to you," said the Cæsar; "but what has to be
done is this--that youth who calls himself Paulus Lepidus Æmilius
must be produced as a gladiator either in the Circus Maximus or the
Statilian Amphitheatre,[22] as the number of victims may dictate. Men
of noble birth have been seen ere now upon the sand. We will then
make him show against the best swordsmen in the world--against Gauls,
Britons, and Cappadocians--what that Greek fence is worth of which
he seems a master. The girl, his sister, must be carried off, either
beforehand or afterward, as your skill may dictate, and softly and
safely lodged at Rome in that two-storied brick house of Cneius Piso
and his precious wife, Plancina, which is not known to be mine; (I
believe and hope, and am given to understand, that it is not known to
be theirs neither.)"

Tiberius paused, and Sejanus, with an intent look, slightly inclined
his head. He was a keen man, a subtle man, but not a very profound
man. He observed,

"I have heard something of this Greek widow and of her son and
daughter. They have (it seems to me as if I had heard this) friends
near the person of Augustus, or, at least, in the court. I can easily
cause the girl to be so carried off that no rumor about the place of
her residence will ever more sound among men. But the very mystery of
it will sound, and that loudly; and her mother and brother will never
cease to pierce the ears of Augustus with their cries. But, before I
say a word more, I wish to know two things--first, whether this youth
Paulus is to be included in one of those great shows of gladiators
which are rendering you, my Cæsar, so beloved by the Roman people?"

"Am I beloved, think you?" asked Tiberius.

"The master-passion of the people is for the shows, and, above all,
the fights of the amphitheatre," answered Sejanus. "Whoever has, for
a hundred years and more, obtained the mastery of the world, has thus
won the Romans; each succeeding dictator of the globe, from Caius
Marius, and Sylla, and Pompey, and the invincible Caius Julius, and
Mark Antony, to our present happy Emperor Augustus, has surpassed his
predecessors in the magnificence of these entertainments given to
people, populace, common legionaries, and prætorians; and in exact
proportion also, it is remarkable, has each surpassed his forerunners
in permanent power, until that power has at last become nearly
absolute, nearly unlimited."

"You say true," replied Tiberius; "and I excel all former examples in
the extent, splendor, and novelty of my shows. Augustus has abandoned
that department; but even when he was courting the Romans, he never
_edited_ like me. People would now smile at the old-fashioned
meanness of the spectacles which he formerly made acceptable to them.
He is breaking very fast in health too, I fear, my Sejanus."

"He is, I fear, drawing toward his end," replied the commander of the
prætorians.

"As to your question concerning this youth," resumed Tiberius,
"my object is partly to add a novel and curious feature to the
fight--this strange sword-play. Yet, why should he not afterward be
included in some great slaughter-match, three or four hundred a
side, care being taken that he should be finished? We might first pit
him fairly against six or a dozen single antagonists in succession.
If he conquer them all, it will be unprecedentedly amusing; the
people will be in ecstasies, and then the victor can be made to
disappear in the general conflict. I shall thus have the undisturbed
management of his sister's education."

Grave as a statue, Sejanus replied,

"He is a proud youth, an equestrian, a patrician, son of an eminent
warrior, nephew of one who once shared in the government of the
whole globe. Well, not being a slave, if he found himself in the
arena by virtue of having been violently seized and trepanned, I
firmly believe that, either before or after fighting, he would make a
speech, appealing to the justice of the emperor and the sympathy of
the people, not to say any thing about the soldiers.[23] The plan you
propose, my Cæsar, seems like furnishing him with an immense audience
and a gigantic tribunal, before which to tell that pathetic story
about his father and the battle of Philippi, and those family estates
which are now in the possession of the two beautiful ladies whose
litters have just preceded us on the road to Formiæ."

Tiberius smiled, as with his head bent down he looked at the speaker,
and thus he continued stooping, looking, and smiling for a moment or
two, after which he said,

"The Tuscans are subtle, and you are the subtlest of Tuscans; what is
best?"

Sejanus said, "Let the girl first be carried away; let the mother and
brother break their hearts for her; then let the Lanista Thellus,
who is not known to be one of your men, but is supposed to hire
out his gladiators on his own account, invite the youth to join
his _familia_,[24] or company, and when Paulus refuses, as he will
refuse, let Thellus say that he knows money would not bribe Paulus,
but that he has seen Paulus's sister; that he can guide him to her,
if Paulus consents to fight in the next great forthcoming shows. And,
in short, in order to make all this more specious, let Thellus have
formed the acquaintance of the half-Greek family, mother, sister,
brother, before the girl is abducted, in order that Paulus may think
he speaks the truth when afterward saying that he has seen the sister
and knows her, and can guide Paulus to where she is detained. If this
plan be adopted, Paulus will fight in the arena of _his own accord_,
and will make no speeches, no disturbance, but will disappear for
ever in a decorous and legitimate manner."

"You are a man of immense merit, my Sejanus," replied the personage
in gore-colored purple, "and I will some day reward you more than
I can do while merely the Cæsar of an Augustus, whom may the gods
protect. The mother perhaps we can let alone, or she could be put
on board a corsair as an offering to some god, to procure me good
fortune in other things. We shall see. Meanwhile, execute all
the rest with as little delay as the order and priority of the
several matters, one before the other, will allow, and report to me
punctually at every step."

Beckoning to one of the troopers, who approached with the spare
horse, Tiberius now mounted. The soldier immediately withdrew again,
and Tiberius said to the prætorian commander, "Be upon your guard
with Paterculus; he is doubtless devoted to me, but is a squeamish
man; clever, indeed, too. Still there are clever fools, my Sejanus."

Then waving his hand, he rode slowly away, but came to a halt at a
distance of twenty paces, and turned his horse's head round. Sejanus
strode quickly toward his master.

"You know, of course, that the Germans, encouraged by the slaughter
of Varus and his legions, are swarming over the Julian Alps into the
north-east of Italy from Illyricum.[25] How many legions are there
available to meet them?"

"We have within reach, at this moment, twelve," said Sejanus,
"besides my prætorians."

"Half the present forces of the whole empire," replied the other.
"Germanicus is to drive back the barbarians. He will become more
popular than ever with the troops generally. But the prætorians do
not care for him, I suppose?"

"Even the prætorians revere him," answered Sejanus.

"Why, how so? They have so little to do with him."

"They know a soldier--" began Sejanus.

"And am not I a soldier?" interrupted his master.

"They love you too, my Cæsar, and dearly."

"Peace! Tell me exactly; what think the prætorians of Germanicus?"

"They foolishly think that, since the day when Caius Julius was
murdered, no such soldier--"

"Enough! Foolishly, say you? Remember my instructions. _Vale!_" And
Tiberius galloped north, his face ablaze with a brick-red flush
deeper than ordinary.


CHAPTER IV.

Sejanus, when left alone, motioned to the two troopers. He who had
brought Tiberius his horse rode furiously after the Cæsar; the
other attended the general, who slowly mounted his own steed, and,
pursuing the same direction, began to trot leisurely toward Formiæ.
The sun had gone down; the short twilight had passed away; clouds
had gathered, and the moon, not having yet risen, the night was very
black. In a few minutes Sejanus slackened his horse's pace from a
trot to a walk, and the orderly, as his military attendant would in
modern times be called, nearly rode against him in the dark. The man
made some natural excuse, and fell back again about thirty paces.

Sejanus hardly noticed him.

"At present," he muttered, when again alone, "Tiberius, though a
Cæsar, needs me; Germanicus is Cæsar too, and may become emperor.
If Germanicus wished it, right or wrong--if _per fas et nefas_--he
would win. He has much of the genius of Caius Julius and his defect
of overtrustfulness; but none of his many vices. I doubt if he
will ever be emperor; he is too Athenian, and also too honorable,
too disinterested. Somehow I feel, too, as if he were going to be
assassinated; he believes readily in men. Tiberius has smaller
abilities, worse qualities, and better chances. He will rule the
world, and Ælius Sejanus will rule him."

As Sejanus said these things to himself in an indistinct murmur, of
which none could have heard the precise words, a voice at his elbow
astonished him. Said the voice,

"How far is it, illustrious general, to Formiæ?"

The prætorian chief turned with a start, and saw that the speaker was
a mounted traveller, attended by two servants, also on horseback;
but there was so little light that he could not distinguish the
stranger's features, nor more of his dress and appointments than that
they were not, as it seemed, Italian.

"About five thousand paces," he answered. "However, there is no inn
at Formiæ. Some eight hundred paces from here is a good wayside
tavern, (_mansio_.) But you call me general, for I wear the dress.
You do not, however, know me."

"Not know the distinguished chief of the prætorians? Not know the
happy and unhappy, the fortunate and unfortunate Sejanus?"

"Happy and unhappy," reëchoed the latter, "fortunate and unfortunate!
What means this jargon? You could use that language of every mortal.
What you say you unsay."

While thus replying, he endeavored to discern the dim features of his
new companion.

"Think you so?" said the man. "Then, pray, would it be the same
if I were to say, for example, unhappy and happy, unfortunate and
fortunate?"

"Yes."

"Alas! no."

"What!" said Sejanus. "The happiness is present, the good fortune is
present, but the misfortune and unhappiness are to come. Is this your
meaning?"

"As I always say what I mean," rejoined the other, "so I never
explain what I say."

"Then at least," observed Sejanus, with great haughtiness of tone and
manner, "you will be good enough to say who you are. As the _Prætor
Peregrinus_,[26] especially charged to look after foreigners, I
demand your name. Remember, friend, that six lictors, as well as
twenty thousand soldiers, obey Sejanus."

"I am the god Hermes," replied the other, riding suddenly ahead,
followed by both his attendants.

The movement was so unexpected that the figure of the stranger had
become almost indistinguishable in the obscurity, before Sejanus
urged his fleet Numidian steed forward at a bound in pursuit.

"Take care," said a voice in his front, "that your horse do not throw
you, impious man!"

At the same time, the prætorian leader heard something roll upon the
paved road, and immediately a vivid flash blazed under his horse's
eyes, and a sharp report followed. Nearly thrown, indeed, he was,
as the voice had warned him. When he had recovered his balance and
quieted the startled beast he was riding, he halted to listen; but
the only sound he could now hear was that of the mounted trooper
trotting after him along the Appian Way. He waited for this man to
come up, and inquired what he had observed in the three strangers who
had previously passed him on the road.

"No stranger," said the man, "had passed him; he had seen no one."

Then Sejanus remembered what he had not at the moment adverted to,
that neither when first accosted by the stranger, nor afterward while
this person with his two attendants rode by his side, nor finally
when they all galloped forward and were lost in the darkness, had any
clatter of hoofs been audible.

He resumed his journey in silent thought, and soon arrived, without
further adventure, at the large and famous post-house, standing in
those days four or five miles south of Formiæ.


CHAPTER V.

The post house, or _mansio_,[27] to which allusion has been made,
situated about four or five miles south of Formiæ, on the Appian
road, was a large, rambling, two-storied _brick_ house, capable of
accommodating a vast number of travellers. It was not, therefore,
merely one of the many relay-houses where the imperial couriers, as
well as all who could produce a special warrant for the purpose,
from a consul, or a prætor, or even a quæstor, were allowed to
obtain a change of horses; still less was it one of the low
canal-town taverns, whose keepers Horace abused; but it was a regular
country inn, where man and beast found shelter for the apparently
infinitesimal charge of one _as_, (or not quite a penny,) and good
cheer at proportionably moderate cost. It was well supplied from its
own farm-yards, olive-groves, orchards, vineyards, pastures, and
tilled fields, with vegetables, beef, mutton, poultry, geese, ducks,
attagens, and other meats; eggs, wine, butter, cheese, milk, honey,
bread, and fruit; a delicious plate of fish occasionally, an equally
delicious array of quail, produced upon table in a state aromatic and
frothy with their own fat juices.

This excellent and celebrated house of entertainment for belated or
way-worn travellers, as well as for all who desired a change from the
monotony of their usual life, was kept by a remarkably worthy old
couple, formerly slaves, a freedman and freedwoman of the illustrious
Æmilian family. The reader will have noticed that the youth whom it
is necessary, we suppose, to acknowledge in the capacity of our hero,
has been called Paulus Æmilius Lepidus; that his father had borne
the same style; and likewise that his father's brother, the former
sovereign magistrate or triumvir in the second and great triumvirate,
was named Marcus Æmilius Lepidus. In all these names, that of Æmilius
occurs; and Æmilius was the noblest of the patronymics which once
this great family boasted. Now, theirs had been the house in which
Crispus and Crispina, the good innkeeper and his wife, at present
free and prosperous, had been boy and girl slaves. The wife, indeed,
had been nurse to a son of Marcus Lepidus, the triumvir.

That son, some years before the date of our narrative, had been
engaged in a conspiracy against Augustus; and the conspiracy having
been discovered by Mæcenas, the youth had been put to death. Marcus
Æmilius Lepidus, the father, was exculpated from all knowledge of
this attempt on the part of his son, but had ever since lived in
profound retirement at a lonely sea-shore castle some twenty or
thirty miles from Crispus's inn, near Monte Circello; a silent,
brooding, timid man, no longer very wealthy, entirely without weight
in the society which he had abandoned, and without any visible
influence in the political world, from which he had fled in some
terror and immense disgust.

As Sejanus rode slowly up to the inn-door, a centurion came out of
the porch with the air of one who had been waiting for him. Saluting
the general, this officer said that he had been left behind by
Velleius Paterculus to say that the sister of the youth whom Tiberius
had placed under the charge of Paterculus had fainted on the road;
that being unable to proceed, she and her mother had taken a lodging
in the inn; that the youth had at once begged Paterculus to allow
him to remain instead of proceeding to Formiæ, in order that he
might attend to his poor sister, for whose life he was alarmed,
giving his promise that he would faithfully report himself, and not
attempt to escape; that Paterculus considered himself justified,
under the circumstances, in acceding to so natural a request;
consequently, that the young man was now in the inn, along with his
mother and sister; and that he, the centurion, had been ordered to
await Sejanus's arrival, and inform him of what had occurred, so that
he might either confirm his subordinate's decision, or repair the
mistake, if it was one, and cause the youth to go forward at once to
Formiæ according to the letter of Tiberius's original command.

"It is well," said Sejanus, after a moment's reflection. "This is not
the sort of lad who will break his word. Carthaginians, and rubbish
like them, knew long ago how to believe a Roman knight and patrician,
and this lad seems to be of the Regulus breed. Does the Cæsar
himself, however, know of this?"

"I had no orders to tell him," answered the centurion; "and if I had
had, it would have been difficult; he passed at full gallop a quarter
of an hour ago, his head down, not so much as looking aside."

Sejanus then put the following question with a sneer,

"Has a god, or a stranger, with two attendants on horseback, passed
this way?"

"No god, unless he be a god, and he had no attendants," said the
astonished centurion.

"You have not seen three figures on horseback, nor a flash of bluish
light?"

"I certainly thought I saw three figures on horseback, but I could
not be sure. It was on the farther side of the way, general, which is
broad," continued the man apologetically, "and there was no sound
of hoofs; my impression, too, was gone in a moment. As to a flash of
bluish light, there are several flashes of red and white light inside
the inn kitchen, and they make the road outside all the darker; but
there has been no flash in the road."

"Good! now follow me."

And Sejanus rode on in the direction of Formiæ, the centurion and the
soldier behind him.


CHAPTER VI.

The inn, it is well ascertained, never became a common institution
in classic antiquity. It was utterly unknown in any thing like its
modern shape among the Greeks; one cause being that the literary
Greeks gave less care to their roads and communications than the
administrating, fighting, conquering, and colonizing Romans always
did. Even among the Romans the army trusted to its city-like
encampments from stage to stage. Centuries passed away, during which
the private traveller found few indeed, and far between, any better
public resting-houses along the magnificent and stupendous highways,
whose remains we still behold indestructible, from England to Asia
Minor, than the half-day relay-posts, or _mutationes_. At these the
wayfarer, by producing[28] his _diploma_ from the proper authorities,
obtained a change of horses.

Travelling, in short, was a thousand-fold less practised than it
is among us; and those who did travel, or who deemed it likely
they ever should, trusted to that hospitality which necessity had
made universal, and the poetry of daily life had raised by repute
into one of the greatest virtues. Years before any member of your
family, supposing you to belong to the age through which the events
of this narrative are carrying and to carry us, years before any
of your circle quitted your roof, you knew to what house, to what
smoky hearth in each foreign land, to what threshold in Spain, Gaul,
Syria, Egypt, Greece, the wanderer would eventually resort. A certain
family in each of these and other lands was your _hospes_, and you
were theirs; and very often you carried round your neck, attached
to a gold or silver chain, a bit of elder or oak (_robur_) notched
and marked by the natural breakage, the corresponding half of which
hung day and night round the neck of some friend living thousands
of miles away, beyond rivers, mountains, wild forests, and raging
seas. These tokens were the cheap lodging-money of friendship. Very
often they were interchanged and put on in boyhood, and not presented
till advanced age. He who had thrown the sacred symbol round the
curly head of his playmate on the banks of the Tiber, saw an old
man with scanty white hair approach him, half a century afterward,
at Alexandria, or Numantia, or Athens, and offer him a little bit
of wood, the fracture? of which were found to fit into those of
a similar piece worn upon his own bosom. Or the son brought the
father's token; or a son received what a father had given. And the
stranger was forthwith joyfully made welcome, and took rank among
dear friends. Forthwith the bath and the supper introduced him to
his remote home amid foreign faces. To be once unfaithful to these
pledges, was to become irreparably infamous. The caitiff who thus
sundered the lies of traditionary and necessity-caused and world-wide
kindness, became an object of scorn and reprobation to all. It
was enough to mention of him,[29] _tesseram confregit hospitalem_,
("_that man has broken his token-word of hospitality_;") with that
all was said. Traces of this touching custom appear to survive in
some of the ceremonials of rustic love, amid many a population
ignorant that the ancient Romans ever reigned over Europe.

But if inns, in year eleven, were not what they have been in mediæval
and modern Europe, nevertheless a few existed even then, (_cauponæ_;)
and a more notable establishment of this kind never flourished in any
part of the Roman empire than that to which our story has now brought
us. It was the exception to manners then prevalent, and the presage
of manners to come long afterward. It used to be commonly called the
_Post-House of the Hundredth Milestone_, or, more briefly, _Crispus's
Inn_.

The public room of this place of entertainment was not unlike the
coffee-room of a good modern inn, except that it was necessarily far
more full of incident and interest, because the ancients were beyond
comparison more addicted to living in public than any modern nation
has ever been.

An Englishman who makes a similar remark of the French, in comparison
with his own countrymen, has only to remember that the modern French
as much excel the ancient Romans in fondness for retirement and
privacy and domestic life as the English believe themselves to excel
the French in the same particular.

An inn did not trouble itself much with the _triclinium_, a chamber
seldom used by its frequenters. Even the manners of the _triclinium_
were out of vogue here.

In Crispus's public room, for instance, there was one and only one
table arranged with couches around it, upon which some three or four
customers, while eating and drinking, could recline according to the
fashion adopted in the private houses of the rich and noble. All the
other tables stood round the walls of the apartment, with benches
and settees on each side, offering seats for the guests. The inner
seats at these tables were generally preferred, for two reasons; the
occupants saw all that passed in the room, and besides, had the wall,
against which they could lean back.

When Velleius Paterculus, having left Tiberius and Sejanus in the
meadows near the Liris, took charge of the prætorian squadrons and of
Paulus, he directed a Batavian trooper to dismount and give his horse
to the prisoner. Paulus willingly sprung upon the big Flemish beast,
and rode by the side of the obliging officer who had given him that
conveyance. Thus they proceeded at an easy amble until they reached
the post-house, to the porch of which the noise of four thousand
hoofs, suddenly approaching along the paved road, had brought a group
of curious gazers. Among these was the landlord, Crispus himself.

A halt, as the reader must have inferred from a former incident, was
occasioned at the door by the intimation conveyed to Paterculus that
Paulus's sister had fainted, that she and her mother intended to seek
a lodging at the inn, and that the mother and brother of the invalid
would both feel grateful to the commanding officer if he could permit
Paulus, upon pledging his word not to make any attempt to escape, to
remain there with them.

"As to the ladies," said the urbane literary soldier, "I have neither
the wish nor any orders to interfere with their movements. But
you, young sir, what say you? Will you give me your word to regard
yourself as being in my custody till I expressly release you? Will
you promise not to _abire_, _evadere_, _excedere_, or _erumpere_, as
our friend Tully said?"

"Tully! Who is that?" asked our hero.

"What, you a half Greek and not know who Tully was! Is this the
manner in which Greek youths, or at least youths in Greece, are
educated! Is it thus they are taught in Greece, to which we go
ourselves for education! In that Greece which has forbidden
gladiatorial shows, and diminished the training of the body to have
more time for that of the intellect!"

Paulus blushed, seeing he must have betrayed some gross degree of
rusticity, and answered,

"I know I am ignorant: I have been so much occupied in athletic
sports. But I will give you the promise you ask, and keep it most
truly and faithfully."

"I will trust you, then. Go a little, my friend, into the athletic
sports of the mind, which are precisely those Greece most cultivates.
You are of a great family now fallen down. The muscles of the arm,
the strength of the body, a blow from a cestus, never yet raised
that kind of burden off the ground. You fence astonishingly well--I
noted your parry just now; but the fence of the mind is every thing,
believe me. By the way, I see the excellent Piso, whom you hammered
down after the parry, as one puts a full stop to a pretty sentence,
is being carried into this same post-house."

"By your leave, illustrious sir," interposed the innkeeper, rather
nervously, "it is scarcely the custom, is it, to drop guests at
Crispus's door, without first asking Crispus has he room for them?
The expected visit of the divine Augustus to the neighboring palace
of the most excellent and valiant knight Mamurra, in Formiæ, has
choked and strangled this poor house. There is no place where the
multitude of guests can lodge in the town, so they come hither, as
to a spot at a convenient distance. Troops of players, troops of
gladiators, troops of fortune-tellers, troops of geese, pigs, beeves,
attagens, alive and dead, night and day, for the last week, with
mighty personages from a distance, make the road noisy, I assure you,
even after my house is full. I believe they would wish me to put up
the very oxen intended for sacrifice."

"Have you no chambers whatever vacant?" asked Velleius.

"I did not say that, most excellent sir; vacant is one thing,
disengaged is another. I have received an express letter from
Brundusium, to say that a certain queen out of the East, with her son
and her train, are coming to pay their homage to the emperor: and
here we have already the servants of that Jew king, as they say, one
King Alexander, who wants his cause to be heard and his title settled
by Augustus himself, and I am obliged to listen to loud outcries that
he, too, must have apartments."

At this moment, the travelling carriage carrying poor Agatha and her
mother had been drawn nearly opposite to the porch, but a little in
rear of the tribune, so as not to intercept his conversation with the
innkeeper. Paterculus threw a quick glance at the beautiful pallid
face of the girl, and the anxious and frightened look of her mother.

"By what you tell me, worthy Crispus," he replied, "you are so far
from having your justly celebrated house full, that you are keeping
two sets of apartments still vacant, in expectation, first, of some
queen from the east, with her son and train, and secondly, of this
Jewish king, one Alexander. Worthy Libertinus,[30] the fair damsel
whom you see so pale, is very sick, and has just swooned away from
sheer fatigue. Will you turn such a daughter in such health, with her
noble mother, from your door? A queen can take care of herself, it
seems to me. But what will become of these excellent Roman ladies,
(your own countrywomen,) if you now bid them begone from your
threshold? You have assured me that they can obtain no shelter at
all in Formiæ. Look at the child! She seems likely to faint again.
Are you to let this daughter of a Roman knight die in the fields,
in order that you may have room for a barbarian queen? You have a
daughter of your own, I am told."

"Die!" groaned the innkeeper: "all this did not come into my mind,
most illustrious tribune and quæstor. Come, little lady, let me help
you down. This lady and her daughter, sir, shall have the queen's own
apartments--may all the gods destroy me otherwise! Here, Crispina."

Velleius Paterculus smiled, and having whispered some order to a
centurion, who remained behind in watch for Sejanus, the tribune
waved his hand, crying out _vale_ to whom it might concern, and rode
forward with the prætorians at a much smarter pace than they had come.


CHAPTER VII.

Meanwhile the innkeeper's wife, Crispina, had appeared, and had led
Aglais and her daughter through the group in the porch into the
house, and passing by a little _zothecula_,[31] behind the curtain
of which they heard the sound of flutes,[32] as the carvers carved,
and many voices, loud and low, denoting the apartment called _dieta_
or public room of the inn, they soon arrived at the _compluvium_, an
open space or small court, in the middle of which was a cistern, and
in the middle of the cistern a splashing fountain. The cistern was
railed by a circular wooden balustrade, against which some creeping
plants grew. This cistern was supplied from the sky; for the whole
space or court in which it lay was open and unroofed. Between the
circular wooden balustrade and the walls of the house was, on every
side, a large quadrangular walk, lightly gravelled, and flashing back
under the lantern which Crispina carried, an almost metallic glint
and sparkle. Of course this walk presented its quadrangular form on
the outer edge, next the house only; the inside, next the cistern,
was rounded away. This quadrangular walk was at one spot diminished
in width by a staircase in the open air, (but under an awning,) which
led up to the second story of the large brick building. Around the
whole _compluvium_, or court, the four inner faces of the inn, which
had four covered lights in sconces against the walls, were marked at
irregular intervals by windows, some of which were mere holes, with
trap-doors (in every case open at present;) others, lattice-work,
like what, many centuries later, obtained the name of arabesque-work,
having a curtain inside that could be drawn or undrawn. Others
again with perforated slides; others stretched with linen which oil
had rendered diaphanous; others fitted with thin scraped horn; one
only, a tolerably large window, with some kind of mineral panes more
translucent than transparent--a _lapis laminata specularis_.

At the back, or west of the inn, an irregular oblong wing extended,
which of course could not open upon this court, but had its own means
of light and ventilation north and south respectively.

Crispus had followed the group of women, and our friend Paulus had
followed Crispus. In the _compluvium_, the innkeeper took the lantern
from his wife, and begged Aglais and Agatha to follow him up the
awning-covered staircase. As he began to ascend, it happened that
Crispina, looking around, noticed Paulus, who had taken off his
broad-rimmed hat, under one of the sconces. No sooner had her eyes
rested on him than she started violently, and grasped the balustrade
as if she would have fallen but for that support.

"Who are you?" said the woman.

"The brother of that young lady who is ill, and the son of the other
lady."

"And you, too, must want lodgings?"

"Certainly."

The woman seized his arm with a vehement grip, and gazed at him.

"Are you ill?" said Paulus, "or--or--out of your mind? Why do you
clutch my arm and look at me in that fashion?"

"Too young," said she, rather to herself than to him; "besides, I saw
the last act with these eyes. Truly this is wonderful."

Then, like one waking from a dream, she added, "Well, if you want
lodgings, you shall have them. You shall have the apartments of this
king or pretender--the rooms prepared for the Jew Alexander. Come
with me at once." And she unfastened the lamp in the nearest sconce,
and led Paulus up the staircase.

Thus the wanderers, Aglais and her daughter, had the queen's room,
with their Thracian slave Melana to wait upon them, while the
prisoner Paulus had the king's, to which Crispina herself ordered old
Philip, the freedman, to carry his luggage.

A few moments later, the innkeeper, who had returned to the more
public parts of the house to attend to his usual duties, met Philip
laden with parcels in one of the passages, and asked him what he was
doing.

"Carrying young Master Paulus's things to his room."

"You can carry," said the innkeeper, "whatever the ladies require
to _their_ room; but your young master has no room at all, my man,
in this house. And why? For the same reason that will compel you to
sleep in one of the lofts over the stables. There is no space for him
in the inn. You must make him as comfortable as you can in the hay,
just like yourself."

"Humanity is something," muttered Crispus; "but to make a queen
one's enemy on that score, without adding a king, where no humane
consideration intervenes at all, is enough for a poor innkeeper in
a single night. These _tetrarchs_ and rich barbarians can do a poor
man an ugly turn. Who knows but he might complain of my house to
the emperor, or to one of the consuls, or the prætor, or even the
quæstor, and presto! every thing is seized, and I am banished to the
Tauric Chersonese, or to Tomos in Scythia, to drink mare's milk with
the poet Ovid."[33]

"Go on, freedman, with your luggage," here said a peremptory voice,
"and take it whither you have taken the rest."

"And in the name of all the gods, wife," cried Crispus, "whither may
that be?"

"Go on, freedman," she repeated; and then taking her husband aside,
she spoke to him in a low tone.

"Have you remarked this youth's face?" she asked; "and have you any
idea who he is?"

"I know not who any of them are," replied Crispus.

"Look at him then; for here he comes."

Crispus looked, and as he looked his eyes grew bigger; and again he
looked until Paulus noticed it, and smiled.

"Do you know me?" says he.

"No, illustrious sir."

"Alas! I am not illustrious, good landlord, (_institor_,) but hungry
I am. And I believe we all are, except my poor sister, who is not
very strong, and for whom, by and by, I should like to procure the
advice of a physician."

"The poor young thing," said Crispina, "is only tired with her
journey; it is nothing. She will be well to-morrow. Supper you shall
have presently in the ante-chamber of your mother's apartments; and
your freedman and the female slave shall be cared for after they have
waited upon you."

"All this is easy and shall be seen to forthwith," added Crispus;
"but the doctor for your dear sister, _per omnes deos_, where shall
we find him?"

"Understand," said Paulus, "my sister is not in immediate danger,
such as would justify calling in any empiric at once rather than
nobody. She has been ailing for some time, and it is of no use to
send for the first common stupid practitioner that may be in the way.
Is there not some famous doctor procurable in Italy?"

"The most famous in Italy is a Greek physician not five thousand
paces from here at this moment," said the landlord. "But he would
not come to every body; he is Tiberius Cæsar's own doctor."

"You mean Charicles," replied Paulus; "I almost think he would come;
my mother is a Greek lady, and he will surely be glad to oblige his
countrywoman."

"Then write you a note to him," said Crispina, "and I will send it
instantly."

Paulus thanked her, said he would, and withdrew.

When he proposed to his mother to dispatch this message to Charicles,
she hesitated much. Agatha was better, he found her in comparatively
good spirits. It would do to send for the doctor next day. An urgent
summons conveyed at night to the palace or residence of the Cæsar,
where Charicles would probably of necessity be, would cause Tiberius
to inquire into the matter, and would again draw his attention, and
draw it still more persistently to them. He had already intimated
that he would order his physician to attend Agatha. They did not
desire to establish very close relations with the man in black purple.

It is wonderful even how that very intimation from Tiberius had
diminished both mother's and daughter's anxiety to consult the
celebrated practitioner, to whose advice and assistance they had
previously looked forward. There were parties in the court and cabals
in the political world; and among them, as it happened, was the Greek
faction, at the head of which his ill-wishers alleged Germanicus to
be. Græculus, or Greek coxcomb, was one of the names flung at him
as a reproach by his enemies. What the Scotch, and subsequently the
Irish interest may have been at various times in modern England,
that the Greek interest was then in Roman society. Of all men, he
who most needed to be cautious and discreet in such a case was an
adventurer who, being himself a Greek, owed to his personal merit
and abilities the position of emolument and credit which he enjoyed;
who was tolerated for his individual qualities as a foreigner, but
who, if suspected of using professional opportunities as a political
partisan, would be of no service to others, and would merely lose his
own advantages.

"Let Tiberius send Charicles to us," continued Aglais; "and our
countryman and friend may be of service to us, even in the suit which
we have to urge at court. But were we now to show the Cæsar that we
confide in Charicles, we should only injure our countryman and not
benefit ourselves."

"How injure him?"

"Thus," replied the Greek lady. "If your claim for the restitution of
your father's estates be not granted for justice sake, I must make
interest in order that it may be granted for favor's sake. As a Greek
I shall be likely to induce no powerful person to take our claims
under his protection except Germanicus, the friend of Athenians.
Now, it is a fact which I have learned for certain that Tiberius
hates Germanicus, whom he regards as his rival; and that whoever
is patronized by Germanicus, him Tiberius would gladly destroy.
Behold us in a short while the clients and retainers of this same
Germanicus, and let Tiberius then remember that his own physician has
been, and continues to be, intimate and confidential with this brood
of the Germanicus faction. Would not Charicles be damaged, perhaps
endangered? But if we wait until the Cæsar himself sends us the
doctor, as he said he would, we may then gain by it, and our friend
not lose."

"Mother, you are indeed Greek," said Paulus, laughing; "and as
Agatha is in no actual danger, be it as you say. Do you know,
sister, there is nothing the matter with you but fatigue and fright?
I am sure of it. You will recover rapidly now, with rest, peace, and
safety."

"Mother," says Agatha, smiling, "we have forgotten, amid all this
consultation about my health, to tell brother the curious discovery I
have just made."

"True," said Aglais; "your sister has explored a very odd fact
indeed."

"Why, brother," says Agatha, "we found you in this large
sitting-room, when we entered, though we had left you below-stairs,
near the cistern."

"Found me?" said Paulus.

"Yes," added his mother; "found you concealed in this room by
Tiberius."

"Concealed by Tiberius?"

"I will not leave you in suspense any longer," said the young girl,
laughing. "Look here." And she led him to a table behind the bench
on which she had been sitting, and directed his attention to a bust,
or rather a head of Tiberius, modelled or moulded in some sort of
pottery.

"That," said she, "when I first sat down, stood upon yonder table
opposite to us. I recognized the face of the man who had spoken to
me under the chestnut-trees, just before you assisted me back to the
carriage. I abhor the wicked countenance; and not choosing to let it
stare at me like a dream where it was, I rose and went to remove it
to the stand where you now see it, behind my bench. Well, only think!
I took it, so, with my hands, one under each ear, and lifted it;
when, lo! it came away, and left your own dear face looking at us,
thus!"

As she spoke, she again lifted the _terra cotta_ face, and beneath
it a much smaller and more elegant piece of sculpture in white
marble was disclosed, presenting the lineaments and image of Paulus
himself. He started, and then his sister replaced the mask of
Tiberius with a laugh.

"Was I not speaking true when I said that Tiberius had concealed you
here?" said his mother.

"The Cæsar, very true, has me in his head, and well secured," said
Paulus.

At that moment the door opened, and Crispina entered to ask whether
the letter for the physician was ready. They told her they had
changed their minds, and would not, at least that night, send any
letter, Agatha felt and looked so much better.

"Then I will at once order your supper to be brought," said Crispina;
"and as you are evidently people of distinction, would you like music
while the meats are carved?"

"Certainly not," said the Greek lady.

"Not a carver neither, mother?" interposed Agatha; and, turning to
the hostess, she begged that they might be treated as quietly and let
alone as much as it was possible.

"That is indeed our desire," said the Greek lady.

"In that case," replied the hostess, "my own daughter, Benigna, shall
attend to you. Nobody shall trouble you. You are in the rear or west
wing of the house, far away from all the noise of our customers, who
are sometimes, I confess, sufficiently uproarious. But Crispus is not
afraid of them. When to-morrow's sun rises, you will be glad to find
what a beautiful country extends beneath your windows, even to the
waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea. You will behold, first, a garden and
bee-hive; beyond these are orchards; beyond them fields of husbandry
and pleasant pasture lands, with not a human figure to be seen except
knots and dots of work-people, a few shepherds, and perhaps an angler
amusing himself on the banks of the Liris in the distance."

"Oh!" said Agatha, "I wish soon to go to sleep, that we may set out
quickly toward that beautiful country to-morrow morning."

"Will you not like a little bit of something very nice for supper
first, my precious little lady?" quoth the good hostess; "and that
will make you sleep all the better, and from the moment when you
close your pretty eyes in rest and comfort under poor Crispina's
roof, to the moment when you open them upon those lovely scenes,
you won't be able to count one, two, three--but just only one--and
presto! there's to-morrow morning for you!"

Agatha declared that this was very nice; and that supper would be
nice; and that every thing was comfortable; the rooms particularly so.

"Then a delicious little supper shall be got ready at once," said
Crispina. "I'll call my brisk Benigna to help me."

Before quitting the room, however, the landlady, whose glance had
rested chiefly upon Paulus during the conversation, threw up her
hands a little way. She then composed herself, and addressing Aglais,
asked,

"What names, lady, shall I put down in my book?"

"I will tell you when you return," replied Aglais; and the landlady
retired.

    TO BE CONTINUED.

FOOTNOTES:

[22] Suetonius, Aug. 39. The forum, where gladiators had often bled,
was becoming less and less used for that purpose.

[23] It is well known that Trajan exhibited shows in which ten
thousand gladiators fought, but this monstrous development of cruelty
came long after our date.

[24] A school of gladiators. Suet Jul. 26; Aug. 42; Tacit. Hist. ii.
88.

[25] This German expedition took the same direction as that of the
Austrian armies which endeavored to dislodge Bonaparte from the siege
of Mantua, and came pouring down both sides of Lake Guarda.

[26] Cic. Fam. xiii. 59; Dion. iii. 22; Cæsar. Bell. Cir. iii. 20.

[27] The malignant innkeepers mentioned by Horace, "Sat. lib. 1,
Sat. 5," kept a low class of houses in comparison with this notable
hostelry.

[28] Pliny, Ep. x. 14, 121.

[29] Cic. Qu. Fr. ii. 14; Plautus, Pœn. v. 1, 22, 2, 92; Cist. 2,
1, 27.

[30] _Libertus_, freedman of such or such a family; _libertinus_,
freedman in general, or son of one.

[31] _Zothecula_, a small apartment, one side of which was formed by
a curtain. Pliny, Epis. ii. 17; v. 6. Suetonius, Claud. 10.

[32] _Flutes_, etc. Juvenal v. 121; xi. 137.

[33] Something in this language may seem out of keeping. I would
therefore remind the reader that the most learned, accomplished,
studious, and highly-cultivated minds among the Romans were very
frequently found in the class of slaves and freedmen.



A MAY CAROL.


        How many a lonely hermit maid
          Hath brightened like a dawn-touched isle
        When--on her breast in vision laid--
          That Babe hath lit her with his smile!

        How many an agèd saint hath felt,
          So graced, a second spring renew
        Her wintry breast; with Anna knelt,
          And trembled like the matin dew!

        How oft the unbending monk, no thrall
          In youth of mortal smiles or tears,
        Hath felt that Infant's touch through all
          The armor of his hundred years!

    But Mary's was no transient bliss;
      Nor hers a vision's phantom gleam;
    The hourly need, the voice, the kiss--
      That child was hers! 'Twas not a dream!

        At morning hers, and when the sheen
          Of moonrise crept the cliffs along;
        In silence hers, and hers between
          The pulses of the night-bird's song.

        And as the Child, the love. Its growth
          Was, hour by hour, a growth in grace;
        That Child was God; and love for both
          Advanced perforce with equal pace.

                                             AUBREY DE VERE.



SIR JOHN MAUNDEVILLE.


"Of Paradise I cannot speak properly, for I was not there. It is
far beyond, and I repent not going there; but I was not worthy." So
wrote, more than five hundred years ago, an honest English knight who
had spent some ten years journeying through that "most worthy land,
most excellent and lady and sovereign of all other lands," which was
"blessed and hallowed with the most precious body and blood of our
Lord Jesus Christ;" visiting portions of Africa and Asia; and picking
up from all accessible sources legends and marvels, and scraps
of the geography and history of distant countries. For something
like two centuries the travels of Sir John Maundeville enjoyed a
tremendous popularity; and though time can hardly be said to have
improved the good gentleman's reputation for veracity and judgment,
it has perhaps heightened rather than diminished the interest of his
narrative. Alas! we can never know such travellers again. Men who go
to Palestine in a steamboat, and are whirled by locomotives into the
very presence of the Sphinx, bring us back no wonderful stories of
the mysterious East, with its dragons and enchanters, and its sacred
places miraculously barred against profane footsteps. Travel has no
mysteries now. What is the earthly paradise but a Turkish pashalic?
What is Prester John but a petty negro chieftain? And for dragons and
chimæras dire, has not any good museum of natural history specimens
of them all, nicely stuffed and labelled, or bottled in alcohol? In
the days of Sir John, however, wonders were plenty; and if he did not
see very many himself, he heard of men who had seen no end of them,
and he described them all the same. It was from hearsay, and not
from personal observation, that he learned of the Lady of the Land,
in the island of Cos, then called Lango. This wonderful lady was the
daughter of Ypocras or Hippocrates, in form and likeness of a great
dragon which is a hundred fathoms in length, "as they say," adds Sir
John, "for I have not seen her." She lies in an old castle in a cave,
appearing twice or thrice in a year, and condemned "by a goddess
named Diana" to remain in that horrible shape until a knight shall
come and kiss her on the mouth; then she shall resume her natural
form, and the knight shall marry her and be lord of the isles. Many
have tempted the adventure, but fled in affright when they have seen
her. And every knight who once looks upon her and flees, must die
anon.

At Ephesus the traveller beheld the tomb of St. John the Evangelist,
and heard the familiar story that the apostle had entered the
sepulchre alive, and was still living, in accordance with the saying
of our Lord, "So I will have him to remain till I come, what is that
to thee?" "And men may see there the earth of the tomb many times
openly stir and move, as though there were living things under."
To say nothing else of this story, it is not fully consistent with
Sir John's other statement, that the tomb contains nothing but
manna, "which is called angels' meat," for the body was translated
to paradise. Quite as great are the wonders of Joppa, "which is one
of the oldest towns in the world; for it was founded _before Noah's
flood_." Strangely confusing the legend of Perseus and Andromeda,
our traveller relates that in a rock near Joppa may still be seen
marks of the iron chains "wherewith Andromeda, a great giant, was
bound and put in prison before Noah's flood; a rib of whose side,
which is forty feet long, is still shown." Sir John spent a long
time in the service of the sultan of Egypt, where he seems to have
anticipated modern researches into the source of the Nile; for he
confidently assures us that it rises in the garden of Eden, and after
descending upon earth, flows through many extensive countries under
ground, coming out beneath a high hill called Alothe, between India
and Ethiopia, and encircling the whole of Ethiopia and Mauritania,
before it enters the land of Egypt. To the best of our belief, the
travels of Dr. Livingstone have not fully confirmed this interesting
geographical statement. The sultan dwells at a city called Babylon,
which is not, however, the great Babylon where the diversity of
languages was first made by the miracle of God. That Babylon is
forty days' journey across the desert, in the territory of the king
of Persia. The Tower of Babel was ten miles square, and included
many mansions and dwellings; "but it is full long since any man dare
approach to the tower, for it is all desert, and full of dragons
and great serpents, and infested by divers venomous beasts." Sir
John, therefore, is probably not responsible for the extraordinary
measurement of its walls. Whether his account of the phoenix is based
upon his personal observations, we are not told; but it is highly
interesting. There is only one phoenix in the world. It is a very
handsome and glorious bird, with a yellow neck, blue beak, purple
wings, and a red and yellow tail, and may often be seen flying about
the country. It lives five hundred years, and at the end of that
time comes to burn itself on the altar of the temple of Heliopolis,
where the priests prepare for the occasion a fire of spices and
sulphur. The next day they find in the ashes a worm. On the second
day the worm becomes a live and perfect bird; and the third day it
flies away. A plenty of fine things, indeed, Egypt could boast of
in those days, far before any thing she has now. There were gardens
bearing fruit seven times a year. There were the apples of paradise,
which, cut them how you would, or as often as you would, always
showed in the middle the figure of the holy cross. There was the
apple-tree of Adam, whose fruit invariably had a mouthful bitten out
of one side. There is a field containing seven wells, which the child
Jesus made with one of his feet while at play with his companions.
There are the granaries in which Joseph stored corn for the season of
famine, (probably the Pyramids.) And passing out of Egypt across the
desert of Arabia, Sir John tells of the wonderful monastery on Mount
Sinai, whither the ravens, crows, and choughs and other fowls of that
country, assembling in great flocks, come every year on pilgrimage to
the tomb of St. Catharine, each bringing a branch of bays or olive,
so that from these offerings the monks have enough to keep themselves
constantly supplied with oil. There are no such foul venomous beasts
as flies, toads, lizards, lice, or fleas in this monastery; for
once upon a time, when the vermin had become too thick there to be
endured, the good brethren made preparations to move away, whereupon
our Lady commanded them to remain and no pest of that sort should
ever again come near them. On Mount Mamre, near Hebron, Sir John saw
an oak-tree which had been standing since the creation of the world.
Oaks nowadays don't live to such a great age. This tree had borne
no leaves since the crucifixion, (when all the trees in the world
withered away,) but it had still so much virtue that a scrap of it
healed the falling-sickness, and prevented founder in horses.

Armed with a letter under the sultan's great seal, Sir John went
to Jerusalem, and was admitted to all the holy shrines from which
Christians and Jews were usually excluded. He saw, or believed he
saw, the spots sanctified by almost all the great events narrated in
the Gospel; and though his credulity, as may be inferred from what
we have already seen of his narrative, often got the better of his
judgment, his piety, at any rate, deserves our genuine respect. We
pass over his legends of this holy city, some of them poetical, some
merely grotesque, and some really sanctioned by the general voice
of the church, and go with him eastward to the valley of Jordan and
the Dead Sea. Of this mysterious body of water he mentions that it
casts out every day "a thing that is called asphalt in pieces as
large as a horse," and neither man, nor beast, nor any thing that
hath life may die in that sea, which hath been proved many times by
the experiment of criminals condemned to death who have been left
therein three or four days, and yet taken out alive. If any man cast
iron therein, it will float; but a feather will sink to the bottom;
"and these things," truly remarks Sir John, "are contrary to nature."
Not more so, perhaps, than an incident of which he speaks at the city
of Tiberias. In that city an unbeliever hurled a burning dart at our
Lord, "and the head smote into the earth, and waxed green, and it
grew to a great tree; and it grows still, and the bark thereof is
all like coals." Then, near Damascus there is a church, and behind
the altar, in the wall, "a table of black wood on which was formerly
painted an image of our Lady which turns into flesh; but now the
image appears but little." As a compensation, however, for its loss,
a certain wonderful oil, as Sir John assures us, drops continually
from the wood and heals many kinds of sickness, and if any one keep
it cleanly for a year, after that year it turns to flesh and blood.
In this same region of marvels he tells us of a river which runs only
on Saturday, and stands still all the rest of the week, and another
which freezes wonderfully fast every night, and is clear of ice in
the morning. These rivers are not known nowadays, or at any rate must
have changed their habits.

After finishing the description of the Holy Land and Babylon, and
reporting a conversation with the sultan, in which the vices of
the Christians, such as drinking at taverns, and fighting, and
perpetually changing the fashion of their clothes, were sharply
satirized, and giving a synopsis of the Mohammedan creed, which we
fear is not altogether authentic, our worthy traveller adds that now
is the time, if it please us, to tell of the borders, and isles,
and divers beasts, and of various peoples beyond these borders.
Accepting his invitation, we bear him company first to the land of
Lybia, which must have been a most uncomfortable region in those
days, for the sea there was higher than the land, and the sun was so
hot that the waters were always boiling. Why the country was not,
therefore, soused in a steaming, hissing flood, we do not know; 'Sir
John himself evidently thinks it strange. In Little Ermony which we
take to be Armenia, he found something almost equally strange. That
was the Castle of the Sparrow-hawk, where a sparrow-hawk perpetually
sat upon a fair perch and a fair lady of fairie guarded it. Whoever
will watch the bird seven days and seven nights without company and
without sleep, shall be granted by the fairy the first earthly wish
that he shall wish; but if sleep overcome him, he will never more
be seen of men. This, adds the careful traveller, hath been proved
oftentimes, and he mentions several persons who performed the long
task and got their wishes. Mount Ararat is another marvellous feature
in this wonderful region; for it is seven miles high, and Noah's
ark still rests upon it, and in clear weather may be seen afar off.
Some men say that they have been up and touched the ark, and even
put their fingers in the parts where the devil went out when Noah
said "Benedicite," (unfortunately we do not know the legend to which
this refers;) but our traveller warns us not to believe such things,
because they are not true! No man ever got up the mountain except one
good monk; and he was miraculously favored, and brought down with
him a plank which is still preserved in the monastery at the foot
of the mountain. It is inexpressibly gratifying to observe that Sir
John did not accept all the stories that were told him, but exercised
a little judicious discrimination; and we shall therefore pay more
respectful attention to the extraordinary things he tells us about
the diamonds of India. They are found most commonly, he says, upon
rocks of the sea, or else in connection with gold. They grow many
together, male and female, and are nourished by the dew of heaven,
so that they engender and bring forth small children that multiply
and grow all the year. "I have oftentimes tried the experiment," he
continues, "that if a man keep them with a little of the rock, and
wet them with May-dew often, they shall grow every year, and the
small will grow great.... And a man should carry the diamond on his
left side, for it is of greater virtue than on the right side; for
the strength of their growing is toward the north, that is the left
side of the world; and the left part of man is, when he turns his
face toward the east." Sir John was not by any means singular in his
views of the nature of diamonds in his day, however much he may be at
variance with modern authorities; and he is only repeating a popular
superstition of the middle ages when he ascribes many wonderful
virtues to this gem, which he says preserves the wearer from poison,
and wild beasts, and the assaults of enemies, and the machinations
of enchanters, gives courage to the heart and strength to the limbs,
heals lunatics, and casts out devils. But it loses its virtue by sin.

From stories of eels thirty feet long, and people of an evil color,
green and yellow, and the well of Perpetual Youth, from which Sir
John avers that he drank, and rats as great as dogs, which they take
with huge mastiffs, because the cats feel unable to manage them,
we pass to a passage of a very different kind, which, considering
the time when it was written, is certainly curious. One hundred
and seventy years before the time of Columbus we find Sir John
Maundeville arguing that "the land and sea are of round shape,
because the part of the firmament appears in one country which is
not seen in another country," and predicting that "if a man found
passages by ships, he might go by ship all round the world, above
and beneath." A rather elaborate essay is devoted to an estimate
of the size of the world, and to the story of an Englishman--name
unknown--who sailed around it once and never knew it; but coming to a
country where the people spoke his own language, was so much amazed
that he turned around and sailed all the way back again. After this,
Sir John gets back without unnecessary delay to the rosy realms of
eastern fable.

We next find him in Java and among the isles of the Indian Ocean,
where he tells us of rich kings, and splendid palaces where all the
steps are of gold and silver alternately, and the walls covered
with plates of precious metals, and halls and chambers paved with
the same; of trees which bear meal, and honey, and wine, and deadly
poison wherewith the Jews once tried to poison all Christendom; of
snails so big that many persons may lodge in their shells; of men who
feed upon serpents, so that they speak naught, but hiss as serpents
do; of men and women who have dogs' heads; and of a mountain in the
island of Silha where Adam and Eve went and cried for one hundred
years after they were driven out of paradise--cried so hard that
their tears formed a deep lake, which may be seen there to this day,
if any body doubts the story. He tells of giants having only one
eye, which is in the middle of the forehead; people of foul stature
and cursed nature who have no heads, but their eyes are in their
shoulders; people who have neither noses nor mouths; people who have
mouths so big that when they sleep in the sun they cover the whole
face with the upper lip; people who have ears hanging down to their
knees; people who have horses' feet; and feathered men who leap from
tree to tree. Passing to India and China, Sir John describes the fair
and fruitful land of Albany, where there are no poor people, and the
men are of very pale complexion and have only about fifty hairs in
their beards. He speaks of having personally visited these regions;
but we are sorry to say that his narrative is palpably borrowed in
many places from Pliny and Marco Polo. As the great town called
Jamchay he seems to have found the prototype of Delmonico, and he
gives an impressive account of the good custom that when a man will
make a feast for his friends he goes to the host of a certain kind of
inn, and says to him, "Array for me to-morrow a good dinner for so
many people;" and says also, "Thus much will I spend, and no more."
And Sir John adds, "Anon the host arrays for him, so fair, and so
well, and so honestly that there shall lack nothing." Of the great
Chan of Cathay, (Emperor of China,) and his wealth and magnificence,
Sir John writes at considerable length, but with an evident
expectation that men will not believe him. "My fellows and I," he
says, "with our yeomen, served this emperor, and were his soldiers
fifteen months against the King of Mancy, who was at war with him,
because we had great desire to see his nobleness and the estate of
his court, and all his government, to know if it were such as we
heard say." How many his fellows were, or what route they followed
in their eastern wanderings, we cannot tell. Sir John gives us no
particulars; we only learn that he must have combined in curious
perfection the characters of a pilgrim and a military adventurer; and
how much of the world he saw, how much he described from hearsay,
we can only determine from the internal evidence of his book. There
is no reasonable doubt that he did spend some time in the dominions
of the great chan; for his description of the country, the manners
of the people, the magnificence of the sovereign and the ceremonies
of the court, though exaggerated sometimes to the heights of the
grotesque, if not of the sublime, keeps near enough to the probable
truth. We cannot say that we are glad of it; for Sir John is vastly
more entertaining when he does not know what he is talking about.

He skips about with the most charming vivacity from Tartary to
Persia, to Asia Minor, and back again to India, and sometimes it is
certain that he tells us of wonders which he did not see with his
own eyes. In Georgia, for instance, there is a marvellous province
called Hanyson, where once upon a time a cursed Persian king named
Saures overtook a multitude of Christians fleeing from persecution.
The fugitives prayed to God for deliverance, and lo! a great cloud
arose, covering the king's host with darkness, out of which they
could not pass, and so the whole province remains dark to this hour,
and no light shall shine there and no man shall enter it till the
day of judgment. Voices may sometimes be heard coming out of the
darkness, and the neighing of horses and crowing of cocks, and a
great river issues from it bearing tokens of human life. Somewhat
similar to this story is the account of a region on the borders of
the Caspian Sea, where "the Jews of ten lineages who are called Gog
and Magog"--namely, the lost tribes--have been shut up for ages
behind impassable mountains. The legend is that King Alexander drove
them in there, and prevailed upon his gods to close the mountains
with immense stone gates. In the days of Antichrist a fox shall
burrow through where Alexander made the gates, and the imprisoned
Jews, who have never seen a fox, shall hunt him, and following the
burrow break down the gates and come out into the world. Then they
shall make great slaughter of the Christians; wherefore Jews all over
the world learn the Hebrew language, so that in that day the ten
tribes may recognize them by their speech. Somewhere in this part
of the world Sir John saw and tasted "a kind of fruit like gourds,
which, when they are ripe, men cut in two, and find within a little
beast, in flesh, bone, and blood, as though it were a little lamb
without wool." Both the fruit and the beast are good to eat. Sir
John confesses that this was a great marvel; but not to be outdone,
he told his entertainers that in England there were trees bearing
a fruit which becomes flying birds, right good for man's meat,
whereat, he says, his listeners had also great marvel, and some even
thought the thing impossible. Sir John, however, was not purposely
cramming the Persians; he only repeated the popular fable of the
barnacle-goose, which was anciently believed to be hatched from the
barnacles growing on ships' bottoms and logs of wood, just as an
ordinary goose is hatched from an egg.

The great mystery and marvel of the age in which Sir John Maundeville
wrote was the Christian empire of Prester John, supposed to extend
over central India, and to be in reality a vast island, separated
from other countries by great branching rivers which flowed out
of Paradise. Many a traveller went in search of this mythical and
magnificent potentate; many a doubtful story of his power and designs
was brought back to Europe; and even a pretended letter from his
majesty to the pope was widely published in Latin, French, and other
languages. Except the Chan of Cathay, there was no other monarch in
the world so great and so rich. The chan, therefore, always married
the daughter of Prester John, and Prester John always married
the daughter of the chan, which naturally made confusion in the
genealogical records of the reigning families. Of course, Sir John
Maundeville was too gallant a traveller to go home without a full
account of the empire of Prester John. He says he went to it, and
the catalogue of things he saw and the history of things he did are
wonderful enough to satisfy the most exacting reader. As it is quite
certain that no potentate ever existed who bore even a resemblence
to the Prester John of mediæval legend, it is more than usually
difficult to estimate the honesty of Sir John in these particular
portions of his narrative, wherein fable and superstition seem to
reach their climax. The glories of the Indian court are almost beyond
enumeration. The precious stones are so large that plates, dishes,
and cups are made of them. There is a river, rising in paradise,
whose waves are entirely of jewels, without a drop of water, and it
runs only three days of the week, flowing to the Gravelly Sea, where
it is lost from sight. The Gravelly Sea has billows of sand without
a drop of water. It ebbs and flows in great waves, like other seas,
and contains very good fish; but, adds Sir John, "men cannot pass
it in ships." The emperor lives in unspeakably gorgeous state, in a
palace of gems and gold, and upon the top of the highest tower of
the palace are two huge carbuncles which give great light by night
to all people. He is served by seven kings, seventy-two dukes, and
three hundred and sixty earls. Every day he entertains at dinner
twelve archbishops and twenty bishops; and all the archbishops,
bishops, and abbots in the country are kings. There is a gorgeous
artificial paradise in the dominions of Prester John, the legend of
which seems to have been used by Tasso long after Sir John's time
in his famous description of the enchanted gardens of Armida. In
this false Paradise "a rich man named Gatholonabes, who was full of
tricks and subtle deceits," had placed the fairest trees, and fruits,
and flowers, constructed the most beautiful halls and palaces,
all painted with gold and azure, with youths and fair damsels
attired like angels, birds which "sung full delectably and moved by
craft," and artificial rivers of milk, and wine, and honey. When he
had brought good and noble knights into this place, they were so
captivated by the charming sights and sounds, so deceived by the fair
speeches of Gatholonabes, and so inflamed with a certain drink which
he gave them to drink that they became his willing henchmen, and at
his bidding went out from the mountain where this garden stood and
slew whomsoever the impostor marked out for slaughter. To the knights
who lost their lives in his service, he promised a still fairer
Paradise and still more enticing pleasures. Our readers will not
fail to trace the resemblance between this fable and the history of
the Old Man of the Mountain, with whose extraordinary fanatical sect
of Assassins the crusaders had recently made Europe acquainted. Sir
John's story is probably founded upon exaggerated accounts of this
famous personage.

To his description of the perilous Vale of Devils we fear no such
respectable origin can be attributed. "This vale," he says, "is full
of devils, and has been always;" and horrible noises are heard in it
day and night, as though Satan and his crew were holding an infernal
feast. Many daring men have entered in quest of the gold and silver
which are known to abound therein; but few have come out again, for
the devils strangle the misbelieving. We regret to say that Sir John
assures us that he actually saw this vale and went through it with
several of his company. They heard mass first and confessed their
sins, and, trusting in God, fourteen men marched into the valley; but
when they came out at the other end they were only nine. Whether the
five were strangled by devils or turned back, Sir John did not know;
he never saw them again. The vale was full of horrible sights and
sounds. Corpses covered the ground, storms filled the air. The face
and shoulders of an appalling devil terrified them, belching forth
smoke and stench from beneath a huge rock, and several times the
travellers were cast down to the ground and buffeted by tempests. Our
author unfortunately was afraid to pick up any of the treasures which
strewed the way; he did not know what they might really be; for the
devils are very cunning in getting up imitation gems and metals; and
besides, he adds, "I would not be put out of my devotion; for I was
more devout then than ever I was before or after."

When one has passed through the Vale of Devils, other marvels are
encountered beyond. There are giants twenty-eight or thirty feet
in height, and Sir John heard of others whose stature was as much
as fifty feet; but he candidly avows that he "had no lust to go
into those parts," because when the giants see a ship sailing by
the island on which they live, they wade out to seize it, and bring
the men to land, two in each hand, eating them all alive and raw
as they walk. In another island toward the north are people quite
as dangerous, but not quite so shocking; these are women who have
precious stones in their eyes, and when they are angry they slay a
man with a look. Still more marvellous and incredible than any of
these tales is the account of that country, unnamed and undescribed,
where kings are chosen for their virtue and ability alone, and
justice is done in every cause to rich and poor alike, and no
evil-doer, be he the king, himself, ever escapes punishment. There is
an isle besides, called Bragman, or the Land of Faith, where all men
eschew vice, and care not for money; where there is neither wrath,
envy, lechery, nor deceit; where no man lies, or steals, or deceives
his neighbor; where never a murder has been done since the beginning
of time; where there is no poverty, no drunkenness, no pestilence,
tempest, or sickness, no war, and no oppression. All these fine
countries are under the sway of the magnificent Prester John.

Here, on the borders of that Land of Perpetual Darkness, which
stretches away to the Terrestrial Paradise, we take leave of our good
knight, now near the end of his travels. "Rheumatic gouts" began to
torture his wandering limbs and warn him to go home. He has, indeed,
a few more stories to tell; but they are dull in comparison with the
wonders we have already recounted. Much more, indeed, he might have
written; but he gives a truly ingenuous reason for checking his pen:

    "And therefore, now that I have devised you of certain
    countries which I have spoken of before, I beseech your worthy
    and excellent nobleness that it suffice to you at this time;
    for if I told you all that is beyond the sea, another man
    perhaps, who would labor to go into those parts to seek those
    countries, might be blamed by my words in rehearsing many
    strange things; for he might not say any thing new, in which
    the hearers might have either solace or pleasure."



HOME SCENES IN NEW ENGLAND.


CHAPTER I.

MY AUNT AND THE CATECHISM.

"There sister! I told you what would come of letting that dear child
hear little Mary Ann recite the Romanist catechism. Here we have our
little Kitty setting herself up as a judge in matters of religion,
and quoting the answers she has learned by hearing them repeated! Not
but that she is as good a child as her auntie or her mother could
desire; but her brain is too thoroughly American, too much given to
going to the bottom of any subject it is once interested in, to stop
half-way in a matter of this kind. I knew all the time how it would
end."

Here my maiden aunt paused, more in sorrow than in anger, and little
Kitty remarked playfully,

"If _truth_ lies at the bottom of a well, as you once told me,
auntie, how could we ever reach it without going to the bottom?"
While Kitty's mother replied to her sister in a half-apologizing
manner,

"Why, Laura, I consented to let her hear Mary Ann's catechism, simply
because Kitty told me that the poor mother was so much occupied
in striving to earn a living for her little fatherless ones that
she could not hear it herself; and then the priest was expected to
come here soon, to prepare the children for confirmation, which is
to be given shortly by the bishop. So there was no time to lose. I
certainly did not think there could be any danger in a mere act of
kindness."

"Danger!" exclaimed grandmamma, in defence of her little pet. "If
there's danger in a little knowledge of the Catholic catechism,
it must be because our house is built on a sandy foundation, and
hence we fear it will be destroyed by a little outside religious
information. For my part, I have no objection to full examination in
these matters; nor have I any fear for the result."

A long-drawn sigh and an ejaculation of grief from the corner of the
room called our attention to where grandmamma's sister--"Aunt Ruby,"
the widow of a Congregational minister--sat knitting, removed from
the light of the evening lamps because of the weakness of her eyes.

"O sister! sister! how can you talk so. The old adversary goeth about
everywhere like a roaring lion. He lies hid even in that dish of
meal. If he can only get our folks to questioning and examining, then
the mischief is done; and we shall have popish priests coming here,
carrying on their crossings and their blessings, offering to sell
pardons for our sins, and making us all bow the knee to Baal, and
pray to their graven images. I shudder to think of it!"

"They do not pray to graven images, Aunt Ruby; the catechism
expressly forbids it!" replied Kitty.

"There comes that old catechism again!" exclaimed Aunt Laura. "If
Mary Ann's catechism forbids it, then the book was trumped up to
deceive American children, and is entirely different from the
catechisms used in Ireland or France."

"As for that, auntie, Mary Ann's mother has one she brought from
Ireland many years ago, and it teaches just the same things.
But there is one thing in both that you will acknowledge as
binding--'Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor;'
and the catechism explains that it forbids 'all false testimonies,
rash judgments, and lies.' It seems to me that good people should be
careful not to accuse the Catholic Church--"

"Romanist, if you please!"

"Well, the Roman Catholic Church, of things they do not know to be
true; and I see no harm in inquiring what is true, and what false, in
all that is brought against it. Here is our neighbor across the road,
a pious Methodist, will not let her little girl, who was my best
friend, play with me any more, because I said I thought lies about
Catholics were just as bad as lies about Methodists. But I shall
always think so, if I lose the friendship of every body."

A sigh and a groan were heard from the dark corner, and a voice, "O
poor child! the poison is beginning to work, and there's no knowing
where it will end. If things are to go on in this way, it is just as
likely as any thing in the world that we shall have the Pope of Rome
and all his cardinals down among us before we know it, letting folks
out of purgatory, selling indulgences to commit sin, and doing so
many other awful things!"

"Ha! ha!" laughed Kitty's father, who had just come in. "Never mind,
Aunt Ruby, the pope will never take you, so you need not stand in
fear of him. You are too much in the dark, and I fear never could
bear the light sufficiently to become one of the children of holy
church."

Kitty's eldest brother, who had been educated in a Catholic college,
had come in with his father, and now whispered slyly to grandmamma,

"I don't know about that; I have great hopes for Aunt Ruby yet. When
she left the Episcopal Church, and was propounded for admission into
the Congregational, before she married the minister, you remember how
the old deacons groaned in spirit over her because they could not get
her to say she was 'willing to be damned.'[34] They insisted that the
'old carnal heart' was still too strong in her, and they protested
with one voice that it would never do for their minister to marry a
woman who was not 'willing to be damned.' Perhaps the dear old lady
remains yet of the same mind. If so, she may escape, after all."


CHAPTER II.

WHAT OUR NEIGHBORS THOUGHT OF IT.

"So you have all heard of this affair! Then I suppose it must be
true. Well, for my part, I never could have thought it possible
here in New England, and in the light of this nineteenth century!"
exclaimed a grave-looking, elderly lady, who sat in the centre of
a group of women who had met together to spend the afternoon in
chatting and knitting. "I never could have believed that a woman so
well-informed and so good as Mrs. S---- would allow her child to
be ensnared and deceived by these wicked papists. I was perfectly
astonished when I heard of it."

"And so was I," rejoined another and younger individual of the group.
"I called to inquire of Mrs. S---- herself, to ask if the report was
true. She said it was true; and, what do you think? she even went so
far as to say that she hoped her Kitty would never read a worse book
than that awful Romanist catechism! What is to become of us when good
people and professing Christians talk in this way? I am afraid the
poor woman is in great danger herself."

"Of course she is," said another; "but if she has a craving for error
herself, she has no right to expose her child to the influence of it.
I am told she openly maintains, and in Kitty's presence too, that
good works are necessary to salvation, and even dares to talk about
penance and all those popish abominations. Only the other day, Kitty
told me she thought lies about Catholics were just as bad as lies
about Methodists. I informed the young lady that I should have no
more visiting between her and my daughter. I was sorry to grieve poor
Kitty, she is such a good little girl; but I could not have the mind
of my child poisoned by such dangerous doctrines."

A little woman, whose knitting-needles had been clicking with
marvellous rapidity and energy, and whose countenance had indicated
the most earnest attention and interest during this colloquy, here
ventured to remark that she thought Kitty's opinion was very just,
and she would really like to know what there was so very dangerous in
the Catholic catechism. She had become acquainted with many Catholics
while visiting her friends in Canada, and they seemed to be as good
people as there are anywhere. She wished she could be informed as to
the particular and alarming errors taught by this church.

All voices were raised at once in expressions of surprise at such
astounding ignorance. "Is it possible there is any one who does
not know that the Roman church is a mass of errors, corruptions,
superstitious mummeries and idolatries? that Romanists pray to saints
and graven images instead of praying to God? that the priests keep
the people in darkness and ignorance in order to domineer over them
at their pleasure. Errors, to be sure!"

The minute individual whose remarks had raised this storm of
indignation, here interposed by saying emphatically, "I confess I
do not know much about this church, except that in this country
it is everywhere denounced in the strongest terms. But it is not
necessarily as bad as its enemies represent it to be, any more than
the primitive church was. I do not dare to condemn any body of
Christians--"

"Christians!" interrupted an old lady with more acid than honey in
her aspect and manner; "Christians!" with an unmistakable sneer.

"Yes, Christians!" resumed the other; "for I am told they believe
in our Lord Jesus Christ; and, as I was saying, I would not dare
to condemn them without knowing from themselves, instead of their
enemies, what their doctrines are."

The conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of Kitty's
mother, who was received with a cold reserve that revealed to her at
once what the subject of their discussion had been. Being of a frank
and fearless disposition, and possessing much of that American candor
of soul which insists on fair play in every contest, she opened the
subject without hesitation, by saying,

"I have been informed, ladies, that my neighbors are greatly alarmed
because I allowed my little girl to hear a Catholic child recite the
catechism. I have examined the little book carefully, and cannot find
any thing in it to justify such fears. I am not at all afraid it will
hurt my child."

A solemn silence followed this declaration, when an excited
individual inquired with much vehemence, "What does it say about
priests pardoning sins, about praying to saints, and praying souls
out of purgatory?"

"As to the power of the priests to pardon sins, it merely repeats the
words of our Lord, 'Whose sins ye shall forgive, they are forgiven;'
and I confess I never before noticed how very clear and decisive they
were, especially when he added, 'And lo! I am with you always, even
unto the end of the world.' As to praying to saints, it asserts that
the saints in glory pray to God for us, and help us by their prayers,
and that the souls in purgatory are assisted by our prayers for them."

"There's no such place as purgatory!" indignantly exclaimed an old
lady. "I don't believe a word of it."

"Unfortunately for you, my dear friend," replied Kitty's mother,
"your believing or disbelieving does not make the least difference
in this matter. If there is a purgatory, as was always held by the
Jewish church and has been by many Protestants, your opinion will
not change the fact or abolish the institution. I really think the
Catholic doctrine, that the church triumphant prays for the church
militant, (for what is the true Christian but a soldier of Christ
engaged in a life-long conflict with the world, the flesh, and the
devil?) and that the church militant supplicates the mercy of God
on behalf of the church suffering, is a beautiful and a consoling
one. It is a golden chain that binds the souls of the redeemed in
holy communion with each other. The grave that has closed over the
precious form of a dear friend no longer places an inseparable
barrier between us and the departed soul, but serves rather to bring
us into closer and more tender sympathy with it. Whether true or not,
I think it is a beautiful idea."

"And so do I," added the energetic little knitter; "and I would like
to know more about this doctrine."

The gentleman of the house, an able lawyer of the place, who had
entered during this conversation, here declared his intention of
procuring from the priest on his next visit some books explaining
Catholic doctrines.

"For," he remarked, "it certainly is not just to hear all the
accusing party has to say, and then refuse to listen to the defence."

Countenances expressive of indignation and alarm, with sighs and
groans from most of the party, were the only remonstrances offered to
this bold proposition.


CHAPTER III.

THE OPINION OF THE SEWING-CIRCLE.

"I am sure I don't know what will happen next in our village!
What would have been said thirty years ago of such outrageous
performances?"

These were the words that greeted my ears as I entered the sewing
society at Mrs. B----'s, on a fine afternoon in August, 18--. The
speaker, who was an energetic middle-aged lady, continued, "First
there was the S---- family, with their Romish catechism and their
inquiring into forbidden things, all going on the broad road to
destruction as rapidly as possible, with ever so many more fascinated
and entangled in the same net; and now here Mr. W---- and his whole
family have fairly rushed through the gate and joined those children
of perdition, the Romanists. It is too bad; too much for human
patience!"

"Nothing more than might be expected of those Episcopalians!"
exclaimed a prim-looking young lady. "It is but a step from their
church to Rome. I am not at all surprised."

"I am not so sure of that," remarked Mrs. J----. "I suspect the
Episcopalians differ just as much from the Romanists, after all,
as the Congregationalists or any other Protestant sect. They are
Protestants, you know, as well as we. You remember Miss E----, who
was the principal of our female seminary for some time, a lady of
remarkable intelligence and rare culture, and a very dear friend of
mine in Massachusetts, before she came here. She was always a devoted
Congregationalist from the time she first experienced religion; but
she has lately become, I am sorry to say, a Romanist; and, what
is still worse, she is about to join their Sisters of Charity! I
received from her, not long ago, a letter explaining her reasons,
and speaking of what she calls our 'misapprehensions of Catholic
doctrine.' She says she has not laid aside any part of her former
belief; but has only made such additions as complete the system, and
render portions which before were dubious, discordant, and perplexing
fragments the clear, harmonious, distinct, and necessary members
of a perfect whole. I assure you she has more to say for herself
than you would believe possible, and she knows how to say it, too,
in a most impressive manner. She told me, also, of many others of
our persuasion who will probably join the Catholic Church. So the
Episcopalians are not alone, you see, in this movement."

"True," said Mrs. G----; "for there is Mrs. H---- and her daughter,
who were leading Methodists. They have joined this popish rabble,
and are so very happy in their new home that it is past belief, and
quite amusing to people of common sense. I don't believe it makes
any difference what body of Protestant Christians folks belong to;
if they once get to pondering on these things, they are almost sure
to follow their noses into the Roman Church before they stop. When
the mind gets fairly waked up, it does not seem possible to quiet it
in any other way. And then, as you say, they are all so perfectly
contented and joyous when they have once entered the 'fold,' as they
call it, that it is a puzzle to sober-minded Christians! I think this
new priest who has lately come among us is doing immense mischief
already."

"Of course he is!" chimed in another lady with much asperity. "He is
so very agreeable and polite, so gentle and easy to get acquainted
with, that every one is attracted by him. Then he is an American, and
knows so much better how to make himself acceptable to our people
than the other one did, that he is a great deal more dangerous on
that account. My son George, who would not speak to Kitty S----,
Jennie H----, and the W----s, you know, after they began to patronize
Romanism--though he thought every thing of them before--is already
quite at home with this new priest; takes long walks with him, and
even went to the church last Sunday, just to see how they get on over
there."

"Oh! yes, he told me all about it," said Miss Mary B----. He said it
was perfectly astonishing to see Mr. W---- singing and chanting with
those shabby Canadians; and there were the W----s, the H----s, and
the S----s, kneeling right in the midst of that rabble, and to all
appearance as intent on their prayers, and as much absorbed in what
was going on, as any one present. They seemed quite at home, and to
understand every thing as well as if they had been accustomed to it
all their lifetime. George said he placed himself where they couldn't
help seeing him; but they were not disconcerted in the least. Even
the girls never seemed to notice him at all. He said they doubtless
understood the service, but he didn't. I think, Mrs. G----, that it
will not be very safe for George to go there often; for he told
me that there was a wonderful solemnity and fascination about the
place--which is not much better than a mere shanty--and about the
service, though he didn't understand a word of it. He never felt so
solemn in all his life, he said; and that was a great deal for such a
scatterbrain as George to say."

"I have heard others older and wiser than he say the same," remarked
a thoughtful-looking widow with a sigh. "My brother, who is a
deacon, and a man of very cool temperament and calm judgment, says
he never was in a Catholic place of worship but once, and then he
was almost frightened at the sensation of awe that came over him. He
said it seemed to him that the impression it made was what one would
naturally expect if their doctrine of the real presence were true,
and the sight of the solemn assurance which a great many apparently
devout and good people evidently possessed of their near approach
to their Redeemer, really present in that place, affected him so
sensibly that he could not shake the feeling off. It was a very plain
little chapel, by no means equal to our churches; but he said it
seemed as if something whispered to him that he was standing on holy
ground. He has been very painfully exercised about these matters ever
since, and he says that the sixth chapter of St. John's Gospel, which
never troubled him before, now appears to be all in favor of their
doctrine."

"For my part, I don't see why Protestants want to go near them at
all!" exclaimed another indignantly. "It only brings about mischief;
and the only way to put down such things is to set our faces
resolutely against every one that countenances any thing pertaining
to Romanism. We must be determined that we will have nothing to
do with such people in any way. We must keep entirely aloof from
Romanists and from Romanizers."

"Well, I confess that I am very much puzzled about all these
matters," quietly observed a lady of very gentle manners, in a low
voice. "I cannot help having misgivings that a system which carries
into its minutest circumstances and details such almost irresistible
power may perhaps, after all, owe it to the force of truth. It is
certainly sustained and animated by some principle not possessed or
exerted by Protestantism in any of its branches."

"It is a principle of evil, then," cried the former austere speaker.
"The Prince of Darkness knows how to appear as an 'angel of light'!"

"Ah!" resumed the other; "but you know our Lord said, 'If they have
called the Master of the house Beelzebub, how much more those of his
household!' We ought to be careful how we bring such accusations
against a church which certainly numbers some very good people among
its members. One thing may be said of it, that the poor are tenderly
cherished and cared for within its pale; and I can never believe that
the evil one is the dispenser or instigator of so many charities as
are instituted and supported by this church."

"All done for effect, and to lead poor Protestants astray! Take care,
my dear friend; for these misgivings are the beginning of danger, and
if you follow them, they will surely lead you into the Romish Church.
That is the way all those who have lost the light of Protestantism
have been ensnared."

"If it should prove that they gave up an _ignis fatuus_ for the light
of the star that guided the wise men of old to the crib of the Infant
Redeemer, did they not do well rather than ill?" suggested the quiet
speaker, and was answered only by a murmur of indignation at her bold
conjecture, as the party withdrew to another room where the tea-table
was spread for their refreshment.


CHAPTER IV.

WHAT HAPPENED AT THE DONATION-PARTY.

"Did you go to the donation party at our minister's last night,
sister C----? I was so sorry that I couldn't go! My little girl had
such a bad cold, I did not dare to leave her."

"Yes, I was there; and, don't you think! Mrs. H---- was there too,
with her daughter. Would you have believed she would dare to show her
face among the Methodists, after what has happened?"

"No, indeed, I should not! But wonders will never cease. How did she
appear?"

"As pleasant and gentle as ever; and just as much at home as if she
had never left us to join the Catholics. Sister J---- would not speak
to her at first, or look at her; and our good old brother L----, who
used to be her class-leader, you know, quite turned the cold shoulder
upon her; but she was not to be put off so easily; and after a little
while, her kind and winning ways had thawed all the ice, and we
couldn't help being pleasant with her."

"Well, I always did love sister H----; hence I don't want to meet her
now. I am glad I was not there! Did any one speak to her about her
change?"

"Yes; brother L---- could not help telling her how sorry we were to
lose her; and she said, 'You have not lost me, brother L----; I shall
never forget my dear Methodist friends, and shall never cease to
love and pray for them!' 'Pray for them!' brother L---- said with
great contempt; 'we don't thank people for praying to the saints
for us; we can pray to God for ourselves. Ah Sister H----! if you
would only pray to him as you used to, when you were a warm-hearted
Methodist, that would do!' Her answer to this was what puzzled me.
I remember every word of it, she looked so grieved, and so sweetly
earnest, while the tears fairly came to her eyes as she said, 'Pray
to God as I used to, Brother L----! Why, I never knew the meaning
of the word prayer until I was a Catholic! I then entered the very
atmosphere of prayer! My life, my breath, my every thought, my every
action, became one continual prayer to an ever-present God from that
hour. The saints united with me, assisted me--at my request prayed
for me--and for those for whom I desired their prayers in union
with my own; and of that perfect union and communion with them, I
can give you no idea. O brother L----! believe me, there is no home
for a 'warm-hearted Methodist' but the Catholic Church! Don't you
remember, in our class conferences, how I used to say I was happy,
but not satisfied; I felt that I was still a seeker. I had been first
a Congregationalist, then an Episcopalian, and at last a Methodist;
but had not found all I was seeking for. You thought I never would
until I reached heaven; but'--and how I wish, dear friend, you could
have seen and heard her as she said it, for I cannot describe her
impressive manner--'but brother, I have found it all in the Catholic
Church! The blank is filled. The yearning of my soul is satisfied so
entirely that there is nothing left to desire!'

"'All a delusion, sister H----!' exclaimed brother L----. 'You'll
wake up some time and find it so, and then you'll come back!' She
looked perfectly dismayed at the very thought, as she replied,
'Come back to what? To content myself with the shadow, when I have
possessed the substance? to satisfy my hunger with the husks of
the stranger, when I have feasted at the continual and overflowing
banquet of my Father's table! O my Methodist friends! if you could
but taste for once the sweetness and fulness of that banquet, you
would never cast one backward look upon what you had left, except
to mourn for those who remain contented there, when they might be
feasting on the bread of angels!' I confess to you, Mrs. M----, that
I could not help being moved by her earnestness to wish that I was
even as she is! No one can doubt her entire sincerity who listens
to her. Brother L---- asked her if it could be possible that she
believed all the absurdities taught by the Romish Church? She replied
that she believed no absurdities, and that he had not the slightest
idea as to what the Catholic Church really did teach; a tissue of
absurdities had been invented by its enemies, and palmed off upon the
too credulous Protestants as its teachings, when they were entirely
foreign to it, and baseless misrepresentations. 'But,' she added, 'I
believe all that my church really does offer to my belief, as firmly
as I believe that there is a sun in the firmament of heaven!'"

"Well, how strange it all is, to be sure! Now, I met Mrs. L---- the
other day, and I was so provoked at the way they are going on, that
I could not for my life help asking her why, in the name of common
sense, if they wanted to be Romanists, they didn't all go together
like sensible people, and not string along, one to-day, another
to-morrow, and so on, as they do? And what do you think was her
reply? 'Why, you know, Mrs. M----,' she said; 'that we read of the
olden time that, "The Lord added _daily_ unto the church of such as
should be saved"!' There is one thing, as you say, that cannot be
doubted or denied: right or wrong, they are solemnly in earnest, and
heartily sincere. You know little Kitty S---- had a terrible fit
of sickness before they became Catholics, (some think her sickness
hastened that event,) and has been a great sufferer ever since.
Sister W---- has taken care of her through it all, and I should not
wonder if she should go off on the same road. She is all taken up
with it now, and justifies their course; says all the evils we have
been accustomed to hear of the Catholic religion are slanders, and
that if the S----s, and especially little Kitty, are not Christians
of the true stamp, she does not rightly understand the gospel of
Christ."


CHAPTER V.

REMINISCENCES OF THE PAST.

After an absence of over twenty years, we returned to the pleasant
village in New England which had formerly exercised over us the charm
that pertains to the magic name of HOME.

Seeking out one of the few old neighbors who were left, on the
morning after our arrival, I was met with the surprised and joyful
exclamation,

"Why, my dear Mrs. J----! can it be possible that this is your own
self? I had no hopes of ever seeing you again in this world."

"It is indeed myself," I replied. "We have long been wanderers by
'field and flood;' but have at length returned to remain a short time
among the scenes of other years. If you are at leisure, I want to
settle down into my own cosy corner of the dear old sitting-room,
just as if I had never been away, and ask you as many questions about
village affairs and those of the olden time as you will want to
answer."

"You could not furnish me with a greater pleasure, I assure you! But
O my friend! what changes have taken place since you left! Very few
of those who were with us then still remain. Many have died, some
have gone 'West,' and some have found their way to San Francisco and
other parts of California."

"Where are the W----s?" I inquired.

"They removed to another place some years ago, and their family is
widely scattered; but they remain united in spirit, and steadfast in
the faith."

"And the S----s?"

"Only three of them are living. One has gone to the far West, and the
others have left this place. Little Kitty, after years of patient
suffering, during which she never ceased to thank God for having
permitted her to find in the holy Catholic Church 'the path over
which so many saints and martyrs have passed to heaven'--as she
expressed it--at length meekly and joyfully resigned her youthful
spirit to her Maker; leaving the light of a beautiful example to
shine around the lonely home, and console the bereaved family. Her
grandmother, who embraced the faith soon after her granddaughter made
profession of it, followed her to the other world in a few months,
consoled by all the rites of the church, in which, though she entered
its blessed inclosure late in life, she had in a 'short space,' by
her good words and works, acquired the merit of many years. Then
'Aunt Laura' and Kitty's younger sister joined them, 'rejoicing
in hope.' 'Aunt Ruby' survived them some years, and was often
heard to wish, with a sigh, that she could be sure she was as well
prepared to leave the world as her Catholic sister; but she never
had the courage to brave the ill-opinion of her own little world of
Congregationalism--over the modern innovations and delinquencies of
which she never ceased to mourn--by following that sister into the
only 'ark of safety.'"

"Ah!" I exclaimed; "how many changes indeed. Then I shall never see
those dear friends whom I had so fondly hoped to meet again. And
where is Mrs. L----, our energetic little knitter, who was so true to
every impulse of divine grace and truth?"

"She has long slept in the village cemetery. 'Faithful unto death!'
might well have been the inscription upon her grave. She passed
through severe and bitter trials, and was made to feel that there
are tortures as cruel as those of the rack or wheel, to a sensitive
spirit, in the cold contempt and neglect of those who should have
been her protectors, as they were her only earthly support. But she
never wavered for a moment in her firm trust, or ceased to rejoice
that she had been called to the profession of the true faith, which
abundantly sustained her under all her griefs and sufferings."

"And dear, gentle Mrs. N----? I felt sure she would forsake the
_ignis fatuus_ of Protestantism at last for 'the light of the star
that guided the wise men' of old, though she was so long in making up
her mind."

"She did so; and died rejoicing in its light, by the crib of
Bethlehem!"

"Do Mrs. H---- and her daughter still live?"

"The daughter died some years ago, and was laid near little Kitty
S----, whom she tenderly loved, and regarded as the chief instrument
of her conversion. Her mother has removed to some distance; but is
as fervently thankful to-day for the great gift of faith as she was
on that memorable one when she first accepted it, and turned from old
and dear associations to find the 'only home for the warm-hearted
Methodist,' in the bosom of the Catholic Church."

"I heard, soon after I left, that the G----s became Catholics. Was it
true?"

"Yes; and very faithful and fervent children of the church they were;
illustrating the beauty of Catholic truths by the shining virtues of
their lives. But, alas! of the whole family--father, mother, and five
children--but one survives. They departed followed by the prayers and
benedictions of the whole Catholic congregation, to whose service
they had devoted their best efforts."

"Then there were the B----s, the K----s, and the C----s, who were
deeply interested in Catholic truths when I left. Did they follow out
their convictions?"

"No; they were 'almost persuaded' to cast in their lot with the happy
band of converts; but the storm of obloquy and reproach which soon
gathered around the devoted company--without in the least disturbing
their peace--so appalled those outside, that they did not dare to
follow the inspiration, or ever again to seek its aid. Some became
Spiritualists, some Second Adventists, and those who remain nominally
as they were before, have fallen into hopeless indifference to all
religion, and intense worldliness; seeking in petty ambitions and
trifling pursuits the comfort they are no longer able to find in
the bosom of any sect. The glimmering of Catholic light which they
accepted had served only to reveal to them the utter emptiness of
Protestantism, when they steadfastly closed their eyes to any further
illumination. While life remains there is hope; but such cases as
these seem as nearly hopeless as any in this world can be."

We visited the cemetery, where reposed the mortal remains of so many
friends who had been the theme of our conversation; and I found
familiar names more numerous there than were familiar faces among
the living. We also sought together the spacious church which had
been erected during my absence, and which is a beautiful and enduring
evidence of the active zeal of a congregation which is richer in holy
memories, and in faith, hope, and charity, than in the goods of this
world.

FOOTNOTE:

[34] A question that used to be urged as a test of fitness for
membership, and an affirmative answer required. The custom has now
become obsolete.



SONNET.

TO ITALY.


    All-radiant region! would that thou wert free!
    Free 'mid thine Alpine realm of cloud and pine,
    Free 'mid the rich vales of thine Apennine,
    Free to the Adrian and the Tyrrhene Sea!
    God with a two-fold freedom franchise thee!
    Freedom from alien bonds, so often thine,
    Freedom from Gentile hopes--death-fires that shine
    O'er the foul grave of pagan liberty,
    With pagan empire side by side interred;
    Then round the fixed throne of their Roman sire
    Thy sister states should hang, a pleiad choir,
    With saintly beam unblunted and unblurred,
    A splendor to the Christian splendor clinging,
    A lyre star-strung, ever the "new song" singing!

                                             AUBREY DE VERE.



IRELAND'S MISSION.

BY W. MAZIERE BRADY, D.D., AN IRISH PROTESTANT CLERGYMAN.


Few persons expected that the passing of Mr. Gladstone's
disestablishment bill would have immediately introduced a golden
age into Ireland. The leading promoters of that measure never
regarded it as one which was final and complete; but rather as a
necessary prelude to certain reconstructive measures more powerful
and important than itself. The abolition of the ascendency of an
alien church did not restore--and did not affect to restore--to the
Catholic Church its ancient status and endowments. The attempt would
be entirely vain to regather the _disjecta membra_ of the great body
of Irish church temporalities long since dispersed and broken up by
successive spoliations and alienations. The property dealt with by
the recent legislation is but a small fraction of what once belonged
to the Irish Church. Restitution, unhappily, is often impossible to
the statesman. He may build up an edifice upon ruins, and create new
empires out of revolutions. But he can no more give back to outraged
nationalities their unsullied honor, or to plundered kingdoms their
squandered treasures, than he can restore to those fallen from purity
their virgin crown or reëndow criminals with a conscience void of
offence and free from sear of guilt. And therefore the removal of
the alien church led to no replacement of the old Catholic Church in
the position vacated by its Protestant rival; but merely paved the
way for the introduction of constructive measures upon the nature
of which will depend the future, not of Ireland merely, but of the
British empire. Amidst these constructive measures the statesman will
not reckon any provisions for the maintenance or aggrandisement of
the Catholic Church in Ireland. A church which withstood calamity
and survived the loss of its possessions, and flourished under three
hundred years of bitter persecution, may safely be left to itself.
State patronage, in any extended form, might corrupt, but could
not strengthen, Irish Catholicism. Catholics in many countries are
beginning to feel that freedom of action and development is of far
greater value than endowments to the church. In Ireland, Catholics
have long since perceived and acknowledged that liberty--not the
enervating influence of court favor--is the true bulwark of Catholic
worship.

Legislators have, in fact, no occasion to take into their
consideration the Irish Catholic Church, except in so far as its
power and interests intermingle with the educational and other
social and political problems which demand deep and impartial
inquiry. Whoever examines, without prejudice or passion, the actual
position of Ireland as an integral part of the British empire must
confess that Ireland forms at this time, more than at any other,
the cardinal point of English policy. Gibraltar was once the key
to the Mediterranean and to political supremacy in Europe. Ireland
is to England another Gibraltar, on whose rock British power must
be either consolidated or riven. The Ireland of 1870 is rapidly
entering on a new phase of existence, which is none the less
worthy of the statesman's study because it is the result of causes
altogether beyond his control. Ireland is no longer an island
lying within a few hours' sail of the English navy, inhabited by
men whose interests may be disposed of without reference to the
wishes of any save the inhabitants of Great Britain. The people of
Ireland are by no means confined within the territorial limits of
that country. The Irish nation has two homes. The one is in Ireland,
the other is in America. Misgovernment sent half Ireland into
exile, and those exiles have prospered and multiplied to an extent
far exceeding any known examples of similar transmigrations. But
although there are two homes, there is but one nation of Irishmen.
Five millions of men occupy Irish soil, but far more than twice five
millions of Irishmen dwelling in foreign lands not only claim but
exercise an ever-increasing influence on Irish politics. Some few
among the ultra-conservative statesmen of England--and among them
one no less distinguished than the great chief of the late Tory
administration--looked with eyes of cruel satisfaction on the exodus
which wiser men regarded with awe as a hemorrhage draining away the
life-blood of their kingdom. The famine was to these bigoted men a
God-gift, which swept off what they flippantly termed a superabundant
population. Emigration was, in their eyes, a more tedious and costly
process for the decimation of Irish Catholics. Protestants, belonging
chiefly to the dominant and richer class, were in proportion to
their numbers less exposed than Catholics to the severity of the
famine and the necessity of expatriation. Famine and emigration,
if only Providence would prolong and intensify their action, would
alter--so they thought--the numerical proportions between Catholics
and Protestants make Ireland a Protestant country and render the
church establishment less anomalous. Let a few more years pass--so
argued these reasoners--and instead of having to legislate for a
Catholic, discontented, Ireland, over-populated and half-pauperized,
we shall have to deal with one comparatively Protestant, which
will be prosperous, happy, and loyal to the British crown. It is
recorded of an English statesman that he once expressed a wish--in
jest, no doubt--that Ireland were for an hour submerged in the
Atlantic, that it might rise again stripped of its inhabitants, a
fresh field for the importation of English Protestant colonists.
The folly of wishing for either a flood or a famine to repair the
defects of English legislation for Ireland, is now as apparent as
the cruelty. Even though the island of Ireland were reduced to such
a _tabula rasa_ as some bigots would desire, England must take into
account the thousands and millions of Irishmen in various lands who
constitute part of the Irish nation, and who think, plan, and pray
for the happiness of their traditional fatherland. And fortunately
for the interests of England, no less than of Ireland, a policy has
of late been adopted by the leaders of the great liberal party which
professes to deal with Catholic Ireland, not as with a venomous
thing to be guarded against, kept down, and, if possible, crushed,
but as a country to be tenderly regarded, carefully cherished, and
legislated for with a view to the contentment and preservation of
its Catholic people. The policy of Mr. Gladstone, Mr. Bright, and
the party of which they are now the recognized chiefs, is at present
but partially developed, yet has already produced good fruits.
Righteousness exalteth a nation, and England has risen immensely
in the opinion of wise and good men in Europe and America by that
great though tardy--the greater, perhaps, because so tardy--act of
righteousness, namely, the abolition of an English Protestant church
establishment for Irish Catholics. The sympathies of all honest men
in every quarter of the globe are with the English government in its
endeavor to stay the tide of Irish emigration, and retain Irishmen
upon their native soil as contented occupiers and owners of farms.
But admiration and sympathy are not the only rewards which England
may reap by steadily following out the policy begun by Mr. Gladstone.
The integrity of the British empire may be shown to depend upon the
continued development of the principles which carried the Irish
church bill of 1869 and introduced an Irish land bill in 1870. If it
be too presumptuous to attempt to forecast a triumphant progress for
those principles, it will yet be not wholly profitless to denote the
perils and obstructions which beset the way.

The disturbances and outrages which in Ireland preceded and followed
the passing of the disestablishment bill, were the natural result of
the violent harangues uttered by the fanatic debaters of the Church
Defence Association, many of whom announced to their excited auditors
that the land bill of Mr. Gladstone would confiscate the property
of Protestant land-owners in Ireland. The evil passions of men thus
deceived into a belief that a wrong was intended not only to their
church but to their lands, found vent not merely in hard words and
cruel threats, but in merciless deeds. Some Protestant landlords
withheld the accustomed local charitable contributions which, as
owners of property, they had hitherto given to various institutions.
Others issued notices of ejection against their tenants, and these
attempted ejections produced--as capricious injustice is certain
to do--ill-will and resistance. Outrages, even assassinations,
occurred. But such offences against public order may be expected to
cease when the causes of them are removed. Time will allay the heat
of bygone party conflicts. Agrarian outrages will, if the land bill
be good for any thing, occur as rarely in Ireland as in America.
Industrious laborers will, it is to be hoped, find it easy to rent
or purchase small holdings on which they may expend their toil, and
in which they may invest their savings without fear of their being
appropriated to the use of felonious landlords by means of notices
to quit. It is when the excitement of the land and church questions
shall have yielded to the pressure of other momentous questions, that
the real danger will threaten the onward march of those principles
which, in the opinion of many, can alone safely guide the mutual
relations between England and Ireland. The education question will
be a highly perilous one. If the liberal party put forward a scheme
for compulsory, or secular, or sectarian education, which shall, on
whatever pretext, either nominally or practically, tend to withdraw
the education of Catholic children from the immediate control of
the priests, the result will be disappointment and disaster. Free
education, in the sense of an education independent of religion,
has great charms in the eyes of English and Irish liberals. Some
Catholics are inclined to favor any scheme which would place a
superior system of secular instruction within the reach of the great
bulk of the poorer and middle class, even though it should not
provide for that religious training which is a characteristic of a
strictly Catholic education. But the Catholic clergy of Ireland, to
a man, and those members of Parliament who represent Irish Catholic
constituencies, will give strenuous and effectual opposition to
undenominational or secular education under its open guise, although
they may prove unable to resist the employment, in a modified shape,
of the principle which they regard as pernicious. It will be much
to the advantage of Great Britain if the education of Catholics in
England, as well as in Ireland, be made thoroughly Catholic. The
vast, and in many respects admirable system of national education in
Ireland, which, twenty or thirty years ago, was favorably regarded
by very many of the Irish Catholic bishops and clergy, has long
since been declared unsatisfactory by the Catholic hierarchy.
The elementary national schools are now merely tolerated. The
national model schools are loudly denounced. The national system
aimed at giving to all children a combined secular instruction and
at affording opportunities for separate religious instruction.
The priest and the parson were invited to become joint patrons
of schools. The board of education were to supply school-rooms,
teachers, books, and requisites for a secular instruction in which
all the pupils were to share. The ministers of various denominations
were to supply, either personally or by deputy, a religious teaching
to their respective pupils. Thus an hour or more was to be set apart
for religious teaching. During that hour the Catholic children were
to be taught the Catholic religion by the priest, or by one of the
masters under the priest's direction, and the Protestant children
were similarly to be taught the principles of Protestantism in
another room by the parson, or by one of the teachers under his
control. It was supposed that all ministers of religion would join in
carrying out a system which thus provided for the general education
of the poor, without interfering with the conscientious discharge
of that part of the ministerial duty of clergymen which relates
to the religious teaching of the young. The idea of instructing
Catholic and Protestant children together and bringing them up in
habits of mutual affection and esteem, was specious and captivating.
Who could withhold his quota of aid toward realizing the prospect
thus held out of future generations of educated Irishmen of various
creeds, each respecting the religious principles of the others while
strong in his own, and all loyal to the impartial government of the
British crown? Yet, at its very outset, the clergy and bishops of the
Protestant establishment held aloof from the national board. They
refused any partnership with Catholic priests in the management of
schools, and declared that their consciences would not permit them
to consent to support a system which set limits to the free use of
the holy Scriptures during secular instruction. In vain was it shown
that in Protestant universities, colleges, and higher schools, nay,
that in the very order for divine service according to the ritual
of the establishment, a limit was actually set to the use of the
holy Scriptures by the appointment of fixed times and places for the
study and reading and exposition of the sacred word. In vain was
it demonstrated that neither insult nor disparagement was intended
by regulations which might be looked on as scarcely different from
those which prevented a lecturer in mathematics from giving his
class a dissertation upon Isaiah, and denied a clergyman of the
establishment the privilege of interpolating his reading of the
litany with a chapter from the Apocalypse. The establishment clergy,
with a few notable exceptions, asserted it as their right and duty
to use the Scriptures at all times in their schools, and declared it
to be a sin to consent to suspend, even during the hours of combined
secular instruction, their office of teachers of divine truth. By
adopting this course they lost whatever claim to public estimation
they might otherwise have had as helpers of education, and hastened,
undoubtedly, the fall of their establishment. It has lately, through
the publication of Archbishop Whately's biography by his daughter and
of the journals of Mr. Senior, been fully disclosed that a desire
for proselytism, although in his lifetime he publicly professed
the contrary, was at the bottom of that able prelate's energetic
support of the national system. The religious and moral teaching
of the books used for combined secular instruction had, so argued
Whately in private, a strong tendency to implant truths which must
lead to the reception of Protestantism. Give free scope, so reasoned
the archbishop, to the national system, and, although the priests
may not perceive their danger, Ireland must cease to be a Catholic
country. When publicly advocating the national system, Whately's
language was, of course, far different. Then he maintained stoutly
that the books were thoroughly impartial, he repudiated with affected
loathing any dishonorable desire to make converts to Protestantism,
and he professed the most scrupulous respect for the consciences of
those who differed from him in religion. The posthumous publication
of Whately's real sentiments--destructive as that publication is
of much of his reputation, and especially of his character for
straightforwardness--forms a valuable vindication, not merely of
the behaviour of those more honest commissioners of education whose
refusal to adopt the Whately tactics led to Whately's retirement
from the board, but also of the conduct of the Catholic bishops and
clergy who have found it necessary emphatically to demand a radical
change in the system of national instruction so far as Catholics are
concerned.

It is, however, for the interests of Protestantism and of Great
Britain, as well as of Catholicism, that the education of Catholics
should be carried on more perfectly in accord with the desires of the
Catholic people. The principle of religious neutrality in education
has been tried in Ireland, and found wanting. It has not resulted
in bringing into the same school-rooms the young of various creeds,
and educating them in mutual love. Three or four Protestants may be
found in the same school with a hundred Catholics; or three or four
Catholics may attend a school frequented by a hundred Protestants.
But nowhere in Ireland is it possible to find a school where one half
of the pupils are Protestants and the other half Catholics, or where
the Protestant clergyman and the Catholic priest, as joint patrons,
superintend their respective classes. It is true, indeed, that
proselytism is discouraged by the rules of the board, and that no
favor is shown to one denomination more than to another. But with all
this endeavor after impartiality by its administrators, the system
inflicts a serious wound upon Catholicity. The authority of the board
is substituted for that of the Catholic Church. The national school
teacher, when in training for his office, learns his duties from
men of various religious denominations, who are not permitted, even
were they desirous, to impart a devotional color to what they teach.
The virtues must be commended on moral, not on religious grounds.
Patriotism may take root in ignorance; for no book of Irish history
is to be found in the list of Irish national school books. When the
trained teacher is set over a school, he still regards himself as
dependent upon the board which is his paymaster. Catholic teachers
may, and sometimes do, hold opinions different from those of the
priest, and even upon occasions refuse to carry out the priest's
directions in the matter of religious teaching. The influence of
the priest upon his flock is weakened by that very separation
between secular and religious instruction which is the basis of the
system of national education. Protestantism may flourish under the
impartiality, neutrality, and secularization of education at which
the originators of that system aimed; but Catholicism must inevitably
become deteriorated.

It was in past years the almost universal belief of Protestant
governments, that an Irish Catholic, in proportion as he ceased
to be loyal to his spiritual, would advance in loyalty toward his
temporal sovereign. Toleration was offered, even under Elizabeth
and James, to Catholics who would abjure the spiritual supremacy
of the pope. In modern times the same spirit of distrust shows
itself in the endeavor, on the part of some Protestant statesmen,
to offer to Catholics educational and other advantages upon
conditions inconsistent with Catholic practices. Those greatly err
who thus fancy that Great Britain will gain--either politically or
religiously--by the undermining of the influence of the Catholic
priesthood, or by leavening the education of Catholics with the
spirit of secularization. The Irish Catholic may be taught to unlearn
his faith, to neglect confession, and disobey the injunctions of his
priest; but no one will say that thereby he becomes, necessarily,
either a better Christian or a better subject to his sovereign. Such
a one may, or may not, become a Protestant or an infidel. When the
influence of the priest is weakened or destroyed, the Irish Catholic
becomes an easy victim to those who teach disloyalty and rebellion.
But his lapse into treason should be ascribed to the fact not of his
being a Catholic, but of his being a bad one. No good Catholic who
values the sacraments, and respects the precepts of his church, could
possibly join the treasonable brotherhoods denounced by the Catholic
priest from the altar, by the bishops in pastorals, and by the pope
himself. There are, however, too many Irish Catholics whose obedience
to their church is partial, or but nominal. Perhaps these men first
learnt in Irish national schools the lesson that religion, like
every thing else, has its appointed time and place; that Catholic
devotion forms no indispensable portion of secular studies, and that
priestly intervention in affairs not strictly religious is intrusive
and impertinent. The want of a truly Catholic training in early
life doubtless has led many an adult Catholic to hold that a priest
out-steps the proper sphere of his office, when he cautions his flock
against revolutionary excesses.

If misdirected and uncatholic teaching occasions many Irish Catholics
to become rebels in thought if not in deed, their education has
advanced and is advancing in another point, so as to render their
treason more dangerous. Irishmen in former years were prompt to seize
occasions for the overthrow of British rule, but lacked certain
qualities requisite for permanent success. They seemed incapable, for
any length of time, of combined action and resolution in the field or
the cabinet. They carried into battle the dissensions and jealousies
of their divided council-chambers. Brilliant displays of military
valor served only to mark more distinctly the fatal effects of
indecision and insubordination. Victory itself was often the prelude
to that demoralization of forces which is the worst consequence
of defeat. But now the Irish are swiftly learning to acquire those
qualities of organization and self-government which will render their
revolts more formidable and disastrous to England than hitherto they
have proved. Irishmen have shown themselves in American campaigns
not soldiers merely, but generals, and not merely skilful tacticians
in handling masses of troops before the enemy, but also able
organizers, clever in moulding and disciplining untrained materials
into effective battalions. Habits of promptitude, self-control, and
self-reliance belong to the Irish-American in perhaps even a higher
degree than to the Anglo-Saxon. The number is rapidly increasing
of Irishmen who, having acquired those habits in America, repair
to Ireland and communicate them in some degree to their brethren
at home. The peasantry of Ireland--already familiarized with
trans-Atlantic ideas of independence and republicanism--are apt to
become Americanized. Their sympathies are with the United States
rather than with England. If war broke out between Great Britain and
the States, no one doubts but that the first American army flung upon
Irish shores would find Ireland one vast recruiting field, and that
swarms of soldiers of Irish descent would fly from distant lands to
Ireland to lend their aid in rendering it, throughout its length and
breadth, a garrison impregnable to British attacks. And no one doubts
but that England--even though eventually victorious by land and
sea--would depart from such a conflict crippled in half her strength.
Ireland, alienated irrevocably, would be to England like a paralyzed
limb to the combatant, both a sign and a source of weakness. At no
very distant period from the termination of such a war, Ireland would
virtually become an American outpost, and would cease to be an
integral part of Great Britain. Without Ireland to rely upon, England
could scarcely be expected to maintain a position as a first-class
power in the event of war among European nations. Mercenary troops
might, indeed, for a time supply the want of Irish soldiers and
sailors. But the nation which has to hire foreign troops to fight its
battles is already in decay.

It is possible, however, that Ireland, instead of becoming the
occasion of ruin and dismemberment to the British empire, may prove
its mainstay and the bond of its integrity. If Ireland shall become
prosperous and contented under the changed policy of England, if its
population shall increase under prosperity, and if its nationality
shall be recognized and fostered--then no combination of European
foes, unaided by America, can hope to prevail against the United
Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. But why should America withhold
her hand, when opportunity shall have presented itself for dealing
a blow in repayment of old wrongs aggravated by recent disputes?
France may demand the armed assistance of the States, whose existence
as an independent government she so powerfully helped to create. He
reads ill the face of nations who fails to perceive that the great
body of Americans desire to see the pride of England humbled, and
that they are treasuring up their wrath against the day of wrath.
The native-born Americans are moved by the transmitted rancor of
past injustice. Those of Irish and Catholic descent have the wrongs
of Ireland and of the Catholic Church to avenge. All the traditions
of faith and patriotism are now arrayed against England, and the
influence of the Irish and Catholic population of the States is
sufficient to decide the political action of Congress in the
eventuality of the reasonableness of war with Great Britain becoming
a subject for discussion. Yet the Irish and Catholic element in
the American population might, under circumstances to be created
by English policy, prove the means of restraining from an almost
fratricidal contest the two great empires. Ireland may become
so linked to England that any blow struck against England would
equally harm Ireland. An enlightened legislation concerning the
soil of Ireland may lead to the break-up of absentee landlordism,
and substitute tens of thousands of owners and occupiers in place
of the few hundred feudal proprietors who now exact rack-rents from
an impoverished tenantry. The multiplication of resident working
farm-owners may afford remunerative and permanent occupation to
numerous agricultural laborers for whom there now offers only an
intermittent and precarious employment. The agricultural prosperity
of Ireland is a powerful bond of union with England, the nearest and
best market for Irish produce. Another bond of union may be found
in the grant of legislative independence, or such a modification of
the present parliamentary system as may place the disposal of purely
Irish interests in the hands of Irish representatives, satisfy the
just desires of the patriotic, and leave no room for sentimental
grievances to fester into international feuds. The Catholic religion,
subjected to no disabilities in either kingdom, and overshadowed by
no hostile establishment--for Englishmen themselves in a few years
will remove their present church establishment in the interests of
their church and of Protestantism--will form another tie between the
countries. English Catholics have always been loyal to the British
government. Irish Catholics may become just as loyal. Education may
render the rough Irish laborers, who frequent the centres of English
commerce and manufacture, as loyal as the most loyal in England, and
a valuable counterpoise to the ultra-democratic semi-infidels who
form the dangerous mobs of London, Liverpool, and other vast trading
and industrial cities. And if the social and political interests of
Catholic Irishmen and of Catholics in England become recognized as
identical with those of English Protestants, then the union between
Great Britain and Ireland will be completely consolidated, and the
Irish party in America will have neither excuse nor opportunity for
joining any other party which may desire, disregarding the welfare
of Ireland, to inflict a wound upon Great Britain. On the contrary,
the Irish and Catholic element in the States will be both able
and willing to throw its effective influence into the scale upon
the side of peace and good-will, whenever the differences between
the cabinets of London and Washington demand settlement. Ireland
will thus indirectly become the mediator between the contending
empires--the arbiter to reconcile the angry parent and the aggrieved
son. But Ireland, to be enabled to act this part, must be cherished
as Irish and Catholic, with its nationality unimpaired and its
faith untrammelled. And if the political interests of Great Britain
shall be served by the flourishing condition of Irish Catholicism,
the religious interests of Protestant England will not necessarily
be damaged. Nay, it may prove an advantage to Protestantism to be
brought upon equal terms into close and harmonious relations with
the fervent faith of the Catholic Church, which nowhere appears to
greater advantage than in Ireland. Rationalism and scepticism are on
the increase in Great Britain and elsewhere, and will prove far more
dangerous neighbors than the Church of Rome to the Church of England.
Infidelity is an enemy against whom both would do well, if not to
unite their strength, at least to direct their separate attacks. As
rivals in opposing vice and unbelief, they may learn to respect each
other, and, alas! have before them a field only too ample for their
most vigorous exertions.



MARY.


    Sweet name of Mary, name of names save One--
      And that, my Queen, so wedded unto thine
      Our hearts hear both in either, and enshrine
    Instinctively the Mother with the Son--
    The lisping child's new accent has begun,
      Heaven-taught, with thee; first-fervent happy youth
      Makes thee the watchword of its maiden truth;
    Repentant age the hope of the undone.
    To me, known late but timely, thou hast been
      The noon-day freshness of a wooded height;
      A vale of soothing waters; the delight
    Of fadeless verdure in a desert scene;
    And when, ere long, my day shall set serene,
      Be Hesper[35] to an eve without a night.

                                                    B. D. H.

FOOTNOTE:

[35] The evening star.



EMERSON'S PROSE WORKS.[36]


Mr. Emerson's literary reputation is established, and placed beyond
the reach of criticism. No living writer surpasses him in his mastery
of pure and classic English, or equals him in the exquisite delicacy
and finish of his chiselled sentences, or the metallic ring of his
style. It is only as a thinker and teacher that we can venture any
inquiry into his merits; and as such we cannot suffer ourselves to be
imposed upon by his oracular manner, nor by the apparent originality
either of his views or his expressions.

Mr. Emerson has had a swarm both of admirers and of detractors. With
many he is a philosopher and sage, almost a god; while with others
he is regarded as an unintelligible mystic, babbling nonsense just
fitted to captivate beardless young men and silly maidens with pretty
curls, who constituted years ago the great body of his hearers and
worshippers. We rank ourselves in neither class, though we regard
him as no ordinary man, and as one of the deepest thinkers, as
well as one of the first poets, of our country. We know him as a
polished gentleman, a genial companion, and a warm-hearted friend,
whose kindness does not pass over individuals and waste itself in a
vague philanthropy. So much, at least, we can say of the man, and
from former personal acquaintance as well as from the study of his
writings.

Mr. Emerson is no theorist, and is rather of a practical than of
a speculative turn of mind. What he has sought all his life, and
perhaps is still seeking, is the real, the universal, and the
permanent in the events of life and the objects of experience. The
son of a Protestant minister, brought up in a Protestant community,
and himself for some years a Protestant minister, he early learned
that the real, the universal, and permanent are not to be found in
Protestantism; and assuming that Protestantism, in some or all its
forms, is the truest exponent of the Christian religion, he very
naturally came to the conclusion that they are not to be found in
Christianity. He saw that Protestantism is narrow, hollow, unreal,
a sham, a humbug, and, ignorant of the Catholic Church and her
teaching, he considered that she must have less of reality, be even
more of a sham or humbug, than Protestantism itself. He passed then
naturally to the conclusion that all pretensions to a supernaturally
revealed religion are founded only in ignorance or craft, and
rejected all of all religions, except what may be found in them that
accords with the soul or the natural reason of all men. This may be
gathered from his brief essay, entitled _Nature_, first published in
1836. We quote a few paragraphs from the introduction:

    "Our age is retrospective. It builds the sepulchres of the
    fathers. It writes biographies, histories, and criticism. The
    foregoing generations beheld God and nature face to face; we
    through their eyes. Why should not we also enjoy an original
    relation to the universe? Why should not we have a poetry and
    a philosophy of insight and not of tradition, and a religion
    by revelation to us, and not a history of theirs?... The sun
    shines to-day also. There is more wool and flax in the fields.
    There are new lands, new men, new thoughts. Let us demand our
    own works, and laws, and worship.

    "Undoubtedly we have no questions to ask which are
    unanswerable. We must trust the perfection of creation so far
    as to believe that whatever curiosity the order of things
    has awakened in our minds, the order of things can satisfy.
    Every man's condition is a solution in hieroglyphic to those
    inquiries he would put. He acts it as life before he apprehends
    it as truth. In like manner, nature is already, in its forms
    and tendencies, describing its own design. Let us interrogate
    the great apparition that shines so peacefully around us. Let
    us inquire, To what end is nature?

    "All science has one aim, to find a theory of nature. We have
    theories of races and of functions, but scarcely yet a remote
    approach to an idea of creation. We are now so far from the
    road to truth that religious teachers dispute and hate each
    other, and speculative men are deemed unsound and frivolous.
    But to a sound judgment, the most abstract truth is the most
    practical. Whenever a true theory appears, it will be its own
    evidence. Its test is, that it will explain all phenomena. Now
    many are thought not only unexplained, but inexplicable--as
    language, sleep, madness, dreams, beasts, sex." (Vol. i. pp. 5,
    6.)

These extracts give us the key to Mr. Emerson's thought, which runs
through all his writings, whether in prose or poetry; though more
fully mastered and better defined in his later productions, essays,
and lectures, than it was in his earliest production from which
we have quoted. In studying these volumes, we are convinced that
what the writer is after is reality, of which this outward, visible
universe, both as a whole and in all its parts, symbolizes. He seeks
life, not death; the living present, not the corpse of the past.
Under this visible world, its various and ever-varying phenomena,
lies the real world, one, identical, universal, and immutable, which
it copies, mimics, or symbolizes. He agrees with Plato that the
real thing is in the methexis, not in the mimesis; that is, in the
idea, not in the individual and the sensible, the variable and the
perishable. He wants unity and catholicity, and the science that does
not attain to them is no real science at all. But as the mimesis, in
his language the hieroglyphic, copies or imitates the methexic, we
can, by studying it, arrive at the methexic, the reality copied or
imitated.

We do not pretend to understand Plato throughout, nor to reconcile
him always with himself; but as far as we do understand him, the
reality, what must be known in order to have real science, is the
idea, and it is only by ideas that real science is attained. Ideas
are, then, both the object and the medium of knowledge. As the medium
of knowledge, the idea may be regarded as the image it impresses on
the mimetic, or the individual and the sensible, as the seal on the
wax. This image or impression is an exact _fac-simile_ of the idea as
object. Hence by studying it we arrive at the exact knowledge of the
idea, or what is real, invariable, universal, and permanent in the
object we would know. The lower copies and reveals the next higher,
and thus we may rise, step by step, from the lowest to the highest,
to "the first good and the first fair," to the good, the beautiful,
or Being that is being in itself. Thus is it in science. But the
soul has two wings on which it soars to the empyrean, intelligence
and love. The lowest form or stage of love is that of the sexes, a
love of the senses only; but this lowest love symbolizes a higher or
ideal love, rising stage by stage to the pure ideal, or the love of
absolute beauty, the beautiful in itself, the love to which the sage
aspires, and the only love in which he can rest or find repose.

We do not say that Mr. Emerson follows Plato in all respects; for
he occasionally deviates from him, sometimes for the better, and
sometimes for the worse; but no one not tolerably well versed in the
Platonic philosophy can understand him. In his two essays on Plato,
in his second volume, he calls him the Philosopher, and asserts that
all who talk philosophy talk Plato. He also maintains that Plato
represented all the ages that went before him, possessed all the
science of his contemporaries, and that none who have come after him
have been able to add any thing new to what he taught. He includes
Christianity, Judaism, and Mohammedanism in Plato, who is far broader
and more comprehensive than them all. Plato of all men born of woman
stood nearest the truth of things, and in his intellectual and moral
doctrines surpassed all who went before or have come after him.

We find many things in Plato that we like, and we entirely agree with
him that the ideal is real; but we do not agree with Mr. Emerson,
that nothing in science has been added to the Platonic doctrine.
We think Aristotle made an important addition in his doctrine of
entelechia; Leibnitz, in his definition of substance, making it a
_vis activa_, and thus exploding the notion of passive or inert
substances; and finally, Gioberti, by his doctrine of creation as a
doctrine, or rather principle, of science. Plato had no conception of
the creative act asserted by Moses in the first verse of _Genesis_.
Plato never rose above the conception of the production of existences
by way of formation, or the operation of the plastic force on a
preëxisting and often intractable matter. He never conceived of the
creation of existences from nothing by the sole energy or power of
the creator. He held to the eternal existence of spirit and matter,
and we owe to him principally the dualism and antagonism that have
originated the false asceticism which many attribute to Christian
teaching; but which Christianity rejects, as is evident from its
doctrine of the Incarnation and that of the resurrection of the
flesh. Gioberti has shown, as the writer thinks, that creation is no
less a scientific principle than a Christian dogma. He has shown
that the creative act is the nexus between being and existences,
and that it enters as the copula into the _primum philosophicum_,
without which there could be no human mind, and consequently no
human science. There are various other instances we might adduce
in which people talk very good sense, even profound philosophical
and theological truth, and yet do not talk Plato. We hardly think
Mr. Emerson himself will accept all the moral doctrines of Plato's
Republic, especially those relating to marriage and the promiscuous
intercourse of the sexes; for Plato goes a little beyond what our
free-lovers have as yet proposed.

Aristotle gives us, undoubtedly, a philosophy, such as it is, and
a philosophy that enters largely into modern modes of thought and
expression; but we can hardly say as much of Plato. He has profound
thoughts, no doubt, and many glimpses of a high--if you will, the
highest order of truth; but only when he avowedly follows tradition,
and speaks according to the wisdom of the ancients. He seems to us
to give us a method rather than a philosophy, and very little of
our modern philosophical language is derived from him. Several of
the Greek fathers, and St. Augustine among the Latins, incline to
Platonism; but none of them, so far as we are acquainted with them,
followed him throughout. The mediæval doctors, though not ignorant of
Plato, almost without an exception prefer Aristotle. The revival of
Platonism in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries brought with it a
revival of heathenism; and Plato has since been held in much higher
esteem with the heterodox and makers of fanciful systems than with
the orthodox and simple believers. We trace his influence in what
the romancers call chivalry, which is of pagan origin, though some
people are ill-informed enough to accredit it to the church; and we
trace to his doctrine of love, so attractive to many writers not in
other respects without merit, the modern babble about "the heart,"
the confusion of charity with philanthropy, and the immoral doctrines
of free love, which strike at Christian marriage and the Christian
family. The "heart," in the language of the Holy Scriptures,
means the affections of the will, and the love they enjoin as the
fulfilment of the law and the bond of perfection is charity, a
supernatural virtue, in which both the will and the understanding
are operative, not a simple, natural sentiment, or affection of the
sensibility, or the love of the beautiful, and dependent on the
imagination.

Mr. Emerson is right enough in making the sensible copy or imitate
the intelligible, what there is true in Swedenborg's doctrine of
correspondences; but wrong in making the mimetic purely phenomenal,
unreal, a mere sense-show. The mimetic, the mimesis, by which
Plato means the individual and the sensible, the variable and the
transitory, is not the only real, nor the highest real, as sensists
and materialists hold; but is as real in its order and degree as
the methexic or ideal. Hence, St. Thomas is able to maintain that
the sensible species, or accidents, as he calls them, can subsist
without their subject, or, as we would say, the sensible body
without the intelligible body; and therefore, that the doctrine
of transubstantiation involves no contradiction; for it is not
pretended that the sensible body undergoes any change, or that the
sensible body of our Lord is present in the blessed eucharist.
So St. Augustine distinguishes the visible--the sensible--body
and the spiritual--intelligible--body, and holds both to be real.
The individual is as real as the species--the _socratitas_, in
the language of the schoolmen, as the _humanitas_--for neither is
possible without the other. The sort of idealism, as it is called,
that resolves the individual into the species, or the sensible
into the intelligible, and thus denies the external world, is as
unphilosophical as the opposite doctrine, that resolves the species
into the individual and the intelligible into the sensible. Even
Plato, the supposed father of idealism, does not make the mimesis
absolutely unreal. For, to say nothing of the preëxistent matter, the
image, picture, which is the exact copy of its ideal prototype, is a
real image, picture, or copy.

But Mr. Emerson, if he recognizes the methexis at all, either
confounds it with real and necessary being, or makes it purely
phenomenal, and therefore unreal, as distinguished from real and
necessary being. Methexis is a Greek word, and means, etymologically
and as used by Plato, participation. Plato's doctrine is, that all
inferior existences exist by participation of the higher, through
the medium of what he calls the plastic soul, whence the Demiourgos
of the Gnostics. His error was in making the plastic soul instead
of the creative act of God the medium of the participation. Still,
Plato made it the participation of ideas or the ideal, and, in the
last analysis, of Him who is being in himself. Hence, he made a
distinction, if not the proper distinction, between the methexis and
God, or being by participation and the absolute underived being, or
being in itself.

Mr. Emerson recognizes no real participation, and either excludes
the methexis or identifies it with God, or absolute being. He thus
reduces the categories, as does Cousin, to being and phenomenon, or,
in the only barbarism in language he permits himself, the ME--_le
moi_--and the NOT ME--_le non moi_--the root-error, so to speak, of
Fichte. He takes himself as the central force, and holds it to be the
reality expressed in the NOT ME. The NOT ME being purely phenomenal,
only the ME is real. By the ME he, of course, does not mean his own
personality, but the reality which underlies and expresses itself
in it. The absolute ICH, or ego, of Fichte is identical in all men,
is the real man, the "one man," as Mr. Emerson says; and this "one
man" is the reality, the being, the substance, the force of the whole
phenomenal universe. There is, then, no methexis imitated, copied,
or mimicked by the mimesis, or the individual and sensible universe.
The mimesis copies not a participated or created intelligible, but,
however it may be diversified by degrees, it copies directly God
himself, the one real being and only substance of all things. If
we regard ourselves as phenomenal, we are unreal, and therefore
nothing; if as real, as substantive, as force, we do not participate,
_mediante_ the creative act, of real being, but are identically it,
or identical with it; which makes the author not only a pantheist,
but a more unmitigated pantheist than Plato himself.

Neither Plato nor Mr. Emerson recognizes any causative force in the
mimesis. Plato recognizes causative force only in ideas, though he
concedes a power of resistance to the preëxistent matter, and finds
in its intractableness the cause of evil; Mr. Emerson recognizes
causative or productive force only in the absolute, and therefore
denies the existence of second causes, as he does all distinction
between first cause and final cause; which is the very essence of
pantheism, which Gioberti rightly terms the "supreme sophism."

We have used the Greek terms _methexis_ and _mimesis_ after Plato,
as Gioberti has done in his posthumous works, but not precisely
in Gioberti's sense. Gioberti identifies the methexis with the
plastic soul asserted by Plato, and revived by old Ralph Cudworth,
an Anglican divine of the seventeenth century; but though we make
the methexis causative in the order of second causes, we do not
make it productive of the mimesis. It means what are called genera
and species; but even in the order of second causes, genera are
generative or productive only as specificated, and species only as
individualized. God must have created the genus specificated and the
species individualized before either could be active or productive
as second cause. The genus does not and cannot exist without
specification, nor the species without individualization, any more
than the individual can exist without the species, or the species
without the genus. For instance, man is the species, according to
the schoolmen, the genus is animal, the _differentia_ is reason, and
hence man is defined a rational animal. But the genus animal, though
necessary to its existence, cannot generate the species man, any more
than it could have generated itself. The species can exist only as
immediately individuated by the first cause, and hence the pretence
of some scientists--more properly sciolists,--that new species are
formed either by development or by natural selection, is simply
absurd, as has been well shown by the Duke of Argyll. God creates the
species as well as the genera; and it is fairly inferred from the
Scriptures that he creates all things in their genera and species
"after their kind." Furthermore, if God had not created the human
species individualized in Adam, male and female, there could have
been no men by natural generation, any more than if there had been
no human species at all.

This, as we understand it, excludes alike the plastic soul of the
Platonists and the Demiourgos of the Gnostics, and teaches that the
mimesis is as directly created by God himself as the methexis. Mr.
Emerson, indeed, uses neither of these Platonic terms, though if
he had, he would, with his knowledge of the Christian doctrine of
creation, have detected the error of Plato, and most likely have
escaped his own. The term _methexis_--participation--excludes the old
error that God generates the universe, which is rather favored by
the terms genera and species. We use the term _mimesis_ because it
serves to us to express the fact that the lower copies or imitates
the higher, and therefore the doctrine of St. Thomas, that "Deus
est similitudo rerum omnium," or that God is himself the type or
model after which the universe is created, and which each and every
existence in its own order and degree strives to copy or represent.
The error of Plato is, that he makes the methexis an emanation rather
than a creature, and the plastic power that produces the mimesis;
the error of Mr. Emerson, as we view the matter, is, that he makes
the mimetic purely phenomenal, therefore unreal, sinks it in the
methexic, and the methexis itself in God, as the one only being or
substance, the _natura naturans_ of Spinoza.

With Plato, the mimesis is the product of the methexic, but is itself
passive, and the sooner the soul is emancipated from it the better;
though what is the soul in his system of ideas we understand not.
With Mr. Emerson, it is neither active nor passive, for it is purely
phenomenal, therefore nothing. With us it is real, and, like all
real existences, it is active, and is not a simple image or copy of
the methexic or the ideal, but is in its order and degree a _vis
activa_, and copies or imitates actively the divine type or the _idea
exemplaris_ in the divine mind, after which it is created.

Mr. Emerson says, in the introduction to his essay on _Nature_,
"Philosophically considered, the universe is composed of nature and
soul." But all activity is in the soul, and what is distinguishable
from the soul is purely phenomenal, and, if we may take his essay on
the _Over-soul_, not republished in these volumes, is but the soul's
own projection of itself. The soul alone is active, productive, and
it is myself, my own ego; not indeed in its personal limitations and
feebleness, but in its absoluteness, as the absolute or impersonal
_Ich_ of Fichte, and identically God, who is the great, the absolute
I AM.

The error is obvious. It consists in the denial or in the overlooking
of the fact that God creates substances, and that every substance
is, as Leibnitz defines it, a force, a _vis activa_, acting always
from its own centre outward. Whatever actually exists is active,
and there is and can be no passivity in nature. Hence, Aristotle
and the schoolmen after him call God, who is being and being in its
plenitude, _actus purissimus_, or most pure act, in whom there are
no possibilities to be actualized. Mr. Emerson errs in his first
principles, in not recognizing the fact that God creates substances,
and that every substance is an activity, therefore causative
either _ad intra_ or _ad extra_, and that every created substance
is causative in the order of second causes. What we maintain in
opposition both to him and Plato is, that these created substances
are at once methexic and mimetic in their activity.

It were an easy task to show that whatever errors there may be, or
may be supposed to be, in Mr. Emerson's works grow out of the two
fundamental errors we have indicated--the identification of soul,
freed from its personal limitations, as in Adam, John, and Richard,
with God, or the real being, substance, force, or activity, and
the assumption that whatever is distinguishable from God is purely
phenomenal, an apparition, a sense-show, a mere bubble on the
surface of the ocean of being, as we pointed out in our comments on
the proceedings of the Free Religionists, in the magazine for last
November, and to which we beg leave to refer our readers.

Yet, though we have known Mr. Emerson personally ever since 1836,
have held more than one conversation with him, listened to several
courses of lectures from him, and read and even studied the greater
part, if not all of his works, as they issued from the press, we must
confess that, in reperusing them preparatory to writing this brief
notice, we have been struck, as we never were before, with the depth
and breadth of his thought, as well as with the singular force and
beauty of his expression. We appreciate him much higher both as a
thinker and as an observer, and we give him credit for a depth of
feeling, an honesty of purpose, an earnest seeking after truth, we
had not previously awarded him in so great a degree, either publicly
or privately. We are also struck with his near approach to the truth
as we are taught it. He seems to us to come as near to the truth as
one can who is so unhappy as to miss it.

We regard it as Mr. Emerson's great misfortune, that his early
Protestant training led him to regard the Catholic question as
_res adjucata_, and to take Protestantism, in some one or all
of its forms, as the truest and best exponent of Christianity.
Protestantism is narrow, superficial, unintellectual, vague,
indefinite, sectarian, and it was easy for a mind like his to
pierce through its hollow pretensions, to discover its unspiritual
character, its want of life, its formality, and its emptiness. It
was not difficult to comprehend that it was only a dead corse, and
a mutilated corse at that. The Christian mysteries it professed to
retain, as it held them, were lifeless dogmas, with no practical
bearing on life, and no reason in the world for believing them.
Such a system, having no relation with the living and moving world,
and no reason in the nature or constitution of things, could not
satisfy a living and thinking man, in downright earnest for a truth
at least as broad and as living as his own soul. It was too little,
too insignificant, too _mesquine_, too much of a dead and putrefying
body to satisfy either his intellect or his heart. If that is the
true exponent of Christianity, and the most enlightened portion of
mankind say it is, why shall I belie my own understanding, my own
better nature, by professing to believe and reverence it? No; let me
be a man, be true to myself, to my own reason and instincts, not a
miserable time-server or a contemptible hypocrite.

If Mr. Emerson had not been led to regard the Catholic question as
closed, except to the dwellers among tombs, and to the ignorant and
superstitious, and had studied the church with half the diligence
he has Plato, Mohammed, or Swedenborg, it is possible that he would
have found in Christianity the life and truth, the reality, unity,
and catholicity he has so long and so earnestly sought elsewhere and
found not. Certain it is, that whatever affirmative truth he holds
is held and taught by the church in its proper place, its real
relations, and in its integrity. The church does not live in the past
nor dwell only among tombs; she is an ever-present and ever-living
church, and presents to us not a dead historical Christ, but the
ever-living and ever-present Christ, as really and truly present to
us as he was to the disciples and apostles with whom he conversed
when he went about in Judea doing good, without having where to
lay his head, and not more veiled from our sight now than he was
then from theirs. Does she not hold the sublime mystery of the Real
Presence, which, if an individual fact, is also a universal principle?

The Christian system, if we may so speak, is not an after-thought
in creation, or something superinduced on the Creator's works. It
has its ground and reason in the very constitution of things. All
the mysteries taught or dogmas enjoined by the church are universal
principles; they are truly catholic, the very principles according
to which the universe, visible or invisible, is constructed, and
not one of them can be denied without denying a first principle of
life and of science. Mr. Emerson says, in a passage we have quoted,
"All science has one aim, namely, to find a theory of nature," and
seems to concede that it has not yet succeeded in finding it. The
church goes beyond even the aim of science, and gives, at least
professes to give, not a theory of truth, but the truth itself; she
is not a method, but that to which the true method leads. She is the
body of Him who is "the way, the truth, and the life;" she gives
us, not as the philosophers, her views of the truth, but the truth
itself, in its reality, its unity, its integrity, its universality,
its immutability. At least such is her profession; for the faith
she teaches is the substance--hypostasis--of the things to be hoped
for, and the evidence of things not seen--_substantia sperandarum,
argumentum non apparentium_.

Such being her profession, made long before Protestantism was
born, and continued to be made since with no stammering tongue or
abatement of confidence, the pretence that judgment has gone against
her is unfounded. Many have condemned her, as the Jewish Sanhedrim
condemned our Lord, and called on the Roman Procurator to execute
judgment against him; but she has no more staid condemned than he
staid confined in the new tomb hewn from the rock in which his body
was laid, and far more are they who admit her professions among the
enlightened and civilized than they who deny them. No man has a
right to be regarded as a philosopher or sage who has not at least
thoroughly examined her titles, and made up his mind with a full
knowledge of the cause.

In the Catholic Church we have found the real presence, and unity,
and catholicity which we sought long and earnestly, and could find
nowhere else, and which Mr. Emerson, after a still longer and equally
earnest search, has not found at all. He looks not beyond nature,
and nature is not catholic, universal, or the whole. It is not one,
but manifold and variable. It cannot tell its origin, medium, or
end. With all the light Mr. Emerson has derived from nature, or
from nature and soul united, there is infinite darkness behind,
infinite darkness before, and infinite darkness all around him. He
says, "Every man's condition is a solution in hieroglyphic of those
inquiries he would put." Suppose it is so, what avail is that to him
who has lost or never had the key to the hieroglyph? Knows he to
interpret the hieroglyph in which the solution is concealed? Can he
read the riddle of the sphinx? He has tried his hand at it in his
poem of the Sphinx, and has only been able to answer that

    "Each answer is a lie."

It avails us little to be told where the solution is, if we are not
told what it is, or if only told that every solution is false as soon
as told. Hear him; to man he says,

    "Thou art the unanswered question;
      Couldst see thy proper eye,
    Alway it asketh, asketh;
      And each answer is a lie:
    So take thy quest through nature,
      It through a thousand natures ply;
    Ask on, thou clothed eternity;
      Time is the false reply."

The answer, if it means any thing, means that man is "a clothed
eternity," whatever that may mean, eternally seeking an answer to the
mystery of his own being, and each answer he can obtain is a lie; for
only eternity can comprehend eternity and tell what it is. Whence
has he learned that man, the man-child, is "a clothed eternity," and
therefore God, who only is eternal?

Now, eternity is above time, and above the world of time,
consequently above nature. Catholicity, by the very force of the
term, must include all truth, and therefore the truth of the
supernatural as well as of the natural. But Mr. Emerson denies the
supernatural, and does not, of course, even profess to have any
knowledge that transcends nature. How, then, can he pretend to have
attained to catholic truth? He himself restricts nature to the
external universe, which is phenomenal, and to soul, by which he
means himself. But are there no phenomena without being or substance
which appears or which shows itself in them? Is this being or
substance the soul, or, in the barbarism he adopts, the ME? If so,
the NOT-ME is only the phenomena of the ME, and of course identical
with myself, as he implies in what he says of the "one man." Then in
me, and emanating from me, are all men, and the whole of nature. How
does he know this? Does he learn it from nature?

Of course, Mr. Emerson means not this, even if his various utterances
imply it. He uses the word _creation_, and we suppose he intends,
notwithstanding his systematic views, if such he has, contradict
it, to use it in its proper sense. Then he must hold the universe,
including, according to his division, nature and soul, has been
created, and if created, it has a creator. The creator must be
superior, above nature and soul, and therefore in the strictest sense
of the word supernatural; and as reason is the highest faculty of the
soul, the supernatural must also be supra-rational.

Does the creator create for a purpose, for an end? and if so, what
is that end or purpose, and the medium or means of fulfilling it,
whether on his part or on the part of the creature? Here, then,
we have the assertion of a whole order of truth, very real and
very important to be known, which transcends the truth Mr. Emerson
professes to have, and which is not included in it. We say again,
then, that he has not attained to catholicity, and we also say that,
by the only method he admits, he cannot attain to it. How can he
pretend to have attained to catholicity, and that he has already a
truth more universal than Christianity reveals, when he must confess
that without the knowledge of a supernatural and supra-rational truth
he cannot explain his origin or end, or know the conditions of his
existence, or the means of gaining his end?

Mr. Emerson says, as we have quoted him,

    "Undoubtedly we have no questions to ask which are
    unanswerable. We must trust the perfection of the creation so
    far as to believe that whatever curiosity the order of things
    has awakened in our minds, the order of things can satisfy."

    Alway it asketh, asketh,
    And each answer is a lie.

There is here a grand mistake. If he had said the Creator instead
of creation, there would have been truth and great propriety in
the author's assertion. Nature--and we mean by nature the whole
created order--excites us to ask many very troublesome questions,
which nature is quite incompetent to answer. The fact that nature is
created, proves that she is, both as a whole and in all her parts,
dependent, not independent, and therefore does not and cannot suffice
for herself. Unable to suffice for herself, she cannot suffice for
the science of herself; for science must be of that which is, not of
that which is not.

Mr. Emerson, we presume, struck with the narrowness and
inconsistencies of all the religions he had studied, and finding that
they are all variable and transitory in their forms, yet thought
that he also discovered something in them, or underlying them all,
which is universal, invariable, and permanent, and which they are
all honest efforts of the great soul to realize. He therefore came
to the conclusion that the sage can accept none of these narrow,
variable, and transitory forms, and yet can reject none of them as
to the great, invariable, and underlying principles, which in fact
is all they have that is real or profitable. To distinguish between
the transient and permanent in religion was the common aim of the
Boston movement from 1830 to 1841, when we ourselves began to turn
our own mind, though very timidly and at a great distance, toward
the church. Mr. Emerson, Miss Margaret Fuller, A. Bronson Alcott, and
Mr. Theodore Parker regarded the permanent elements of all religions
as the natural patrimony or products of human nature. The present
writer differed from them, by ascribing their origin to supernatural
revelation made to our first parents in the garden, universally
diffused by the dispersion of the race, and transmitted to us by the
traditions of all nations. Following out this view, the grace of God
moving and assisting, we found our way to the Catholic Church, in
which the form and the invariable and permanent principle, or rather,
the form growing out of the principle, are inseparable, and are
fitted by the divine hand to each other.

The others, falling back on a sort of transcendental illuminism, sunk
into pure naturalism, where such of them as are still living, and
a whole brood of young disciples who have sprung up since, remain,
and, like the old Gnostics, suppose themselves spiritual men and
women in possession of the secret of the universe. There was much
life, mental activity, and honest purpose in the movement; but those
who had the most influence in directing its course could not believe
that any thing good could come out of Nazareth, and so turned their
backs on the church. They thought they could find something deeper,
broader, and more living than Christianity, and have lost not only
the transient, but even the permanent in religion.

FOOTNOTE:

[36] _The Prose Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson_, New and revised
edition. Boston: Fields, Osgood & Co. 1870. 2 vols. 16mo.



THE HOLY-WEEK OF 1869 IN HAVANA.

GOOD-FRIDAY. HOLY-SATURDAY. EASTER-SUNDAY.


GOOD-FRIDAY.

Sad indeed was the aspect of all things within the cathedral
on Good-Friday morning. Black draperies covered the pulpit,
reading-desks, and seats reserved for the authorities, and every
one was attired in mourning. Instead of the rose-color and blue of
Holy-Thursday, the ladies now wore black or violet silks and satins
with jet ornaments.

All the personages of the preceding day were present, and the
religious services were in nowise different from those of the
Catholic Church in other lands, with the exception that, in the
reading of the passion, at the words "_gave up the ghost_," all
knelt, but did not kiss the ground, as is the custom in France.

During the adoration of the cross, in which the captain-general,
apparently almost too ill to stand, and the other gentlemen took
part, the choir sang the beautiful hymn _Pange lingua_, with its
tender burden of _Crux fidelis_. Never did it sound to me more
touching.

    "Sing, O my tongue! the Victor's praise;
    For him the noblest trophy raise,
    The victory of his cross proclaim,
    His glory and his laurelled fame;
    Sing of his conquests, when he proved
    The Saviour of the souls he loved.

    O faithful cross! thou stand'st alone;
    None like thee in our woods is grown,
    None can with thy rich growth compare,
    Or leaves like thine, or flowerets bear.
    Sweet wood, sweet nails, both sweet and fair,
    Sweet is the precious weight ye bear."

The adoration terminated, the procession was formed, exactly as
on the day before, to bring back the Blessed Sacrament from the
sepulchre. On reaching the foot of the steps, the captain-general
delivered up to the bishop the key he had worn suspended from his
neck since the preceding morning. As the procession returned, the
noble strains of the _Vexilla regis_ resounded through the great
church.

    "The standard of our King unfurled
    Proclaims triumphant to the world
    The cross, where Life would suffer death
    To gain life with his dying breath!"

My heart beat faster as I listened to the glorious hymn!

The communion made, vespers were chanted in grave and mournful tones,
and the service was concluded. As the bishop descended the nave to
leave the cathedral, the little girls of the nuns' schools crowded
around him to kiss his hand; and it was very pretty to see them clasp
his fingers, and look up in his kind face with a confiding smile.

       *       *       *       *       *

As it had been officially announced that the meditation on the seven
words of Jesus on the cross, with the ceremony of the descent from
the cross, to be followed by the procession of the interment, were to
take place, as is usual every year, that afternoon in the church of
_San Juan de Dios_, I determined to be present.

At three o'clock, accordingly, I stationed myself in a shady
corner, not far from the principal entrance of _San Juan_, among
a crowd of soldiers, volunteers, and colored people. All gazed at
me inquisitively. I looked like a lady; but my somewhat Andalusian
physiognomy, shaded by the black lace mantilla, put them out a
little. I heard them at last decide that I was an _estranjera_,
(stranger,) and consequently considered capable of, and permitted,
any eccentricity, without derogating from my claim to respect.
Twenty minutes passed away thus; a south wind was blowing, and great
water-laden clouds were fast covering the sky; the heat was very
oppressive, and soon heavy drops of rain began to fall, and every one
rushed to shelter. I ran back to the cathedral, my nearest refuge.
The _Tenebræ_ had just commenced, and I sat there and listened to the
doleful lamentations of Jeremiah, and the wails of the holy women,
mingling with the thunder-crashes and the noise of the pouring rain,
which fell as it only falls within the tropics. It was a combination
of sounds not easily to be forgotten.

At half-past four, the storm was over, and the sky clear and blue
once more, so I determined to hasten to _San Juan_, and, though too
late to hear the meditation, still witness the descent from the
cross. To my surprise, on going to the door I found it impossible
to leave the church; the whole place in front of the cathedral was
knee-deep in water, and all the streets leading from it looked like
swift-flowing rivers! Not until five o'clock did the water subside
sufficiently to permit me to cross the street conducting to _San
Juan_, where, however, I fortunately arrived in time for the ceremony
I so much wished to see.

The high altar had been removed, and in its place, on an elevated
platform, were erected three great crosses, the centre one bearing
the image, large as life, of our Saviour, the other two those of the
thieves crucified with him; the face of the repentant sinner was
turned lovingly toward his Lord, that of the unrepentant looked away
with a scowl.

The figure of the victim was fearfully natural--the pallor of death
was on his blood-stained brow, the gash in his side, and his mangled
hands and feet were livid. Two priests, mounted on ladders placed
against the arms of the cross, were in the act of taking down the
writing when I got near enough to see well. At the command of the
preacher, who had just finished the meditation, and who directed them
from the pulpit, they then proceeded to draw out the nail from the
right hand; when loosened from the tree, the arm fell stiffly and as
if dead; before the other was freed, long and wide linen bands were
passed under both, and around the body, to sustain it and prevent
it from falling forward. _Llorad lagrimas de sangre_--"Weep tears
of blood," cried the preacher while this was being done amid the
breathless silence of the spectators, "he died for you!" So solemnly,
so tenderly did the priests perform their office, that it seemed no
representation, but dreadful reality, and my cheeks grew cold, and
my heart throbbed painfully when the pale, bruised body was gently
lowered and borne to the bier waiting to receive it.

Yes, this cruel death He died for us; but, O true and loving women!
one sweet and proud remembrance will be ours for all eternity--_our_
kiss betrayed him not, nor _our_ tongue denied--

    "While even the apostle left him to his doom,
    _We_ lingered round his cross, and watched his tomb!"

The preacher now descended from the pulpit, and quitted the church in
company with the other assistant priests; and the direction seemed
to be left in the hands of a fraternity called _los Hermanos de la
Soledad_--the Brethren of Solitude--a set of tall, fine-looking black
men, many with thin lips and _almost_ Roman noses. They were dressed
in robes of black glazed calico, with white lace tippets.

A quarter of an hour elapsed; the church remained crowded, but
there were no signs of preparation for the procession. Presently a
handsome, authoritative-mannered personage, evidently a Spaniard,
entered hastily, and, pushing his way unceremoniously through the
people, sought the members of the brotherhood, to whom he evidently
gave some orders, and then went away. A great silence prevailed, and
every one seemed to be waiting for something. I at last mustered up
courage to ask a brother when the procession would commence.

_No hay procesion hasta el año que viene_--"There will be no
procession until next year"--he answered in a very loud voice.

_Pero, señor, en el diario_--"But, sir, in the newspaper--" I began.
"_No hay procesion hasta el año que viene_," he repeated louder still.

The women broke forth in murmurs; but not a man spoke, though
compressed lips and scowling brows showed sufficiently what was
passing within. I must not omit to remark that the congregation
consisted almost entirely of colored creoles.

By dint of soft but firmly continued pushing, and a pleasant smile
when the individual I elbowed looked grimly at me, I forced my way
out of the disagreeable pack of volunteers and negroes, men and
boys, that surrounded me, to the chancel, where I found a number
of well-dressed and respectable-looking colored ladies seated on
the platform. There the discontent was louder, and I understood
distinctly that the disappointment was attributed more to the
ill-will of their rulers than to the bad state of the weather.
One woman, particularly, exclaimed angrily several times, and
sufficiently loud to be heard by all in that end of the building,
_Hay procesion para los Españoles, pero no para nosotros_--"There are
processions for the Spaniards, but not for us."

However, there was nothing to be done but to submit; so a few
persons went quietly away, and I at last succeeded in obtaining a
close view of the bier. It was in the form of a sarcophagus with
open sides, placed on a trestle concealed by black velvet drapery
spotted with silver stars; the upper part very tastefully decorated
with white and lilac flowers. The image lying within was covered
with a cloth of silver tissue, the head and feet left bare. Close by
stood another trestle, also covered with ornamented black velvet,
and supporting a small platform, on which stood the figures of the
Blessed Virgin, in deep grief, holding in her hand a very handsome
lace pocket-handkerchief, and of St. John, with a profusion of fair
ringlets, sustaining her in his arms. The bier, followed by the
Virgin and St. John, carried by the members of the black _Hermandad_,
escorted by soldiers and military music, and accompanied by a vast
number of people, constitutes the "procession of the interment,"
which every Good-Friday (when permitted) leaves the old church of
_San Juan de Dios_, passes through many streets of the city, and
before the palace of the captain-general, and stops at the cathedral,
into which it enters, and where the images are finally deposited with
great solemnity. This year, as we have seen, the procession did not
take place.

While examining with interest these curious remains of the piety
of the first settlers in the island, I heard some one cry out, _No
deja ninguno salir_--"Let no one go out"--and at the same moment saw
some soldiers lifting up and looking under the velvet draperies as
if searching for some one. Five very uncomfortable minutes followed;
the door by which I had entered was blocked up with soldiers and
volunteers, every one was frightfully silent--and I am not a heroine!
At last the people were allowed to go out by one door, while the
soldiers and volunteers slowly filled up the church by the other.

Exceedingly great was the relief I felt when I found myself safely
seated in the cars, (which in consequence of the rain had been
permitted to enter the city and station themselves in their usual
place,) and on my way home, where I arrived very tired and almost
disgusted with sight-seeing.


HOLY-SATURDAY.

At seven o'clock in the morning of the "_Sabado de Gloria_," the
"Saturday of Glory," as the Spaniards beautifully and expressively
call this great day, I was already established in my usual place
in the nave of the cathedral, though the religious ceremonies were
not to commence until eight. The attendance of the public generally
was less than on Maundy-Thursday and Good-Friday, and none of the
superior authorities of Havana, nor military and civil functionaries,
were present.

The new fire was lighted and blessed precisely as is done with us,
and the five grains of incense placed on the paschal candle; which,
however, was not a tall, thick taper, as in other countries, but
a veritable _pillar_ of wax, about a yard high and six inches in
diameter; transmitting to us most probably an exact resemblance of
that column of wax upon which the patriarch of Alexandria used to
inscribe the paschal epoch and the movable feasts, and which in
progress of time was employed as a torch during the paschal night,
and at last came to be regarded as the symbol of the resuscitated
Saviour, the true light of the world.

After reading the prophecies, the deacon, preceded by the holy cross
and the paschal candle, and accompanied by the clergy and many of
the faithful present, went in procession to bless the new water and
the baptismal fonts. This ceremony also was performed exactly as it
is with us. At its conclusion the deacon returned to the high altar,
and after sprinkling it and the congregation with the newly-blessed
water, the short mass of the day commenced.

Scarcely had the officiating priest begun to intone the _Gloria_,
when the central door of the church burst open, letting in a flood
of golden light; the cannon fired, the drums beat, the bells rang
out, and the loud organ pealed forth a triumphant strain, while
voices that seemed to come from heaven repeated high and clear, with
delicious harmony, _Gloria in excelsis Deo!_

We all simultaneously fell on our knees; for myself, I can say that
never in my life before had I experienced such rapturous emotion.
Never before had I so perfectly realized the triumph of life over
death! Never before, O my God! had I felt so deeply what it was to
praise thee, to bless thee, to adore thee, to glorify thee with my
whole heart. _Gloria in excelsis Deo!_

    "God the Redeemer liveth! He who took
    Man's nature on him, and in human shroud
    Veiled his immortal glory! He is risen--
    God the Redeemer liveth! And behold
    The gates of life and immortality
    Opened to all that breathe!"

The Alleluia was chanted in the same spirit of joy and exultation,
and the services concluded.

       *       *       *       *       *

Without the church all was now gayety and bustle. The streets were
crowded as if by magic with vehicles of every description. The shops
were all open; the sweetmeat and fruit-sellers at their posts,
looking as if they had never been absent; the lottery-ticket venders
in full cry. The horses and mules had their heads decorated with
bows and rosettes and streamers of bright-colored ribbons, and their
tails elegantly plaited and tied up to one side of their saddle or
harness, with scarlet braid. Even the quiet, patient oxen sported a
bit of finery, and wore flowers on the ponderous yoke that weighed
down their gentle heads. Crowds of busy men hurried hither and
thither; gayly-dressed ladies drove about in their stylish quitrins;
loud talking and laughing was the order of the day among the colored
population; a riff-raff of little blackies pervaded the city, happily
_without_ the squibs, crackers, and fire-arms permitted them until
this year, but quite sufficiently boisterous to be intolerable; while
the church-bells kept ringing out, adding their clang to the noisy
confusion, and _not_ with that merry musical chime we are accustomed
to hear in England, the land of the scientific, well-trained
bell-ringer. But, indeed, nowhere since I listened years ago to the
bells of Saint Mary's in dear old smoky Manchester have I heard a
regular triple bob-major!


EASTER-SUNDAY.

The sun was not yet up when I started for town on Easter morning.
The procession of the resurrection--called, to distinguish it from
other processions of the resurrection, _del encuentro_, "of the
meeting"--was to commence at six o'clock, and I was determined that
no tardiness on my part should prevent my seeing the whole of this
singular relic of bygone ages. The transition from darkness to light
is so wonderfully sudden, however, in these latitudes, that it was
broad day when I reached the cathedral, which I found brilliantly
illuminated with wax tapers, and hung with crimson damask draperies.
Mass had just begun, and there was a considerable number of persons
present, most of them ladies, as is always the case in the churches
of Havana. How the sight of the men-crowded churches of the United
States would astonish these Cubans, who seem to believe that religion
is made for ignorant women and children, and that the less they
profess to have, the more enlightened they appear! As if the really
enlightened man were not he who most deeply feels the necessity of
his Maker's care and love--the consolation of addressing him in
prayer!

As soon as the service was ended, I hastened to the _Calle
Empedrado_, the street leading directly from the cathedral to _San
Juan_, and took up my station on the edge of the sidewalk, about
half-way between the two churches. The balconies of the houses and
the sides of the great barred, glassless windows were hung with red
and yellow draperies; and gayly-dressed ladies and children, and
crowds of colored people, with the inevitable volunteers, thronged
the streets. While thus waiting, I was struck by the appearance of
the dresses of the greater part of the colored creole women; nearly
all wore red, white, and blue, the antagonistic colors to red and
yellow. Their wearers, in all probability, intended by this show of
their political opinions to revenge themselves upon the Spaniards for
the loss of their much-loved procession on Good-Friday.

There was soon a murmur of expectation in the crowd around me, and
presently there appeared coming toward us from _San Juan_ the image,
large as life, of St. Mary Magdalen, dressed in a skirt of silver
tinsel, and an open dress of blue satin, trimmed with silver lace.
A profusion of long auburn ringlets flowed down each side of the
smiling face, and a very elaborate gilded glory was affixed to the
back of the head. The arms were slightly raised, and the hand held
out. This figure stood on a small platform supported on the shoulders
of four of the Brethren of Solitude, such tall men that the saint,
as she advanced rapidly, her curls streaming out behind her, seemed
to be running over the heads of the spectators. As she passed, all
the men took off their hats respectfully. The bearers halted just
in front of me, the Magdalen being supposed to look toward the
sepulchre; after a few minutes' pause, she suddenly turned and ran
back to the church of _San Juan_. In order, probably, to give a more
natural appearance to the image, the men who carried it, and who
evidently took extreme delight and pride in the duty, waddled as they
ran, and so communicated a most ludicrous deportment to the saint.
Every one laughed loud as they watched her roll from side to side,
plunging forward from time to time, and then recovering herself with
a jerk, her hair flopping up and down or streaming out on the air.

_Que bien corre, meneandose_--"How well she runs, shaking
herself!"--was the admiring exclamation of several persons near
me, and they laughed; yes, men, women, and children, black and
white, roared with laughter, and yet, I verily believe, not one
among them all laughed in derision, or felt the slightest sentiment
of disrespect. "Perfect love casteth out fear," says the apostle;
and it never entered into their heads that the good saint could be
displeased because, like simple children, they laughed at so artless
a representation of her. The grotesque movements excited their
hilarity, and they were hilarious on the impulse of the moment, and
without _arrière pensée_. The Latin race is sometimes remarkable for
a child-like simplicity in its actions which too often is mistaken by
colder temperaments for a lack of veneration and propriety.

In a little while the saint came running down the street again,
saluted respectfully again by the merry crowd. A halt of five
minutes, while she looked earnestly in the direction of the
sepulchre, and then she turned and rushed back, more violently
agitated than before, and amidst reiterated shouts of laughter, to
_San Juan de Dios_, to tell the Blessed Virgin the good tidings that
her Son was alive again.

And now the loud strains of martial music reached our ears, and we
saw emerging from the square in front of the cathedral, and slowly
advancing toward us, a high, handsome structure carried on the
shoulders of a member of the black _Hermandad_. In the centre of it
stood the image of the risen Saviour, crowned with a radiant glory;
his right hand extended as if to welcome, his left grasping a white
and gold banner, which displayed, when the breeze unfurled its folds,
a blood-red cross. A little angel with outspread wings seemed to
hover in front of the gorgeous fabric, as if to herald the coming
Lord. A regiment of colored soldiers, wearing white drill uniforms
with red facings, escorted this triumphal car, the band playing its
gayest airs.

At the same moment the Holy Virgin, attired in gold-colored silk
damask, with a magnificent halo around her head, appeared at the
opposite end of the street coming to meet him. She was followed at
a short distance by St. Mary Magdalen, now more subdued in manner.
The Virgin's arms were raised as if about to clasp them around her
beloved Son, and her face wore an expression of ecstatic joy.

The two processions met where I stood, and after a short pause,
St. Mary Magdalen, who was the nearest to the church of _San Juan
de Dios_, turned round and led the way thither, the Virgin turning
also, and the two processions now forming but one. Slowly, but to
the liveliest music, in which mingled the strains of Riesgo's hymn,
the whole mass of us--for we spectators fell into the ranks--moved
onward, every one looking glad and gay, and so we at last reached the
old church, which was far too small to contain one half of us, and
the images entered one after the other with all the assistants who
could force their way in. We weaker vessels, left outside, seeing it
hopeless to try to get in, soon dispersed. I have since learnt that
no kind of religious ceremony took place; the images were simply set
down, and after a while the church was cleared of the people and
closed for an hour or two.

There are processions of the resurrection from a great number of
churches perambulating the city every Easter-Sunday; but this one "of
the Meeting," is by far the most curious and interesting. That of the
church of the _Espiritu Santo_ is considered one of the prettiest,
because of the children in fancy dresses that take part in it.
This year, I was told, a great majority of them wore volunteer or
_cantinera_ (canteen-women, or sutler) costumes, to the great disgust
of Cuban mothers.

       *       *       *       *       *

There was, of course, much festivity going on in the city and suburbs
all that day. There were family meetings and the pleasant _retreta_
in the evening for some; the theatre and public balls for others;
and, I am sorry to say, there was cock-fighting for that brutal
minority which in all countries seems to seek its greatest enjoyment
in the contemplation of bloody strife.

Yet, in sad truth, there had been strife enough in the streets of
Havana during the past week to have contented the most sanguinary
temper, and sorrow enough to have softened the hardest. Palm-Sunday
had witnessed the farewell to all that was dear to them of two
hundred and fifty unfortunate men; had witnessed, also, the wretched
end of the two youths about to embark with the other prisoners, and
the noble death of the courageous commissary of police, shot down
while he sought to protect them from the vengeance of the volunteers,
whom their mad bravadoes, as they were marched down to the ship, had
infuriated. In the course of the week a colored man had been killed
in the streets for seditious cries, and several others stabbed at
night by unknown hands. And as if to keep up the constant anxiety and
fear that overcast Havana like a lurid cloud, the Cubans by every
possible covert insult, and only just avoiding the most terrible
consequences, had shown their hatred of their Spanish rulers.

One trifling incident became a subject of interest and excitement
that would have been absurd under any other circumstances than the
present. On Good-Friday a _gorrion_ (sparrow) was found dead in the
_Plaza de Armas_ by a volunteer. Some say, though others contradict
the report, that the poor little bird had its eyes torn out, its
heart transfixed with pins, and a paper attached to one of its feet
containing the words, _Asi mueran todos los gorriones_--"May all
sparrows die thus!" Now, it must be understood that _gorrion_ is
another of the appellations bestowed on the Spaniards by the Cubans.
A few sparrows having been brought from Europe to the island by some
ship-captain, they prospered and multiplied in such a degree that
they soon outnumbered and domineered over the _Bijirita_, a native
bird somewhat smaller, but much resembling the sparrow in form,
color, and habits. An analogy being imagined between the Spaniards
and the new-comer--the name of _gorrion_ was given to all the
natives of the peninsula of Spain, while the Cubans adopted that of
_Bijirita_.

The little dead _gorrion_ found on Good-Friday was placed with much
ceremony in a glass coffin, and laid in state in a room of one of the
barracks, on a lofty catafalque, with velvet pall and lighted tapers
and a guard of honor. Crowns of fresh flowers, and of red and yellow
"everlastings," were suspended around and above the remains of the
typical bird, and two exquisite nosegays, each more than three feet
high, and as much in circumference, the gifts of the captain-general
and of the _generala_ his wife, stood one at the head, the other at
the foot of the mimic tomb. All the volunteers paid their respects
with much ceremony to the little representative of their race, and so
many people crowded to visit it on Holy-Saturday that it was at last
determined to utilize public curiosity.

On Easter-Sunday every person who wished to see the _gorrion_ was
obliged to pay ten cents, which were to go to the fund destined
to aid the volunteers disabled in the present terrible struggle.
On Easter morning the sum received amounted to three hundred and
fifty-one dollars!

A great number of songs, sonnets, and odes were composed in honor
of the poor little bird, and the manuscripts were tied by colored
ribbons to the crowns suspended above it. They have since been
collected and printed, and sold for the benefit of the same fund.
Many of them were published in the _Diario de la Marina_, the
official daily paper of Havana. The following are specimens of the
effusions:


    AL GORRION.

    Gloria al Gorrion que aquì veis
      Inanimado y marchito,
    Ya jamas de su piquito
      El dulce canto oireis.
    Pero en cambio no olvideis
      Los que lo mireis con saña,
    Que si ya la muerte empaña
      Su mirada inteligente,
    De su raza prepotente
      Hay millones in España!

                _La Compañia de Cazadores del 7^o Batallon._


    TO THE SPARROW.

    Glory to the Sparrow that you see here
      Lifeless and blighted,
    Never more from his little bill
      Will you hear a sweet song.
    But in exchange, do not forget,
      You who look at him with ill-will,
    That if indeed death has dimmed
      His intelligent glance,
    Of his most powerful race
      There are millions in Spain!

            _The Company of Cazadores of the 7th Battalion._

    Aqui reposa un Gorrion
      Que esta tarde se le entierra
    Y otros cien en pié de guerra
      La sirven de guarnicion,
    Bijiritas, en tropel
      Furiosas aleteais
    ¿Por ventura no observais
      Que estais ya mas muertas que el?
    Descansa en paz, oh gorrion,
      Y admite esta ofrenda fria
    De la cuarta compañia
      De este quinto batallon!


    TRANSLATION.

    Here rests a Sparrow,
      To be buried this afternoon,
    And a hundred more in warlike trim
      Serve him as a guard.

    You crowds of Bijiritas
      Who beat your wings with fury,
    Do you not by chance remark
      That you are already more dead than he is?

    Rest in peace, O sparrow!
      And accept this cold offering
    From the fourth company
      Of the fifth battalion.

The gorrion was buried, and Havana left once more without other
thought than that which had occupied Spaniards and Cubans for the
several months previous. It is said that in former days ships which
approached the tropic of Cancer, knew when they were nearing the
shores of Cuba by the sweet odor of flowers and honey borne to them
on the breeze; now, alas! the beautiful island is recognized from
afar rather by the light of her burning plantations--by the smell of
gunpowder and of blood! To all who have lived in Havana and who have
friends among both parties; to all who know and appreciate the proud
sense of honor and unshrinking courage of the one, and the quick
intelligence and high aspirations of the other, the present struggle
must and does give the deepest pain.

But while they sympathize sincerely with those who sorrow, they
believe that "behind a frowning providence God hides a smiling face,"
and that, the strife ended, Cuba will rise again from her ashes,
purified and regenerated; for it is written that "they who sow in
tears shall reap in joy"!



THORNS.

HOMAGE TO THE CROSS, GOOD-FRIDAY, 1870.


    Here his head rested,
      Crimsoned with blood;
    Jesus' hard slumber-place,
      Pillow of wood!

    Here his eye clouded;
      Dwell there, my gaze,
    Where the dear light of love
      Dyingly plays!

    Here the nails rankled;
      There the lance tore,
    While strove the water-tide
      Vainly with gore!

    Here the heart agonized,
      Hid from the glance;
    Pierced with ingratitude
      Worse than the lance!

    Here his soul parted--
      Break not, my heart!
    Oh! what a deadly hurt,
      Sinning, thou art.

    Here the feet turn to thee;
      Press them, my lips!
    While a love-agony
      Through my heart creeps!

                                      RICHARD STORRS WILLIS.



MARY STUART.


It is at once a remarkable fact and a striking exemplification of the
vitality of poetic justice in history that, from among modern Scotch
Puritans, from the spiritual descendants of John Knox, should have
come three of the noblest and most effective modern vindications of
Mary Stuart.

We refer to the work by Mr. Hosack noticed in our last number, to
that which we make the subject of the present article,[37] and to
the poem of Bothwell,[38] one of the finest in the entire range of
English literature. Professor Aytoun's poem is accompanied by a
body of historical notes, which are in themselves a model of legal
argument and dialectic power, covering the entire period of the
history of Mary Stuart in Scotland. And yet these three writers are
very far from being looked upon by their countrymen as the holders
of singular opinions. It may be news to many persons, but it is,
nevertheless, the fact that they merely reflect the prevailing
feeling in Scotland concerning its unfortunate queen of three
centuries agone, murdered in an English prison. The sentiment of
the great body of the Scotch people, gentle and simple, Puritan and
Catholic, is to this day decidedly in her favor, and the superficial
reader who, trusting to a superficial Froude, sneers at Mary Stuart,
is safer from reproof in New York than in Edinburgh.

Mr. Caird's work, of which the second edition was published last
year, appears to be made up of the material of a series of lectures
delivered by him in some of the Scotch cities, and, like Mr. Hosack's
work, is marked with evidences of great research, ability, and a
thorough knowledge of the country, the people, and the times under
discussion.

Like Mr. Hosack, Mr. Caird convicts the late English historian,
Froude, of numerous disgraceful blunders, and several--well we can
find no term properly to describe the performance but--palpable
falsehoods. Mr. Caird does not undertake to write a full and
connected history of Mary Stuart or of her reign in Scotland. He
seeks mainly to unravel the mystery of the intrigues, plots, and
conspirations by which that unfortunate queen was surrounded and
pursued from the moment she set foot in her kingdom. And he does
it successfully. In all history, there is no record of a band of
greater villains than the nobles who surrounded Mary's throne, or of
more devilish abettors than their English allies. The time is not
far off when, in spite of falsified history, Mary Stuart must be
held innocent of the crimes of which her very accusers themselves
were alone guilty. Mr. Caird enters gracefully on his subject. Three
centuries ago, a French fleet sailed up the Frith of Clyde, and cast
anchor at Dumbarton. It took on board a little girl, six years of
age--a merry creature who had not a care in the world--hoisted the
flag of Scotland, and bore her away to the coast of France. There
passed with her in the same ship a stripling of seventeen, her
illegitimate brother, (afterward known as the Earl of Murray,) who,
though incapable of inheritance, was brought up in the most intimate
family intercourse with her; young enough to engage the sisterly
affection of her warm heart, old enough to be already her trusted
counsellor and guide. His life was to be a continued betrayal of her
confidence. But whatever wild thoughts may have passed through his
busy brain, neither of them could have dreamed in those early days
of the frightful tragedies in which they were to become the chief
actors. In the yet distant future he was to usurp her place and
power, she to become his miserable prisoner; and it was all to end
at last in his being shot down, without law, at the summit of his
greatness, and in her being doomed to die, under the forms of law,
on an English scaffold. Yet, though their hearts were light on this
summer voyage, it was not without its dangers.

Twelve years later, a fleet sailed from sunny France, again bearing
the same girl, now budding toward womanhood. It steered for the
Frith of Forth. There is no laughter now. Her first great sorrow
has come upon her early. She is deeply clothed in mourning--a widow
at eighteen. Again an English fleet watched to intercept her. Again
she escaped narrowly, losing one of her vessels. She has been queen
of France. One blow has deprived her of a husband and a crown. She
claims to be queen of England. That claim rests on strong grounds of
law. It is to be the dream of her life, and she is never to realize
it. She is the acknowledged queen of Scotland; but she lands on her
native shore with sad forebodings and a heavy heart. No one has
ever charged her with having misconducted herself before that time;
yet such was the distracted state of her country, such the weakness
of her authority, that she said before she set out on this voyage,
"Perhaps it were better for me to die than to live."

Less than six busy years of troubled government and we see her
again--on the Frith of Solway. She has been despoiled of her Scottish
crown. She is flying for her life in a fishing-boat. "For ninety
miles," she writes, "I rode across the country without lighting or
drawing bridle; slept on the bare floor; no food but oatmeal; without
the company of a female; not daring to travel except by stealth at
night." And now the die is cast, and, in spite of many warnings, she
this time throws herself on the generosity of England.

Then follow nineteen years of bitter captivity:

    "Now blooms the lily by the bank,
      The primrose on the brae;
    The hawthorn's budding in the glen,
      And milk-white is the slae;
    The meanest hind in fair Scotland
      May rove their sweets amang;
    But I, the Queen o' a' Scotland,
      Maun lie in prison strang."

At last we see a long hall in the old castle of Fotheringay; a
platform laid with black--the actors and spectators all clothed in
black. There comes in, unsupported, to die, a lady of noble presence.
She has been wickedly denied the aid of her spiritual comforter,
and, alone with God, has administered to herself the last sacrament
of her religion, without the blessing or counsel of a minister. Even
her latest moments are disturbed by theological dispute. But she is
calm, and resigned to God's will. She lays her head on the block.
The executioner strikes and makes a ghastly wound. She does not even
stir. He strikes again, but his work is incomplete; and with a third
blow the life and sorrows of Mary Stuart are brought to an end.

It is one of the great problems of history, says Mr. Caird, whether
these terrible calamities were brought upon her by her own wickedness
or by the contrivance of others.

We have reason to believe that the child is now living who, as man
or woman, will hear and see the last mention in history of _Good
Queen Bess_.

Of all the humbugs of history, the reputation manufactured for
Elizabeth, the daughter of Henry VIII. and Anne Boleyn, is at once
the most insolent and the most disgusting. We do not care to give a
personal opinion of this woman, and will accept, for the present,
her character as mildly described by the historian Robertson, which
is to the effect that she was an habitual and mean liar, a peevish,
bad-tempered, vacillating, untrustworthy sovereign, whose parsimony,
and variableness, and small economy would have ruined herself and
her kingdom but for the fact that she had a great statesman by her,
and that good luck continually picked her out of the imbroglios into
which she had fallen. She was a vain, bad-tempered, irresolute,
deceitful old woman. And this is as lenient a view of Elizabeth as
could be taken of her with the historic lights possessed by Robertson.

But, compared with what we now know her to have been from the results
of modern discoveries among official and state paper records,
Robertson has here painted an angel of loveliness.

And just in proportion as Elizabeth has fallen on the historic
page, Mary Stuart is elevated by every fresh discovery of original
documentary evidence. She was, indeed, as Mr. Caird writes, a
winning, gentle-hearted woman, and the correspondence of her own
time, before men's hearts were hardened against her by passion, bears
much testimony to her virtues.

Throckmorton, the English ambassador in France, even during her war
with England, wrote of "her great wisdom for her years, her modesty,
her judgment in the wise handling of herself and her matters." And
another of the English ambassadors, who became one of her deadliest
enemies, says of her only a few months before her grievous
calamities were brought upon her, "There is one cheer and one
countenance always on the queen." Even after she was imprisoned in
Lochleven, Throckmorton wrote of her to Elizabeth, "The lords speak
of the queen with respect and reverence." Lord Scrope said, "She has
an eloquent tongue and a discreet head, stout courage, and a liberal
heart." And Sir Francis Knollys reported of her, "She desireth much
to hear of hardiness and valiancy, commending by name all approved
hardy men of her country, although her enemies, and she concealeth no
cowardness, even in her friends." Lethington wrote of her soon after
her return to Scotland, "She doth declare a wisdom far exceeding her
age."

After she was uncrowned, Murray and his council recorded of her, that
"God had endowed her with many good and excellent gifts and virtues;"
and he spoke of her in the same way in private.

The Earl of Shrewsbury, after having had the custody of the Queen
of Scots during fifteen years of her imprisonment in England, was
consulted by Elizabeth on the subject of a treaty for her liberation.
She desired especially to know from him for her guidance, whether
Mary's promises could be relied on if she were free. Shrewsbury's
answer was, "I believe that if the Queen of Scots promises any thing,
she will not break her word."

Her frequent and earnest pleadings with foreign powers for justice
and mercy to her subjects cannot be read without interest and
admiration. Her letters have been gathered from every corner of the
earth, and every page of them marks the elegance and simplicity
of her thoughts. If any man who has a prejudice against her will
sit down and read that correspondence, in which she treats of
all the incidents of life, he will rise from the perusal with a
different notion, not of her mind only, but her heart. These are
the records which we can read now, exactly as they dropped from her
pen, untainted by the bitterness of party, as so little else which
concerns her was permitted to be. And we can see her there as she
disclosed herself to her most confidential friends, whether in the
highest business of state or in the trivial affairs of daily life.

Mr. Caird's plan does not embrace a connected narrative of Mary's
reign, and we regret that he has found it necessary to omit a
narrative of the treacherous manner in which the destruction of the
Earl of Huntly was brought about. On Mary's arrival in Scotland,
every one was surprised that Mary should select for her chief state
councillor her half-brother, the Lord James, instead of the Earl of
Huntly. No one knew that Mary had been craftily persuaded by James
that Huntly was not loyal. The plan of her brother was as wicked as
it was deep. It was at once to deprive Mary of a loyal adviser and a
powerful friend, and to raise his own fortunes on Huntly's ruin. It
is curious to see how all this affair is ingeniously misrepresented
by Mr. Froude in his so-called history. Yielding to James's
solicitations, begun years before, Mary, after creating him Earl of
Mar, created him Earl of Murray. But this latter title he did not
wish to assert until he could obtain the lands appertaining to the
title, which he had procured while living in ostensible friendship
with the man he had doomed to ruin. The lands were in Huntly's
possession, and Murray made up his mind to have them. "But Huntly,"
says Mr. Froude, "had refused to part with them." Who was Huntly? He
was earl chancellor of the kingdom, a man aged fifty-two, a powerful
Catholic nobleman, who could bring twenty thousand spears into
the field. He had done good service for Mary's mother against the
English. English gold had not stained his palm. He was a man marked
for saying that he liked not the "manner of Henry VIII.'s wooing."
He had wanted Mary to land at Aberdeen, was at the head of the loyal
party on Mary's arrival, and had sought to warn her of her brother's
craft and ambition. Mr. Froude thus describes him, (vol. vii. p. 454:)

    "Of all the reactionary noblemen in Scotland the most powerful
    and dangerous[39] was notoriously the Earl of Huntly. It was
    Huntly who had proposed the landing at Aberdeen. In his own
    house the chief of the house of Gordon had never so much as
    affected to comply with the change of religion," etc.

What depravity! Would not change his religion, nor even have the
decency _to affect to comply_! Positively an atrocious character!
Nevertheless, so perfect is the command of a philosophical historian
over his feelings that these dreadful facts are recorded without
comment. It is evident that the lands of such a wretch as Huntly
ought to be given to one so "God-fearing" as Murray. "A number of
causes combined at this moment to draw attention to Huntly." But,
all counted, the number is just two--one of them utterly frivolous,
and the other, "he had refused to give up the lands." Mr. Froude
is now candid, and tells us that Murray "resolved to anticipate
attack, (none was dreamed of,) to carry the queen with him to visit
the recusant lord in his own stronghold, and either to drive him
into a premature rebellion or force him to submit to the existing
government."

"Murray's reasons for such a step," continues Mr. Froude, "are
intelligible." Perfectly. "It is less easy," he continues, "to
understand why Mary Stuart consented to it." And then Mr. Froude
proceeds to wonder over it with John Knox's guesses, and his own
"if," "perhaps," and "may be." Less easy indeed! It is utterly
impossible, unless one consents to look at Mary Stuart as she
was--a young woman easily influenced through her affections, and
with a sincere sisterly attachment for the man in whom she failed
to recognize her worst enemy. Difficult indeed to understand the
suicidal measure of ruining the most powerful Catholic nobleman
in Scotland, and strengthening the hands of the most powerful
Protestant leader. "Huntly's family," says Mr. Froude, "affirmed that
the trouble which happened to the Gordons was for the sincere and
loyal affection which they had to the queen's preservation," (vii.
456.) And they were right. We leave Mr. Froude to speculate on the
malicious motive Mary Stuart must have had for thus lopping off her
right hand. Murray now manages to draw the queen and her attendants
over moor and mountain two hundred and fifty miles to Tarnway, within
the lands of the earldom of Murray. She was entirely guided by him,
and he used her authority to compass his personal ends and weaken her
throne.

Alexander Gordon at first refused to open the gates of Inverness
Castle to the queen, but complied the next day, on the order of
Huntly. Murray had Gordon immediately hung, and his head set on the
castle wall. Mr. Froude describes this brutal murder as "strangling
a wolf-cub in the heart of the den," (vol. vii. p. 457,) all that
Murray does being of course lovely. Mary was now surrounded by Murray
and his friends, who poisoned her mind against the Huntlys with
stories that the earl meant to force her into a marriage with his
son, and had other designs against her person and royal authority;
and Mary believed them. "Whereupon," writes Randolph to Cecil--for
Murray had brought his English friend, Elizabeth's servant, along
with him--"whereupon there was good pastime." Huntly yielded all that
was demanded of him. His castles and houses were seized, plundered,
stripped, and he was a ruined man. Lady Huntly spoke sad truth when,
leading Murray's messenger into the chapel of the house, she said to
him before the altar, "Good friend, you see here the envy that is
borne unto my husband; would he have forsaken God and his religion,
as those that are now about the queen, my husband would never have
been put as he now is," (vol. vii. p. 458.) Mr. Froude reports this
incident, and very properly spoils its effect by the statement that
Lady Huntly was "reported by the Protestants to be a witch." Huntly
was driven to take up arms. "Swift as lightning," says Mr. Froude,
with yellow-cover tinge of phrase, "Murray was on his track." And now
"swift as lightning"--sure sign of mischief meant--Mr. Froude moves
on with his narrative, omitting essential facts, but not omitting
a characteristic piece of handiwork. News came from the south that
Bothwell had escaped out of Edinburgh Castle; "not," glides in our
philosophic historian--"not, it was supposed, without the queen's
knowledge," (vol. vii. p. 459.) After a wonderful victory of his two
thousand men over Huntly's five hundred--a mere slaughter--Murray
brought the queen certain letters of the Earl of Sutherland, found,
he said, in the pockets of the dead Earl of Huntly, and showing
treasonable correspondence. They were forgeries; but they answered
his purpose. "Lord John, (Huntly's son,) after a full confession, was
beheaded in the market-place at Aberdeen," (vol. vii. p. 459.) There
was no confession but that which _Murray told the queen_ he made,
and Mr. Froude forgets to tell us that Murray caused young Gordon's
scaffold to be erected in front of the queen's lodging, and had her
placed in a chair of state at an open window, deluding her with some
specious reason as to the necessity of her presence.

When the noble young man was brought out to die, Mary burst into a
flood of tears; and when the headsman did his work, she swooned and
was borne off insensible. Here is Mr. Froude's short version of these
facts: "Her brother read her a cruel lesson by compelling her to be
present at the execution." Mr. Froude also forgets to tell us that
Murray had six gentlemen of the house of Gordon hung at Aberdeen
on the same day. But a few pages further on, he has the insolent
coolness to tell us of a prize that Mary "trusted to have purchased
with Huntly's blood"! (vol. vii. p. 463.) After all, you thus
perceive that it was not Murray, but Mary, who wrought all this ruin.


THE RICCIO MURDER.

Mr. Caird presents with great force the result of modern discoveries
in the State Paper Office touching the details of the Riccio
conspiracy, and shows conclusively that Murray was its real head,
and also the chief organ of communication between the conspirators
and the English government. The previous knowledge of the intent to
murder Riccio, and the probable danger to Mary's life, is brought
home to Elizabeth. She could not have been accounted guiltless,
even if she had remained passive, merely concealing from her royal
sister the bloody tragedy which was being prepared for her with
the knowledge of her agent in Scotland. This agent (Randolph)
she supported vehemently, protected the assassins, negotiated and
trafficked until she got them restored, supplied Murray with large
sums of money immediately before and immediately after Riccio's
death, and took the first opportunity to gratify her vindictiveness
against Darnley by open insult.

In the conspiracy for the murder of Riccio, no one was more deeply
implicated than Darnley. He had allowed himself to be flattered and
tempted by Murray, Maitland, and the rest with the prospect of a
royal crown. But while these crafty men used him in this way for
their own ends, they had not the slightest idea of allowing him to
be more than a puppet in their hands. The knowledge of Darnley's
complicity in the murder had wrung Mary's heart; but after the first
burst of grief, she saw clearly that he was the dupe and tool of
others. Her respect for him could not be otherwise than shaken; but
her affection preserved him from the punishment which he richly
merited. And for his sake she spared his father (Lenox) also, whom
she justly blamed most; but she never permitted _him_ to enter her
presence again. Considering that she had released him from the
consequences of treason only twelve months before, and that he had
now repeated the offence under such aggravated circumstances, and
had beguiled his son into the same evil course, bringing misery upon
her household, her forbearance can be attributed only to surviving
tenderness for her husband.

Mr. Caird places in a very clear light the development of the
contempt and hatred of the conspirators for Darnley, which gradually
hardened and intensified into the conspiracy to murder him; and as we
watch its growth, it is sad to witness the suffering, sacrifices, and
self-denial of a noble-hearted woman all wasted in vain, and upon
a most unworthy object. And yet more sad is it when we see, in such
falsifiers of history as Mr. Froude, the very clearest and highest
proofs of womanly goodness and wifely devotion wrenched and perverted
into evidence of crime and murder.

In connection with this subject, Mr. Caird draws attention to the
record of the Scotch Privy Council--an account the more valuable
because the very men composing the council attempted at a later
period to cast discredit on the queen. Here is their testimony: "So
far as things could come to their knowledge, the king (Darnley)
had no ground of complaints; but, on the contrary, that he had
reason to look upon himself as one of the most fortunate princes
in Christendom, could he but know his own happiness." And they
added, "That although they who did perpetrate the murder of her
faithful servant had entered her chamber with his knowledge, having
followed him close at the back, and had named him the chief of their
enterprise, yet would she never accuse him thereof, but did always
excuse him, and willed to appear as if she believed it not; and so
far was she from ministering to him occasion of discontent, that, on
the contrary, he had all the reason in the world to thank God for
giving him so wise and virtuous a person as she had showed herself in
all her actions."

There are few points in the history of this period on which writers
are so thoroughly agreed as the utter worthlessness and incapacity
of Darnley, and there are also few cases which so completely as that
of Darnley exemplify the too common weakness of the superior woman
for the inferior man who possesses her affection. Trafficking on her
affection, and seeking to wring from her a consent to his demands,
he came very tardily to what was by all supposed to be her dying-bed
at Jedburg. His bearing shocked all beholders. It was at this time
Mary made her will, the inventory attached to which is a modern
discovery. She left Darnley twenty-five jewels of great value, and
opposite one cherished ring wrote with her own hand, "It is the ring
with which I was betrothed. I leave it to the king who gave it to
me." And yet Mr. James Anthony Froude informs us that Mary was then
planning this husband's murder!

The most admirable chapters of Mr. Caird's work are those which treat
of


THE MURDER OF DARNLEY.

The author shows conclusively, from an array of original testimony
which cannot be disputed, the precise nature, extent, and composition
of the conspiracy to effect this assassination, and presents the
whole question in an entirely new light.

As revealed by Mr. Caird, the conspiracy, by the time the moment was
reached for execution, had trebled itself. That is to say, there were
in the field on the eventful night of the murder, three separate
and independent bands of assassins, one of which most certainly
acted independently of the other two. Bothwell and his party, thrust
forward to do the work by associates quite as guilty as he, but
possessed of more brains, were, materially, innocent of Darnley's
killing, although fully guilty in intent. They blew up the house at
Kirk o' Field, supposing that Darnley went with it. There can now
be but little doubt that when the explosion took place Darnley was
already a dead man, smothered or _burked_ by a special band.

For some hours after the explosion, no trace of Darnley's body
could be found; but as morning dawned, it was discovered in a garden
eighty yards from the house. The attendant who slept in the room
with him was lying dead at a short distance further away. Each had
on a night-shirt. There was not a fracture, contusion, or livid
mark, nor any trace of fire on their bodies, and the king's clothes
were lying folded beside him. A fur pelisse, open as if dropped, was
lying near him. Now, if we are to suppose that Darnley was blown up
in the air, we must believe it possible that a human body could be
thrown a distance of eighty yards without any marks of violence; that
another body was thrown the same distance with the same results;
and--stranger than all--that Darnley's fur pelisse and slippers were
also blown uninjured to his side by the explosion, while five other
inmates of the house were buried in the ruins.


ELIZABETH'S GUILTY KNOWLEDGE.

One fact of equal importance and interest is well established by
modern investigation. It is the guilty knowledge, and actual or
implied association of Queen Elizabeth of England in all the secret
plots set on foot by the nobility of Scotland against Mary and her
interests.

She was fully advised of the murder of Riccio three weeks before it
took place, and Mr. Caird establishes, we think, conclusively, that
she was quite as well advised concerning the Darnley murder.

Fourteen years after the occurrence, one of the first acts of King
James, on his freedom from tutelage, was to commit the Earl of Morton
to the Castle of Edinburgh, charged with the murder of Darnley.

Morton was one of the very few surviving conspirators. Bothwell was
dead in exile; Maitland had poisoned himself, and Murray had been
shot down in the streets of Linlithgow.

As soon as Queen Elizabeth heard of Morton's arrest, she made the
most frantic efforts to prevent his trial. She endeavored to stir up
insurrection in Scotland; she threatened war; she moved an army to
the frontier; she sent back to Scotland as her ambassador, Randolph,
so thoroughly familiar with all its murderous plots. Leicester, her
lover, wrote to Randolph with a suggestion scantily veiled that the
young king might follow his father--"He will not long tarry in that
soil. Let the fate of his predecessor be his warning." And close on
the heels of that, came official notice that Elizabeth would assist
and maintain the Scots in protection of Morton. But James owed a debt
to the memory of his murdered father, to the name of his captive
mother, who was then pining in her English prison, and, in spite of
Elizabeth's threats and violence, Morton was brought to trial, found
guilty, and sentenced to death. Mr. Caird cites and refers to a mass
of dispatches connected with Elizabeth's movements in this Morton
matter which we have never seen elsewhere alluded to, and adds Queen
Elizabeth's violence before Morton's trial and execution was not more
remarkable than her sudden attitude of acquiescence as soon as his
mouth was shut. "Did he hold some terrible secret whose disclosure
she feared?"

The murder of Darnley occurred on the 10th of February, 1567. A full
fortnight before, Mary's ambassador in Paris wrote to her that he had
received a hint from the Spanish ambassador that the queen should
take heed to herself, for there was a plot on foot to her injury. The
letter reached Mary twelve hours too late to be of any service as a
warning. But even if she had received it, to whom could she have
turned for aid or information? All the lords were in the plot, and
she was surrounded by conspirators. The question is asked, Why did
she not bring to justice the murderers of Darnley? Her situation was
such that it was simply impossible for her to get at the knowledge
of any fact dangerous to the conspirators. Denunciatory placards
were issued in Edinburgh. But if shown, she would there find herself
charged with being an accomplice with Bothwell and others in the
murder. Knowing this to be an outrageous slander on herself, she
would naturally conclude that it was equally so on them. And if
herself innocent, Bothwell was the very last of her lords whom she
could suspect of having cause of quarrel with the king. He was almost
the only man who had supported Darnley, and it is certain he was not
of those to whom Darnley had demonstrated antipathy. The wild scheme
of ambition which Bothwell afterward pursued had probably not clearly
developed itself even in his own mind till after Darnley's death.
Dreams he may have had. But the scheme which he finally executed
seems to have been the growth of opportunity.

After the murder, Mary shut herself up in a dark chamber, and kept
it until her physicians compelled her to go to Seaton. A month after
the murder, when Killigrew, the English ambassador, saw her, she
was still in a dark chamber, and seemed in profound grief. Two such
tragedies as had befallen her within a twelve-month were more than
enough to shatter the nerves of any woman.

And now came a fresh warning from Paris that some new plot was in
progress. The Spanish ambassador, by whom the warning of the Darnley
murder had been given, said,

    "Apprise her majesty that I am informed, by the same means as
    I was before, that there is still some notable enterprise in
    hand against her, whereof I wish her to beware in time."

No explanation was given, and the poor queen was of course
bewildered. She had heart and nerve enough for her own risk; but she
at once took precautions for the safety of her child, the heir to
the crown. She at once placed him in charge of the Earl of Mar, and
lodged him in the strong castle of Stirling. And this fact is more
than answer to the assertion that Mary was at this time under the
influence of Bothwell. If any such influence had existed, he would
not have permitted the disposition that was made of the child. His
first effort on coming to power was to get the young prince into his
hands. The Earl of Mar justified Mary's confidence, and withstood the
efforts not only of Bothwell, but of Murray, to get possession of the
child.

Then came the distribution of the crown lands among the conspirators
by the ratification of parliament.

This matter was at once the main cause of Darnley's murder and the
bond of union among the murderers. On the evening of the adjournment
of parliament, its members were entertained at a supper by Bothwell.
After the feast, a bond was produced by Sir James Balfour, by which
they bound themselves to sustain Bothwell's acquittal, recommended
him as the fittest husband for the queen, and engaged to support
him with their whole power, and to hold as enemies any who should
presume to hinder the marriage. They all signed but one, the Earl
of Eglinton. It was at this time that Bothwell began to manifest
his intentions to Mary, and a letter of hers relates that he tried
"if he might by humble suit purchase our good-will, but found our
answer nothing correspondent to his desire." Mary then went to
Stirling to visit her child. She probably wished, says Mr. Caird,
by leaving Edinburgh at this juncture, to indicate to Bothwell that
her rejection of his approaches was decisive; and he acted as if he
thought so. His next step was that of a _desperate man_.


BOTHWELL CARRIES OFF THE QUEEN.

On her return from Stirling, three days later, he suddenly met her
on the road with a large armed force, seized her, made her escort
prisoners, and carried her off to his castle at Dunbar. He kept her
there for eleven or twelve days. When she resisted his insolence,
he produced the bond granted to him by the nobility, and she there
found the signatures of every man from whom she could have expected
help. Not one moved a finger in her defence. Huntly and Lethington,
who were there with Bothwell, would not fail to remind her of the
calamities which she had brought upon herself by opposing the policy
of her nobles in her former marriage. Day after day she held out,
but no help came. Sir James Melville, who had been taken prisoner
with her, records that such violence was at last used that she no
longer had a choice. Bothwell, in his dying confession, said that
he accomplished his purpose "by the use of sweet waters." Morton's
proclamations charged him with using violence to the queen, "and
other more unleisum means." It seems not unlikely, therefore, that he
employed some sweetened potion. Mary herself says that "in the end,
when she saw no hope to be ridd of him, never man in Scotland ance
making a mint for her deliverance, she was driven to the conclusion,
from their hand-writes and silence, that he had won them all."
He partly extorted and partly obtained her consent to marriage.
Bothwell then conveyed the heart-broken queen, surrounded by a great
force, to the Castle of Edinburgh. He next carried her before the
judges, after lining the streets and crowding the courts and passages
with his armed retainers. She there submitted to make a declaration
that she "forgave him of all hatred conceived by her for taking and
imprisoning her;" and also that she was now at liberty. The necessity
for such a declaration implies previous coercion. Mr. Caird explains
that, under the then existing law, Bothwell had committed an offence
punishable with death if he had not obtained this declaration.
A marriage was formally solemnized, and so little was her will
consulted that it was in the Protestant form. Fettered by their bond,
the nobles all looked on and lent no aid. One honest man there was,
though, the Protestant minister Craig, who boldly told Bothwell that
he objected to the marriage because he (Bothwell) had forced the
queen. Called upon to proclaim the banns, Craig denounced it from the
pulpit, and afterward publicly testified in the next general assembly
that he was alone in opposing the marriage, and that "the best part
of the realm did approve it, either by flattery or by their silence."

The SILVER CASKET LETTERS are treated by Mr. Caird as they must be
by every fair-minded man. He says, "These letters, in truth, were as
gross and clumsy fabrications as ever were put forward." His thorough
analysis of the longest letter--a love-letter of fourteen quarto
pages of print--is the most successful we have seen.

Mr. Caird closes his work with two scenes so effectively portrayed
that our readers will thank us for transcribing them:

    "After much earthly glory, and a long reign, the time came
    at last when the great Queen Elizabeth must die. Wealth,
    grandeur, power which none might question--all were hers. But
    a cold hand was on her heart. The shadow of death was creeping
    over her--slow, very slow, but deepening every hour. There
    was not one left who loved her, or whom she could love. Her
    most trusted servants trembled at her passions, and longed
    for a change. Hume tells us she rejected all consolation. She
    refused food. She threw herself on the floor. She remained
    sullen and immovable, feeding her thoughts on her afflictions,
    and declaring her existence an insufferable burden. Few words
    she uttered, and they were all expressive of some inward grief
    which she did not reveal; but sighs and groans were the chief
    vent of her despondency, which discovered her sorrows without
    assuaging them.

    "Oh! the long and unutterable agony of such a time. What is
    there on earth that could bribe one to bear it willingly? How
    bitterly she must have realized the words addressed to her by
    Mary Stuart on the eve of her execution:

    "'Think me not presumptuous, madam, that now, bidding farewell
    to this world, and preparing for a better, I remind you that
    you also must die and account to God for your stewardship as
    well as those who have been sent before you. Your sister and
    cousin, prisoner of wrong,'

                                                    MARIE R.

    "Ten days and nights Queen Elizabeth lay thus upon the carpet;
    then her voice left her, her senses failed, and so she died."

Mary Stuart had gone long before, destroyed and done to death by this
woman; sent to the scaffold in a land where she had been wrongfully
kept a prisoner, to whose law she owed no allegiance, and by virtue
of a law which was passed to compass her death. On her way to
execution, she was met by her old servant, Andrew Melville. He threw
himself on his knees before her, wringing his hands in uncontrollable
agony.

"Woe is me," he cried, "that it should be my hard hap to carry back
such tidings to Scotland!"

"Weep not, Melville, my good and faithful servant," she replied;
"thou shouldst rather rejoice to see the end of the long troubles
of Mary Stuart. This world is vanity, and full of sorrows. I am
Catholic, thou Protestant; but as there is but one Christ, I charge
thee in his name to bear witness that I die firm in my religion.
Commend me to my dearest son. May God forgive them that have thirsted
for my blood."

She then passed to the scaffold. She surveyed it, the block, the axe,
the executioners, and spectators undauntedly as she advanced. She
prayed to God to pardon her sins and forgive her enemies.

The two executioners knelt and prayed her forgiveness.

"I forgive you and all the world with all my heart; for I hope this
death will give an end to all my troubles." She then knelt down and
commended her spirit into God's hands, and the executioners did their
work.

The sad tale is told. All the actors have been nearly three centuries
in their graves; but their story shall stir the hearts of men till
the world's end.

FOOTNOTES:

[37] _Mary Stuart. Her Guilt or Innocence. An Inquiry into the Secret
History of her Times._ By Alexander McNeel Caird. Edinburgh: Adam &
Charles Black. 1869.

[38] _Bothwell: A Poem in Six Parts._ By W. Edmonstoune Aytoun,
D.C.L. Author of _Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers_, _Bon Gaultier's
Ballads_, etc. Boston: Ticknor & Fields.

[39] Mr. Froude, by "reactionary," means that he was not a disciple
of John Knox; by "dangerous," that he was a man who would defend his
religion.



A BRIDEMAID'S STORY.


A bridemaid! I had become a necessity. A sense of such importance was
novel to me. It was a pleasant awakening to a consciousness that I
had attained womanhood. To have been a bride would not have filled me
with such unmingled joy; for then I might have been thinking over the
possibilities of the future. Now I had only to play my part in the
bright and bewildering present.

That there had been bridemaids before my time, of the loftiest and
of the lowliest degree, from the jewelled princess to the humble
dairy-maid, rendered my position none the less novel and refreshing.
Then, too, the circumstances of the case were not to be lightly
passed over--I had been chosen from among so many whose claims to
consideration were far above mine.

An imaginative child always seeks and finds some object in which to
concentrate its thoughts and its loves; something real to serve as an
embodiment of its ideal fancies. Hence, all the wealth of my fervent
nature had centred on Marian Howard.

From earliest childhood I had watched and wondered at her rare and
high-born beauty. Every feature in her face seemed to have a distinct
and separate fascination, while every adornment of dress that could
enhance her varied charms was brought into requisition. To look upon
her was a feast of pleasure to my eyes.

The quiet dignity of her manner kept a distance between us, so that
she was a sort of far-off idol, after all. In her company we never
gave way to our outgushing school-girl nature. I sometimes thought
she would be happier if she were only more like us, or if we should
welcome her with a girl's free and fervent greeting. But who dared
try the experiment?

As we grew older, our paths in life diverged. Soon after leaving
school, Marian went to live and to love in a foreign land, while I
returned to the quiet pleasures of a rural home.

Four years passed, and then the fine old house which had so long
remained silent again showed signs of life. They had returned--the
widowed aunt and her beautiful niece.

The preparations for the wedding were immediately commenced, and
Marian repaid my early devotion by offering me the highest mark of
her confidence and regard.

The old tenderness came rushing back when I again beheld her more
stately and more beautiful than ever. She told me it would be a
quiet wedding--only a few friends, and I her only bridemaid. My
arrangements were soon completed, and I awaited anxiously the
appointed time. Soon it was the day before the marriage. I went over
to assist in the final preparations, and was to spend the night with
Marian. The morrow would witness, in the case of my friend, the great
event of a woman's life--to be given away in marriage. I say of a
woman's life, because marriage can hardly have the same significance
for men; they are not given away.

The distinguished stranger who was so soon to call Marian his wife
was certainly unlike any of the men I had ever known; but I had known
so few, and my knowledge of the world was so limited, that I did not
feel competent to pass judgment on him. Then there were such method,
such calmness and system about the man, about the unbending aunt,
about Marian, and about the whole house, that I felt cold with a
chilling sense of not being able to get warm again, though it was a
lovely summer afternoon. More of nature and less of art, I thought,
might have warmed the approaching festivities.

The evening shadows were falling. We had just finished arranging and
rearranging the costly bridal gifts, when Marian was summoned to
attend her aunt.

Among the other presents was that grand conception, Gustave Doré's
_Wandering Jew_. This work of human genius seemed a strange companion
for the rare articles of luxury that surrounded it.

I took up the book and went out upon the balcony. The softly-fading
twilight, the subdued spirit of the house, the reflective turn my own
mind had taken, prepared me for impressions of the awful and sublime.

It is said that "real genius always rises, and in rising it
finds God." Surely the force and truth of this thought were here
exemplified; for who could look upon these scenes, so truthful and
intense, without a feeling of awe and reverence?

I was thus occupied, I know not how long, when suddenly Mr. Gaston
recalled me to myself. "How absorbed you are, Miss Heartly! I have
been watching you with much interest. Pray, has the book any bearing
upon the coming events of to-morrow? Court beauties, I suppose," he
continued carelessly, as he came toward me.

"Why!" said I, "you have returned early, Mr. Gaston. You cannot have
taken that delightful drive Marian proposed to you?"

"No," he answered; "I have no inclination for solitude; but you
ladies are so occupied with these time-killing nothings, these
endless little arrangements so indispensable to your happiness, that
we lonely mortals are entirely ignored and forgotten."

"I think, sir, that calamity seldom befalls you," I replied, thus
adding, perhaps, to vanity already sufficiently great.

"But the book?" he continued, opening it listlessly. "Oh! the old
fable in a new dress. It is strange how women cling to the marvellous
and impossible. They seem to have but two absorbing ideas--love and
religion. Extremes in either usually lead to the same pernicious
result. I suppose an idol is a necessity to them, and it matters
little in which they find it."

"I do not understand you," I replied. "Are you in jest, or are you
seriously denouncing revealed religion?"

"Revealed religion!" he repeated. "Is it possible that, at this stage
of the world's advancement, _you_ still cling to that antiquated idea
of Christianity?"

The modern methods of fashioning a god to suit the impious desires of
vain and conceited mortals was then unknown to me. I looked at the
man with wonder and distrust. He read my confusion and hastened to
explain himself.

"Religion," he said, "as you accept it, makes us cowards instead of
men. My reason is _my_ religion; I acknowledge no other guide."

"Ah! then," I exclaimed, "how often must you stumble by the way."
I turned to the most effective picture in the book. "Here is an
instance of the vanity of human pride. Here we can see the end of
man's boasted strength--the anguish of a lost soul hopelessly looking
for repose and peace."

"An imposing fable," he replied, "wanting only a woman's faith to
give it substance and reality."

I was rising to put an end to this unprofitable and distasteful
conversation, when Marian joined us. My disturbed manner plainly
annoyed her, and she evidently suspected its cause; for she addressed
Mr. Gaston in German quite earnestly. Soon turning to me he said,
"Pray, excuse me, Miss Heartly; I was not aware that you were a
Catholic. I know your people feel most keenly what they profess. Of
course you have already stamped me a condemned heretic."

"It is not for me to pass judgment on you," I replied; "and if I did,
my opinion could be of very little value."

"Come, come!" said Marian, "this is a most unapt and gloomy subject
for my marriage eve; and the sun, too, has gone down sullenly. I hope
there is nothing prophetic in all this."

"What! growing serious now?" I said, as I drew her arm within mine,
and we went to look for the fiftieth time at the final arrangements
for the morrow's festivities.

I could not, however, throw off the feeling of uneasiness that my
interview with Mr. Gaston had left. He had a way of cheapening one,
so that, without knowing why, you fell immeasurably in your own
estimation. This is never a comfortable condition to find one's self
in, and it takes a good deal of nice logic to bring one back to one's
normal state.

Perhaps it was the loftiness of his style that awed me; for he
had a magnificent way of carelessly throwing the world behind him
and walking forth in a sort of solitary dignity. "His manners are
courtly," Marian's aunt said, and certainly they possessed all the
cold stiffness that characterized her particular circle; still, I
felt I had no real grounds for this feeling of distrust and aversion
to Mr. Gaston, and I began to think it was rather ungenerous to
hold him in so unfavorable a light. I could not shake off, however,
an undefined dread of the approaching marriage. The apathy and
indifference which had always been peculiar to my young friend did
not forsake her even now, when apparently on the very threshold of
happiness. I thought that intensity of feeling perhaps kept her thus
silent, for overpowering happiness has this effect sometimes. The
delusion was, however, speedily dispelled.

That night a sealed chapter in Marian's life was laid open to me, and
I saw her as I had never seen or thought of her before.

After locking the chamber-door, she seated herself by my side, and
said, "This is the first time in my life that I have known perfect
freedom; I mean a liberty to do and say what I like with a feeling of
security.

"You remember the 'Greek Slave.' Well, I am not unlike that delicate
girl chained in the market-place. Every inclination of my heart has
been chained down and locked, and my aunt has kept the key.

"I was an uncomplaining, passionless child. In my cradle I received
my first lessons in self-control. As I grew older, I learned
another lesson, too unnatural for even a thoughtful child like me
to understand. I was not needed here; I was considered only as a
desirable ornament for this great house. I might as well have been
placed upon a pinnacle and petrified at once, for all the childhood
that was allowed to take root within me.

"My aunt's domestic misfortunes had embittered her, and she had no
children to soften the natural austerity of her soul. My mother, who
was her only sister, had, contrary to my aunt's wishes, married where
her heart inclined. This was never forgiven or forgotten until she
lay dead, and I was a wailing infant at her side.

"My father soon afterward perished at sea, and my aunt took me to
her home.

"She was not designedly cruel; but she knew nothing of a child's
requirements. The freezing system seemed to her the most effectual
method of crushing out a young, impulsive nature. There was danger I
might become rebellious, and hence she required the utmost meekness
and submission.

"As soon as I came to understand the power of beauty, I saw that
it was to mine I owed food and raiment; for it fed the exhaustless
vanity of my aunt, with whom display was then, and still is, the
moving spring of her existence.

"I was a drawing-room child, kept for exhibition at stated intervals.
The tiny jewels on my neck and arms were hateful to me. My
embroidered robe was a costly thing. I had given a young life for it.

"I had a mortal fear of losing my beauty. Our gardener's daughter--a
comely, cheerful-looking girl, whom I was always glad to see, for she
made the morning brighter with her fresh young face--had caught that
loathsome disease, the small-pox. When she recovered, the change that
had come upon her so terrified me, that I was seized with a sensation
as of coming danger. I shrank from the girl, as if she would be the
cause of some future misery to me.

"She had a mother to whom she seemed infinitely more dear now than
she had ever been. But I, a lonely waif, what would become of me if I
should be transformed like her?

"It was not altogether for my own gratification that I desired to
retain this beauty. It was not my own beauty. It belonged to my aunt,
and was all I had to give her in return for what she gave me.

"I was not a child that saw angels in the skies, or that expected
manna to come down from heaven to feed me.

"Artificial and unsatisfying as my life has always been, I have a
clinging desire to remain with it.

"At times I have had a vaguely conceived notion of one day getting
away from it and of being free; but the bending and breaking system
has so subdued me that I might lose myself if left to the guidance of
my own free-will.

"Marriage is a solemn thing. Would you like to change places with me
to-night, Mary?"

I could not say yes, and I dared not say no; for I saw that she was
losing courage, and beginning to hesitate about the important event
so soon to transpire.

"That is a strange question, Marian dear," I replied. "To-morrow
ought to be, and I hope will be, the happiest day of your life.
Surely you must love this man when you have promised to be his wife?"

"Oh! yes," said she, "as well as I understand what it is to love. I
sometimes tremble for fear I have not the qualities that make woman
lovable and attractive. You forget how little I know of Edward Gaston.

"Our acquaintance began in a little German town, where he was
stopping, for the purpose of establishing his claims to a disputed
inheritance. He is an American by birth and education. He soon became
a constant visitor with us. My aunt and he were on the best of terms.
My own interest in him had never passed beyond the civilities of an
ordinary acquaintance until he again joined us at Naples, where he
lost no time in making known the state of his feelings.

"My aunt seemed to have had some previous knowledge of his
preference; but its announcement was to me a complete surprise.

"She was proud of her nice discrimination in the selection of
her friends, and Mr. Gaston had come into our circle labelled and
indorsed a gentleman.

"Her gracious consideration, however, of his offer, in no wise
obscured her caution. Satisfied as to his worldly affairs, and well
assured of his position at home, there was nothing wanting but my
consent, which was really the most trifling part of the arrangement.
I accepted this marriage engagement as I would have accepted any
other condition so mapped out for me.

"Business of a pressing nature which could be delayed no longer,
called Mr. Gaston to America, and I did not see him again until our
return a month ago.

"You see how little I know of him. Can you wonder that I am
constrained in his presence? Of course, every thing will be different
when I come to know him better.

"But I have one cause of feverish anxiety. I am not above the petty
subterfuges almost incidental to a life like mine. A desire to hide
mistakes committed through childish ignorance made me unscrupulous,
as any member of a household who is watched and suspected must
naturally be. Habit may have made these little irregularities almost
a second nature, but my blood recoils from a wilful and deliberate
deception. I am afraid Edward is misled with regard to my aunt's
pecuniary condition.

"This life of seeming affluence, which has become as necessary to her
as the air she breathes, drains heavily on her slender resources.
Such portion of her time as is not spent in her handsome carriage, or
in drawing-room entertainments, is passed in a most frugal and even
parsimonious mode of living, and it is only by an economy painful to
contemplate that she has kept things floating thus far.

"I cannot acquaint Edward with my aunt's existing embarrassments.
She is my only kinswoman; and misguided as she is, I have a tender
affection for her. I hope to be able to offer her a home with us,
when, as soon must be the case, the last act in this miserable farce
shall have been played.

"Now, perhaps, you can understand why I thus passively submit to a
marriage that I would turn from if I could. I cannot openly say to
Mr. Gaston, 'I have no fortune, I hope you expect none;' even to
covertly approach the subject would be to impugn his motives, and I
certainly have no right to suspect him of harboring mercenary ones.
Still, I wish he were acquainted with the truth; for the world, you
know, looks upon me as sole heiress of my rich aunt.

"I have no knowledge of what passed between Edward and my aunt at
Naples, when our marriage was agreed upon; but I have a constant
dread least he may have been deceived. I once mentioned to him, in
conversation, that he would claim a portionless bride; but he seemed
to take no notice of what I said, and I fear he still thinks my
aunt's circumstances to be in reality what they seem."

"In giving way," I replied, "to such groundless fears, dear Marian,
you underrate your own worth. Think how many noble and honorable
men would be proud to call you wife, and in giving you a life of
happiness make amends for the past." Yet as I looked in the silver
starlight upon that lovely face, which had so attracted me in my
childhood, I could not but regret deeply and sadly that she was not
of my faith; for then she might receive wiser counsel than I could
give from one of those whom Christ in his mercy has ordained to be a
guide and a staff to weak and wavering souls.

The wedding breakfast was all that even Marian's fastidious aunt
could have desired. The few favored guests were of the most approved
type. It would seem as if a judicious instructor had given each
of them a select number of words, which they used with exemplary
caution, and then retired to the contemplation of their own
individual greatness.

As to Marian, the despondency of the night before had quite left
her, and there was a high and noble resolve in her manner that made
me truly happy to behold, while it calmed, if it did not entirely
dispel, my own gloomy forebodings. The serene expression of her sweet
face would have drawn me nearer to her, if that were possible.

How I loved her, as she stood before me, beautiful in the purity
of her white robe, and infinitely more beautiful in the chastened
security of her firm and lofty purpose--to be a true and honorable
wife to Edward Gaston; to meet the conditions of her new life,
whatever they might be, with a woman's trust and confidence, and
better still, with a woman's hope in the never-failing reward of duty
faithfully performed.

I could have been positively gay through desire to sustain Marian,
and to let her know, without telling her in words, how thoroughly I
appreciated and how heartily I approved her noble intentions, her
courage and confidence; but as measured words and actions alone were
allowed, I had to restrain myself. Still, the cooling process did not
diminish my ardor, and when I got Marian all to myself, in her room,
I kissed her so approvingly, and was so extravagant in the expression
of all that I felt, that she folded me with loving tenderness to her
breast, and kept me there so long that I felt with the quick beating
of her warm heart she was giving me some of her own newly-found
courage.

"Whatever happens to me, Mary dear, in the extremity of any darkness
that may come upon me, I shall always know that you are true to me,
that you are still my friend."

The tears that fell upon her hand as she gently raised my head, were
my only answer, and she accepted them in the spirit in which they
were shed.

In returning to my ordinary duties, I had much to reflect upon, much
that made me still uneasy for Marian and her future, where so many
doubts and fears seemed hanging on the will of one human being.

Vague rumors of Mr. Gaston had reached us, that he was a man wholly
without fortune, drifting on the surface of events; darker things,
too, were whispered with an indirectness which gave them an uncertain
coloring. In my love for Marian, and in my fear for her, I could
not credit these suspicions; yet my anxiety to again see her, and
discover for myself the truth or fallacy of these reports, was
intense. Indeed, my state of anxious doubt was becoming intolerable
when I received a letter from Marian, telling me she was already
tired of travelling, and would return soon to make a last visit to
her old home before leaving for her future and distant one.

It was agreed that they should spend the day after their arrival with
us. I was so happy and so occupied in preparing for their reception,
that I had almost forgotten my previous anxiety in my present desire
to have every thing ready and in perfect order.

The pleasure I felt in the prospect of having my darling with me
so soon was dreadfully toned down by the consciousness of my own
inability to satisfy her aunt's critical taste. I trembled as I
thought of her scrutinizing glance; but I had a never-failing source
of hope in my mother. Her good-natured hospitality was of such a
melting kind that I dared hope that even the rigid aunt might thaw
under it, which she really did, greatly to my relief and comfort.

The dinner passed off creditably. My tranquillity was now entirely
restored, and I had time to devote to Marian.

Up to this moment I had viewed her through the medium of my excited
condition; now I was calmed, and, so far as the affairs of the day
went, contented.

Marian's manner was restless and uneasy. My perception was keenly
alive to the slightest difference between what she did and said now
and to what she did and said formerly. So solicitous was I, that I
think the most trifling modulation in her voice had a significance
for me.

Much as I had looked forward to this reunion, much as I had desired
it, now that Marian was with me, I shrank from being alone with her.
I think if we had been that summer evening even in the solitude of a
mountain fastness, an intuitive delicacy would have kept both of us
from speaking one word upon the only subject that filled our hearts.

My mother's humanizing influence was having its effect on the stately
old lady. She was captured without knowing it. Mr. Gaston had gone
out for a walk; so Marian and I were left alone. I tried to talk
about her new home, and repeated some things Mr. Gaston had told me
before the wedding.

"Edward has changed his mind," said Marian, "and has found it
necessary to make some different arrangements; so I really cannot
tell much about our home. It is very far away; don't you think so,
Mary?" I saw that her feelings were beginning to get the upper
hand, and I did not dare trust myself to reply. I turned from her
immediately on the pretext of having forgotten some household duty.
She strolled out to the garden in a spiritless way.

Every thing was revolving itself in my mind, and I was beginning to
reproach myself; perhaps if I had encouraged her to speak, it might
have lifted the load from her heart; another opportunity might not
be permitted us; and yet, bowed down as the poor girl was, it would
not have raised her in my esteem had she even with me disparaged her
husband. To cover him with a wife's forbearance was now one of her
hard but imperative duties, and I knew she would not shrink from
it. This must be a check to our confidence, a bridge over which my
kindliest sympathy must never pass.

Unmistakable evidences of a storm close at hand made me run to
the arbor where I had last seen Marian. She was not there. While
deliberating where I should next go, I heard Mr. Gaston's impatient
tread. He stopped by a clump of trees near me, and in tones of
suppressed anger commenced upbraiding his defenceless wife.

"What did you mean by suggesting such a thing as that?" he began;
"have you any right to dispense hospitalities, to propose or consider
them in that grand style of yours?"

"In expressing the wish," replied Marian, "that my aunt would be
able to spend the winter with us, I had no intention of doing any
thing beyond a natural act of gratitude; and I was not aware, Edward,
that your feelings had so changed toward her. I am sure she has done
nothing to merit your displeasure."

"Nothing to merit my displeasure? You are a most creditable disciple!
She has made you like herself, truly. Is it nothing in your eyes
that she has always lived a life of nicely-arranged deception? Your
accomplished aunt has conducted a forlorn hope with a woman's tact,
and the victims of her trickery are expected to bow to her superior
sagacity. In a burst of universal sympathy you propose to take this
wreck of decayed grandeur to my house. This was a part of the plot, I
suppose."

"Edward," interrupted Marian, "how dare you speak in this way of
my aunt, who has shown you so many marks of sincere regard? That
she has not husbanded her resources, I grant; but that misfortune
rests entirely with her, she is the only sufferer. She made you no
promises, gave you no reason to expect a fortune with me; this I have
learned since our marriage. Have no fear of the incumbrance. Dear as
she is to me, I would rather let her beg from door to door than see
her a recipient of your bounty!"

"Oh! you are proud now," he replied in a voice of withering scorn.
"Take care," he continued; "you have not seen the end yet. Make
yourself ready to depart. I want to leave this house instantly."

"Edward," she said, "however you choose to afflict me, whatever
tortures you have in store for me, do not, I beseech you, subject me
just yet to the pity of those I love, of those who love me. These
people are my truest friends. I would not make them sharers of my
misery. Spare me a little longer."

"Your fine speeches and these people are alike objects of
indifference to me. Make yourself ready; I am going."

She made a movement to obey him; but turning round again, she said,
"Edward"--the voice and tone I shall never forget; it was as if all
she had ever valued in life had whispered a last farewell--"Edward,
as I had hoped to give you a wife's unfailing duty, to be trustful,
loving, and true; so I had hoped you would give me a husband's
protection, and perhaps a husband's love."

"I am not fond of scenes," he interrupted; "your requirements are
of so nice and delicate a nature that I would be quite incapable of
gratifying them; so I shall not trouble myself to make the attempt;
and for the future, spare yourself any unnecessary display of
sentiment."

I could not have left the arbor without being seen. Marian passed
by slowly, not to the house, but in an opposite direction, and Mr.
Gaston started for the lower end of the garden. I caught a glimpse of
him as he turned an angle of the walk. A wicked look had settled on
his handsome face, as if dark spirits were urging him on.

A peal of thunder, prolonged and terrible, startled me. I ran to the
house. The lightning was truly awful, and peal following peal of
thunder made one shudder and long for human companionship. I had lost
Marian in the gloom and darkness. She was not in the house; I did not
see her in the garden. I went out into the storm in search of her.

I found her standing quite alone in sad and listless silence. Can
it be, I thought, that death has no terrors for one so gifted and
so young? She seemed imploring that doom which the most abject and
miserable would flee from if they could. I knew then, as well as I
knew afterward, that she would have welcomed death that night without
one single regret.

"Marian, dear," I said, approaching her, "how can you remain alone,
and exposed in this manner, when every thing about you is quaking
with fear?"

"I do not heed the storm," she answered; "I like it, it is so
wonderful."

"Come, come, darling! Why, the rain has drenched you," I replied,
putting my arm about her and leading her to the house.

The storm had set in furiously. There was no leaving the house that
night. I resolved that Marian should sleep with me; so I went to Mr.
Gaston and told him I regretted our limited accommodations obliged me
to offer him a temporary bed in the parlor.

When I told Marian of this arrangement, she seemed relieved. "I am
glad to spend the night here and with you, Mary," she said. "All is
so quiet and peaceful."

Quiet and peaceful! The greater storm in her own breast made her
forget the contending elements without.

My aversion to Mr. Gaston was, I believe, heartily reciprocated, and
he must have chafed at my influence over Marian. He took her away
from her home, never to return, on the very next day. They sailed for
Cuba shortly afterward.

The crisis Marian had feared for her aunt soon came, and she went,
with the remnant of her fortune, to live in some western town.

Seven years had rolled by since all this, and Marian was fast passing
into the shadows we like to call up when the world is hushed around
us and, we are thinking--thinking.

I was married, and laughing children were crowding out these earlier
remembrances.

An affection of the throat, from which my husband was suffering,
rendered the best medical advice necessary. I accompanied him to New
York, where I found--let me pause in telling it, to do reverence to
the unseen hand that led me there--Marian.

In this lonely stranger how little do I behold of my childhood's
earliest pride!

"From Clifton?" said the physician thoughtfully, after examining my
husband's case. "I have a patient, a strange case; she is paralyzed,
and her mental faculties are stunned. A Cuban family brought her
here and placed her under my care. Her husband had committed a
forgery, and had fled the country to escape arrest. She is an
accomplished lady, I should judge. She was left in Havana quite poor
and friendless. I have been led to speak to you about her because she
is always writing two words--Mary and Clifton. The Spanish lady who
brought her here knew nothing of her former history."

I was silent during this recital, and so white that the doctor
offered me water. I thanked him, and expressed a wish to go to my
friend immediately.

"I cannot return to the hospital this morning," he said; "but I will
give you my card, which will admit you to the lady at once."

There I found her, a silent, faded figure, sitting still, and for all
purposes of life quite dead.

I was awed as I stood before her. I sat down and took her poor,
neglected hand in mine. She looked at me and made a feeble attempt
to gather back her hair which had fallen in great disorder about
her shoulders. I rose to do this for her. It was still glossy and
beautiful as ever. I began to arrange it in the fashion she had worn
it seven years before. She took my hand from her head, laid it in
her lap, chafed it, then reverently raised it to her lips. I could
restrain my tears no longer, and I hid my face in the folds of her
faded dress. She turned me toward her and wiped the tears from my
cheek.

"You are going home with me, Marian darling," I said; "to live always
in our own old home."

"I know it," she whispered; "I have been waiting for you so long, so
very long."

This was the first time she had spoken to me. The nurse had told me
that she spoke occasionally, but always in an absent and incoherent
manner.

Sea-bathing was recommended; but the doctor was of the opinion that
her mind would never recover its original vigor.

I would like him to see her as she left me this morning, calm and
beautiful, when the bell of the convent, where she is teaching
German, summoned attendance.

My religion is no longer strange to her. She has accepted it as the
crowning blessing of her life, and with a thankful spirit she speaks
of the chastening hand that led her to this security and peace.



EXULTENT SION FILIÆ.

    "Who is this that cometh from the desert, flowing with
    delights, leaning on the arm of her Beloved?"

                                          CANTICLES viii. 5.

    Who is this from the wilderness coming,
      From the desert so arid and bare,
    On her own most Beloved One leaning--
      Who is this so chaste and so fair?

    Yes, out of a wilderness coming,
      A desert of darkness and sin;
    Lo! the Bridegroom, the promised, the glorious,
      Lo! a Queen who is holy within!

    See! her veil is thrown back from her features,
      Arrayed in the lustre of light,
    Like silver clean washed from the dross of the mine,
      Like a lily she dawns on the sight--

    Like a lily whose fair leaves encompass her stalk,
      With an odor so piercing and sweet,
    That the world, overpowered, feels ashamed of its pride,
      And vanquished kneels down at her feet.

    In the desert had tarried the Bridegroom of old
      Forty days, forty nights, in his love,
    Alone, while she who was dearest to him
      In grief like a silver-winged dove,

    Hid away in the deep, secret clefts of the rock,
      Wailed his absence, and brooded so long,
    And pined for his countenance, pined for his voice
      To answer again to her song--

    "Now winter is past, the rain over and gone;"
      The flowers, too, have their banners unfurled,
    While she waits for his promise; she knows he will come;
      And he comes--the Light of the world!

    To lead back each wandering sheep to his fold,
      Who had waited so long in the porch;
    To bring back to the dim world his darling, his rose,
      His bride in her beauty, the church;

    To open her gates that all may go in,
      Not a wanderer left out in the cold,
    The supper awaiting, the King's marriage feast,
      With its Host and its chalice of gold.

                                          SOPHIA MAY ECKLEY.



MR. GLADSTONE AND THE IRISH FARMERS.


The long-expected bill for the settlement of the land question in
Ireland was introduced into the British Parliament a short time
ago by Mr. Gladstone in an explanatory speech of rare perspicuity
and methodical statement. So fascinating, indeed, is the premier's
eloquence, so candid his confessions of the injustice of English law
as at present existing in Ireland, and of the baleful consequences
which have flowed from its operations in the agricultural interests
of the people of the sister island, that for the time we forget how
far short are the measures he now proposes, in the form of an act of
parliament, of the necessities of the case before him, and to which
all his logic, rhetoric, and pathos form but the graceful prelude.
Turning from the speech and carefully looking over the sixty-eight
clauses of the proposed act, we are forcibly struck by the inadequacy
of the proposed remedy for the terrible and manifold evils which have
so long afflicted the tillers of Irish soil; and if, as Mr. Gladstone
asserts, his object is not only to do justice to this long-oppressed
people, but to silence for ever the clamors and pacify at once the
almost chronic discontent of the country, it requires very little
acumen to foresee that his scheme, even if not modified for the worse
in its passage through either house, will be a failure, particularly
as regards the latter results.

The head of the British cabinet, with all that ability and knowledge
of public affairs which justly entitle him to be ranked foremost
among living English statesmen, seems to have failed alike to
comprehend the magnitude of the abuses he would correct and to
appreciate the wishes and expectations of the great majority of the
Irish people. Whether through that obliquity of mental vision which
has always characterized English public men when attempting to deal
with Irish grievances, or from a dread of failure if he attempted to
inaugurate a more radical change in the present relations between
landlord and tenant--and from a remark in his late speech, the latter
cause would seem to be the most probable--he has been led into a
course of policy which, while gaining him no allies in the opposition
ranks, will undoubtedly lessen his influence with a large portion of
the liberal party in both kingdoms. "By fixity of tenure," says Dr.
Taylor, "is now clearly understood, in Ireland, that the right of the
tenant to his land is to continue as long as the rent is paid, and
that the rent is to be adjusted at fixed periods, according to the
average price of produce;" a statement fully indorsed by the Irish
press and reiterated by the people at their recent numerous public
meetings. But the present bill contemplates no such thing, either in
expression or by implication; and lest it might so be understood, the
premier in his speech devoted much of his time to demonstrate the
fallacy and danger of such doctrines.

    "As I understand it," he says, "the thing itself amounts to
    this--that every occupier, as long as he pays the rent that
    he is now paying, or a rent to be fixed by a public tribunal
    of valuation, is to be assured, for himself and his heirs, an
    occupation of the land that he holds without limit of time,
    subject only to this condition, that with a variation in the
    value of produce--somewhat in the nature of the commutation of
    title act--the rent may vary somewhat slightly and at somewhat
    distant periods. The effect of that is that the landlord would
    become a pensioner and rent-charger upon his own estate.
    The legislature has a perfect right to reduce him to that
    condition, giving him proper compensation for any loss he may
    sustain in money; the state has a perfect right to deal with
    his social status, and to reduce him to that condition, if it
    thinks fit. But then it is bound not to think fit unless it can
    be shown that this is for the public good. Now, is it for the
    public good that the landlords of Ireland, in a body, should be
    reduced by an act of parliament to the condition, practically,
    of fund-holders, entitled to apply on a certain day from year
    to year for a certain sum of money, but entitled to nothing
    more? Are you prepared to denude them of their interest in the
    land? Are you prepared to absolve them from their duties with
    regard to the land? I for one confess that I am not; nor is
    that the sentiment of my colleagues."

Here then is the issue at once raised, and as Mr. Gladstone's
views will receive the sanction of Parliament, we apprehend that
the proposed act, no matter how impartially executed, will fail to
satisfy the popular wants in Ireland. It cannot be denied that the
great underlying principle of the tenant-right agitation is the
conviction among the masses of the farmers and peasants of that
country that the soil whereon they expend their labor, that others
may reap the profits, was and is rightfully their own; that it was
forcibly and treacherously wrested from their ancestors by a foreign
and hostile faction, whose descendants now claim to possess it, and
who wring from them the fruits of their toil, justly belonging to
the cultivators and their families. They do not, however, desire
a reconfiscation of this property; but they do demand a guarantee
from the laws, under which they are content to live, that as long as
they pay a fair rent they shall not be disturbed in their holdings.
The question of leases for a term of years and compensation for
improvements, though very important in itself, is merely secondary to
fixity of tenure. That once guaranteed, in the Irish and not in Mr.
Gladstone's sense, the impetus which would be given to the farming
industry of the country would be so great that time and economy only
would be required to establish a large class of small land _owners_
in fee, thus virtually undoing the spoliations of former days, and
dividing up the large estates now devoted principally to pleasure or
pasturage, and held by a few persons who neither reside in, know,
or care for the nation from which they draw such exorbitant rents.
The entire land of Ireland consists of nearly sixteen million acres
of arable land, and five millions more susceptible of cultivation,
owned absolutely by less than six thousand persons, thus giving to
each proprietary an average of thirty-five hundred acres, independent
of mountain, bog, and riparian lands, all more or less useful for
the sustenance of human life. Then the majority of those owners,
including the representatives of the very large estates almost
without exception, are absentees who in the aggregate draw from the
soil an annual revenue estimated at forty millions of dollars; not a
tithe of it is ever returned to the country in any manner, except in
the form of receipts. We find that the tenants from whom this large
foreign tribute is exacted number over six hundred thousand heads of
families, representing at least three and a half million of souls,
only one in thirty of whom holds a lease of any sort, the remainder
being entirely dependent politically and socially on the will of
the landlord, or his agents and bailiffs. This anomalous state of
affairs in a country supposed to be at least comparatively free is
heightened by the fact that the views and aims of the landlord class
and those of the tenantry, which ought to coincide on all matters
affecting the national good, are decidedly the reverse of each other.
As a whole, the religion, politics, and traditions of the owners of
the soil have always placed them in opposition to their tenants and
dependents; so firmly, indeed, that even the demands of patriotism
and the allurements of pecuniary gain, powerful for most men, have
failed to swerve the Irish landlord from his blind and bigoted
purpose of repressing the laudable enterprise, and of ignoring the
commonest rights, of the people from whom he derives his wealth and
position. In countries like Belgium, Scotland, or Switzerland, where
manufactures are encouraged and capital is abundant, this slavish
relationship between landlord and tenant would be a secondary
grievance; but in Ireland, which is essentially an agricultural
country, the enormity of the evil cannot well be over-estimated.
"About two thirds of the population of England," said the late W.
Smith O'Brien, "are dependent on manufactures and commerce, directly
or indirectly. In this country (Ireland) about nine tenths of the
population are dependent on agriculture, directly or indirectly." "An
ancient vassal," said Van Raumer, a distinguished German traveller,
who some years ago visited Ireland, "is a lord compared with the
present tenant at will, to whom the law affords no defence;" and a
recent decision in chancery declares that "if a tenant holding from
year to year makes permanent improvements in the lands which he
holds, this raises no equity as against the landlord, though he may
have looked on and not have given any warning to the tenant."

But we have a more recent authority on the condition of the Irish
farmers of to-day in the person of the special commissioner of the
_London Times_, who certainly cannot be accused of over-partiality
in describing the condition of that much oppressed class. Writing
from Mullingar under date September 14th, 1869, he says, "By far the
largest portion of the country is still occupied by small farmers,
who legally are merely tenants at will, though they have added much
to the value of the soil by building, draining, fencing, and tillage,
and though they have purchased their interests in numerous instances,
and it is probable they will long maintain their ground, though the
area they hold is being diminished. The existing law is not a rule
of right to this body of men in their actual position; it exposes
what in truth is their property, the benefits they have added to the
land, to be confiscated by a summary process; it sets at naught the
equitable right acquired by a transfer for value with the assent of
the landlord." From Cork, after a month's further investigation, he
again writes, "As for the landed system of the country as a whole,
it is, in its broadest outlines, essentially the same as that which
I have so often described, except that its vices are very prominent.
Speaking generally, the same religious differences divide the owner
and the occupier of the soil; the absenteeism is too prevalent; there
is the same wide-spread insecurity of tenure; the law in the same way
upholds the power of the landlord, and disregards the just claims of
the tenant; there is the same creation of vast rights of property
in the form of improvements, by the peasantry, unprotected by the
least legal sanction, and liable, nay, exposed to confiscation;
vague usage similarly is the only safeguard against frequent and
intolerable injustice." Conceding to Mr. Gladstone and his colleagues
the greatest honesty of intention in the introduction of the present
bill, and aware of the powerful and not over-scrupulous opposition
which any remedial measure advocated by them must encounter from the
tory and landed classes, yet in view of such patent abuses as stated,
as well as from the assurances of Mr. Bright and others--supposed
to be in the confidence of the ministry, we had a right to expect a
measure more general, emphatic, and sweeping in its reforms. Still,
as the bill will be passed substantially as presented, with perhaps
the addition of a few unimportant amendments likely to be offered
by the Irish members, it is important to examine in detail its main
features as far as they relate to what is defined in the preamble as
"security of tenure."

The first subdivision of the bill provides for the loaning of
public moneys to landlords and tenants on the following conditions:
Where the landlord is willing to sell and the tenant to purchase a
particular farm, then in his actual occupancy, at a price agreed
upon between the parties, the government will advance the tenant
the necessary funds; and when the landlord is only willing to part
with his estate in bulk, the actual occupiers of four fifths, and
any person or persons not occupiers joined with them, may become
purchasers of the whole, and a similar advance will be made. In
other words, the government takes the place of the selling landlord,
pays him indirectly the price agreed upon, and reimburses itself by
annual instalments from the tenant, now become the owner, until the
entire purchase money is paid off. This seems favorable enough for
the enterprising tenant, and to any other than Irish landlords would
offer strong inducements to dispose of a portion, at least, of their
unwieldy and often heavily encumbered estates, and would promote the
multiplication of moderate sized and better cultivated farms; but
as we are aware of the hostility of that unpatriotic class to every
thing tending to the elevation of their tenantry to a position of
comparative equality, we have little hope of the efficacy of this
provision. Indeed, Mr. Gladstone seems also of this opinion; for
in his late speech in allusion to the subject, he says, "I myself
have not been one of those who have been disposed to take the most
sanguine view of the extent to which a provision of that kind would
operate." Purchasers of reclaimed land not occupied are to have
the same privileges as occupiers of cultivated lands. The landlord
likewise is to have his share of the public money for the purpose of
reclaiming waste lands adjoining his estate, and in some instances,
for paying off the compensation claims of his out-going tenant. All
these loans, securities, repayments, and annuities are to be under
the direction of the Irish Board of Works at Dublin.

The legal machinery for carrying these and subsequent clauses of
the bill into effect will consist of two classes of courts. One of
arbitration, consisting of appointees of the parties interested,
whose decision shall have all the force of law, and from which there
shall be no appeal. The other will be a regular court of law, with
very extensive equity jurisdiction, composed, in the first instance,
of a civil bill court, presided over by an assistant barrister of
sessions; an appeal court, composed of two judges of assize, who may
reserve important cases for trial before the court for land cess in
Dublin. Taking into consideration the relative wealth and personal
influence of the parties litigant, we might hope for a less expensive
and complicated mode of procedure; but as the law's delays are still
as proverbial on the other side of the Atlantic as on this, it is
perhaps the least objectionable plan that could be devised. Much
certainly will depend on the independence and humanity of the courts;
for while they will be bound by the principles laid down in the bill,
it is authorized--

    "On hearing of any dispute between landlord and tenant in
    respect of compensation under this act, either party may make
    any claim, urge any objection to the claims of the other, or
    plead any set-off such party may see fit, and the court shall
    take into consideration any such claim, objection, or set-off,
    and also any such default or unreasonable conduct of either
    party as may appear to the court to affect any matter in
    dispute between the parties," etc., and give judgment on the
    equities of the same.

The bill then proceeds to secure and define the tenure of all holders
of agricultural land, dividing them into four classes: holders by
the custom of Ulster, by customs analogous to that of Ulster in
the other provinces, tenants from year to year and at will, and
lease-holders generally.

The custom of Ulster, derived strangely enough from the terms
of James I.'s charter to the undertakers in 1613,[40] as well
as from traditional usage, consists mainly of the right of the
out-going tenant to compensation from his landlord for all permanent
improvements he may have made on the land, or that he has actually
paid for to his predecessor, whether with or without the consent
of his landlord; or the tenant may elect to sell the same with his
good-will of the farm to the best purchaser. This custom, covering
about a moiety of the 3,400,000 acres of Ulster, is to be formally
recognized as law only in that portion of the country, and in each
individual case where it now actually exists. But when "the landlord
has, by a deliberate and formal arrangement with an occupier, bought
up the Ulster tenant right, it shall not be pleaded against him;"
and where the tenant has so sold to the landlord or to the incoming
tenant his right, he shall be debarred from all other compensation
under the act. The value of this custom, though heretofore only
partially recognized, will be perceived from the fact that, though
Ulster is by no means the most fertile section, the average annual
value of its lands is from four to four and a half dollars per acre
greater than the other portions of the country. Why this custom, so
manifestly beneficial to all classes, should only be made general in
Ulster, but not throughout the island, it is difficult to determine.

There are also customs in other parts of the country which have
become traditional, and are said to resemble somewhat that of Ulster;
but to what extent they prevail, or of their exact nature, we are
not informed. They are commonly supposed to include the right of
compensation for improvements of a certain sort, and the sale of the
good-will by the out-going tenant. These, however, are not regarded
with the same degree of fairness; for they can only be pleaded when
the landlord by his own act severs the relation between himself and
tenant; and when pleaded, all arrears of rent or damages to the farm
may be claimed as an off-set; they are forfeited by ejectment for
non-payment of rent, or by sub-letting or subdividing the holding,
and are extinguished by the acceptance of a lease of thirty-one years
or upward. This is the first attempt we notice in the bill to induce
the landlords to grant leases, and we regret to find that throughout
its entire length, with the exception of one clause, there is nothing
at all prohibitory in its provisions. What good reason can exist for
the preservation of the custom of Ulster under a lease, while those
of the other three sections are bartered away for that privilege? Is
this not another evidence of the partiality of a reform which should
be as comprehensive as the evils to be eradicated are wide-spread?

The most important part of the bill is that which relates to the
yearly tenant and tenant at will; for it affects by far the largest
and most defenceless class of Irish farmers. Out of six hundred
thousand heads of families who derive their existence directly from
the soil, five hundred and eighty thousand, or nearly ninety-seven
per centum of the whole, are of this class, and are liable at any
time to be thrown on the charity of the world by the edict of a
landlord or his agent, deprived not only of their sole means of
livelihood, but of whatever benefits they may have conferred on their
little holdings by their hard labor and well-earned money. It is
useless now to dwell on the horrible calamities which have resulted
from the wholesale evictions of these unfortunate people, or on what
famine, pestilence, death, and too frequently agrarian crime, have
year after year flowed from the uncontrolled barbarities practised
on them by Irish landlords, armed with the terrors of law. The
wailings and maledictions of the homeless and expatriated have so
long resounded through both hemispheres, that their very echoes have
startled the ears of their persecutors into something like attention.
"We have," says Mr. Gladstone from his place in the House of Commons,
"simplified the law against him, [the tenant,] and made ejectment
cheap and easy."[41] This large class, therefore, if not receiving
that adequate protection to which they are justly entitled, will,
under the operation of the proposed act, have their interests placed
beyond jeopardy in such a manner as, compared with their present
practical outlawry, will commend Mr. Gladstone to their gratitude.
Having no custom to plead, and consequently very little probability
of obtaining leases, the landlord can still eject them; but he must
do so on a year's notice, duly stamped and dated from the previous
gale day, and for proper cause, such as non-payment of rent or the
refusal of the tenant to accept another holding equal in value to
the one desired by the landlord. If the landlord acts without such
cause, the tenant will be entitled to damages against him at the
discretion of the court, exclusive of compensation for improvements
and reclamation of land. The maximum measure of damages for wanton
ejectment is set down in the bill as follows:

    Holdings valued at £10              7 years' rent.
       "        "      £10 to £50       5   "     "
       "        "      £50  to £100     3   "     "
       "        "      £100 and upward  2   "     "

In any case the tenant upon ejectment will be entitled to
compensation for improvements, from which arrears of rent may be
deducted. It is the wise and beneficent intent of the bill to place
this helpless class under the special protection of the court, and
make it the object of large equity jurisdiction conferred; and
it even holds out a release to the landlord of these penalties,
providing he gives to his yearly tenant a lease of at least
twenty-one years' duration.

The regulation of the tenure of lease-holders generally is most
judicious, and the only compulsory one in the bill. In future all
leases shall be submitted to, and the terms, as regards rents and
covenants, approved by, the court, before their validity will be
recognized. Heretofore, Irish leases have been made exclusively
for the benefit of one party, and the ingenuity of the lower grade
of the legal profession seems to have been taxed to the utmost to
devise restrictions on husbandry. We have copies of several of those
instruments of recent execution before us, and they certainly smack
more of the pre-_magna-charta_ era than of the present enlightened
century. A petition presented to the House of Commons at its last
session, from the inhabitants of the parish of Clonard, county of
Meath, set forth that tenants there "are charged with a penalty of £5
for every tree, and every perch of hedge cut, injured, or destroyed;"
they are to break no land without permission of the landlord,
and even then only such land and in such manner as the landlord
specified; a fine of £10 is exacted for "each acre or part of acre
assigned, let, underlet, or let in con-acre or otherwise, or meadowed
without formal written permission;" they are not to remove or cause
to be removed any top-dressing, compost, or manure of any sort, nor
any hay, straw, corn in the straw, holm, or fodder of any sort, nor
any turnips, mangel-wurzel, or other green crop of any kind, under
penalty of £5 per load or part of load; and the top-dressing, manure,
etc., are to remain on the land at the termination of the tenancy,
and are to be the property of the landlord. The Earl of Leitrim, a
very large landed proprietor in the north, probably not considering
the above restrictions sufficiently onerous, has had inserted in
his numerous leases clauses whereby the tenants are required to
preserve his fish and game; and without his permission in writing
they are not to make any new roads, fences, or drains, nor to build
up or alter houses or buildings, nor to grow two white grain crops
in succession, nor to have beyond a certain maximum of tillage, nor
to break up permanent grass-fields, nor to set potatoes where there
has been grass the year before,[42] nor to cut turf, etc.; and to
surrender their leases at _any time_ at six months' notice, or in
case any of them be imprisoned by any civil or criminal process for
a term exceeding fourteen days! But Edward Henry Cooper, who is
supposed sometimes to honor Markie Castle with his presence, requires
not only the observance of all the above conditions on the part
of his serfs, but binds them to become informers and prosecutors
in their _own names_ against any poachers who may be found in the
leaseholds; and they are also to _procure evidence_ (how is not
stated) against their neighbors who might kill a hare or spear a
salmon on their premises. The farmers who have the happiness of
living under this philanthropist are required "to submit all disputes
and differences touching trespass or measuring to, and abide by the
final award of"--Edward Henry Cooper or his agents; a very impartial
tribunal, no doubt! The above extracts may be taken as specimens
of the restrictions which surround even the most favored class of
Irish farmers of the present day, and which, being made with all
the forms of law, backed by the certainty of the strict enforcement
of the penalties, must have a direct and ruinous tendency to check
improvement and limit the scope of improved cultivation of lands.

The term improvements, so frequently met with in the bill, is defined
to mean such as are suitable to the character of the holding and add
to its letting value, such as buildings, reclaimed land, manures, and
tillage, and the old rule of law, which presumed all improvements
made by the landlord unless proved to the contrary, is reversed in
favor of the tenant. No existing improvement will be paid for if not
made within twenty years previous to the passage of the act, except
permanent buildings and reclaimed land, nor where by the terms of a
lease the holder agreed to make the improvements at his own expense.
In the future no claim will be allowed for improvements made contrary
to the terms of the letting, or for such as are not required for
the due cultivation of the farm, nor when the landlord agrees to
make them and does not neglect to do so, nor where the tenant, as
part of the consideration of the lease, agrees to do them at his
own charge. But whatever the tenant pays to the out-going tenant
for compensation, with the sanction of his landlord, he shall be
reimbursed on the termination of his tenancy.

Such, in brief, is an outline of the law under which the farmers of
Ireland will have to live for some years to come. Although not all
they demand and have a right to expect, it is nevertheless a great
improvement on the present system, if system it may be called, under
which they have so long tried to exist. Whatever is valuable in the
local customs will be substantially preserved and legalized; the
tenant will have some remote prospect of becoming a purchaser, and
the tenant at will, a leaseholder. Compensation for improvements is
guaranteed to every one capable of paying his rent, and the luxury of
evictions, if not destroyed, is made an expensive one for landlords.
We cannot expect that this measure, if passed in its best form, will
wholly stop agitation in Ireland, but we trust and believe that it
will largely conduce to the wealth and industry of her people.

FOOTNOTES:

[40] The said undertakers shall not devise or lease any part of their
lands at will, but shall make certain estates for years, for life, in
tail or in fee simple.--_Art._ 12th, _charter_ of A.D. 1613.

[41] "In the number of farms, from one to five acres, the decrease
has been 24,147; from five to fifteen acres, 27,379; from fifteen to
thirty acres, 4274; while of farms above thirty acres, the increase
has been 3670. Seventy thousand occupiers with their families,
numbering about three hundred thousand, were rooted out of the land.
In Leinster, the decrease in the number of holdings not exceeding
one acre, as compared with the decrease of 1847, was 3749; above one
and not exceeding five, was 4026; of five and not exceeding fifteen,
was 2546; of fifteen to thirty, 391; making a total of 10,617. In
Munster, the decrease in the holdings under thirty acres is stated
at 18,814; the increase over thirty acres, 1399. In Ulster, the
decrease was 1502; the increase, 1134. In Connaught, where the labor
of extermination was least, the clearance has been most extensive.
There in particular the roots of holders of the soil were never
planted deep beneath the surface, and consequently were exposed to
every exterminator's hand. There were in 1847, 35,634 holders of from
one to five acres. In the following year there were less by 9703;
there were 76,707 holders of from five to fifteen acres, less in one
year by 12,891; those of from fifteen to thirty acres were reduced
by 2121; a total depopulation of 26,499 holders of land, exclusive
of their families, was effected in Connaught in one year."--Captain
Larcom's report for 1848, as quoted in Mitchel's _Last Conquest of
Ireland_, (_Perhaps_.) Dublin, 1861.

[42] The productiveness of the land when properly tilled is _four_
times greater than when under pasture.



THE ASSOCIATION FOR BEFRIENDING CHILDREN.


A new association has entered the field of charitable labor in this
city bearing the modest title at the head of this article. It has
been organized and is recommended to the public by ladies whose names
are a guarantee of its success. The sphere of its charitable work is
among poor children of degraded parents. It is not known, except to
the few practical workers among the poor, that there exists in New
York a pauper class nearly if not quite as destitute and degraded
as that which is found in the great capitals of Europe. There are
persons here who are born in this lowest social stratum, and will
never rise from it without help. Their lives begin, are passed, and
end in what seems to be hopeless degradation. The portions of the
city where this class of its population will be found are those
bordering on the rivers, on either side, extending as far north as
Fifty-ninth street. Children born in this class inherit the vices and
diseases of their parents, as well as their poverty. They exhibit
a precocity in debauchery which no one can appreciate who has not
been brought into contact with them. They inhale with their first
respiration a fetid atmosphere. They have an instinct for vice and
crime. Many of them escape the penalties of the criminal code simply
because they are so young that the law overlooks them. They come
into the world with the child's instinct to look to its parent as
the source of authority, and a model for imitation. This authority
is, for the most part, exerted to compel the commission of offences,
and the model is a finished example for the grossest sins. With such
influences from without, coöperating with natural and inherited
tendencies to vice, it is easy to see with what fearful rapidity the
child will be driven along in evil courses. If education begins, as
is claimed, with the first outcry of the infant, what a training is
inaugurated here!

There is another class of our population, not strictly a pauper
class, but which is raised but little above it. The persons who
compose it earn a scanty living by fitful labor, and are exposed to
all the temptations which beset extreme poverty. They easily fall
into vicious habits, squander their earnings, and their children
are left without care, to subsist as best they may. These children,
equally with those of the class still lower, are in need of every
thing which a judicious charity can supply. The section of the city
where more of these little outcasts, and their wretched parents,
may be found than in any other of equal dimensions, is that bounded
by Bank street on the south, Sixteenth or Seventeenth street on
the north, the Ninth avenue and the river. Out of this section St.
Bernard's parish has been carved, and it was here that, a few months
ago, the small beginning was made from which the new organization has
sprung. On the seventh day of September last, a few ladies met at
St. Bernard's church, to open an industrial school for girls. Notice
that the school would be commenced on that day had been given in the
church on the Sunday preceding. No children came at the hour named,
and the ladies, with one of the priests of the parish, went out into
the lanes and alleys to compel them to come in. About twenty-five
girls were gathered in the large upper room in the church edifice
during the forenoon. They presented a pitiful spectacle of extreme
poverty and degradation. They were clad in filthy rags, and, young
as they were, the faces of many of them bore traces of a course of
vice and crime in which sad progress had already been made. It was
clear from this first day's experiment that there was an instant and
urgent duty to be performed, in reaching and reclaiming children of
this class. The ladies, therefore, resolved to hold the school on
Tuesday and Friday mornings in each week, from ten to twelve o'clock.
The large room in the church was placed at their disposal. On the
second school-day, fifty girls attended, and the number soon reached
one hundred. The character and magnitude of the work which these
ladies had, almost unconsciously, undertaken began to dawn on them.
The school had filled up with hardly any effort on their part. The
children were in need of every thing. They must be clothed and fed.
They must be gently led away from evil practices and taught the very
alphabet of new and better lives. A few dollars were collected at
once and materials for clothing purchased. Garments were cut out, and
the children soon taught to assist in making them, and the articles
were distributed as they were needed. This has been continued until
every child who has attended the school has received a complete
outfit, including a new pair of shoes. But the girls came hungry
as well, and must be fed. At the close of the school on each day,
a substantial meal was served; and on Thanksgiving and Christmas
days, generous dinners were given to two hundred children, for which
turkeys in abundance were provided. The first step in any efficient
charitable work among the destitute is, of course, to provide for
physical wants. We must begin with the body. "First the natural,"
and "afterward that which is spiritual," is the divine order. The
soul is to be reached through the body, or rather, so closely united
are the two, that they are both acted upon by the care bestowed
upon either. The normal cravings of the body, when unsatisfied,
become diseased and the fruitful source of vicious indulgences. The
hunger which demands but cannot get proper food, will demand and get
sustenance hurtful to body and soul. The little child who leaves a
miserable shelter in the morning, cold and hungry, will spend the
first penny bestowed in charity by a careless giver at a rum-hole
made familiar by errands for liquor at the command of a drunken
parent, where even a penny will buy what, for the moment, answers for
both food and clothing. Little girls of twelve, and even younger,
have come to this school in the morning whose only breakfast has
been the liquor which they could buy for a cent, and who had already
contracted intemperate habits.

With children of this class, then, the first step toward moral
improvement is the self-respect which they put on with their first
warm, clean dress, and the satisfaction which follows a meal of
wholesome food. This first step, however, leads to the next, direct
religious instruction; the "line upon line and precept upon precept"
by which the child's soul is to be instructed and purified.

It is hardly necessary to say that these children are virtually
heathen in the midst of a Christian civilization. They have received
little or no religious instruction. They are the offspring of parents
who, for the most part, are Catholics in name, but who have long
since lost grace and abandoned the sacraments of the church. And yet
they readily take religious impressions, and are not without those
first Christian ideas which expand rapidly with patient teaching.
It has been the practice at the school to spend a little time each
morning in instructing the girls in the catechism; in repeating
appropriate verses of Scripture, in committing simple hymns to memory
and singing them in unison. The ladies who opened, and have conducted
this school for the past six months, have not been discouraged
because they have not already achieved magnificent results. They
knew when they began that the salvation of these children, for this
world and the next, was to be "worked out;" that moral improvement
comes by "little and little;" that no sincere charitable effort is
ever lost; that nothing can be lost but opportunities; and that even
a cup of cold water given to one of these little ones will not fail,
either of its reward or of its effect for good. So far from being
discouraged, what has already been accomplished with limited means
and in a casual way has far exceeded their expectations. The work has
been growing under their hands from the start. The little company of
ragged girls, who came reluctantly the first morning, has expanded
into a school numbering one hundred and fifty, who are eager for the
instruction offered to them. They manifest the utmost affection for
their teachers. They show signs of improvement in every way. Many
of them give unmistakable evidence of having commenced a new and
useful career. One girl who was found wandering in the street on the
first day was asked by one of the ladies if she ever went to mass;
she said "No." "Why not?" said the lady. She replied with a bold
stare, "Oh! I am a _bad_ girl." On being told by the lady that she
did not believe she was so bad, the girl replied, her eyes filling
with tears, "Well, I _would_ go if I had any thing to wear but these
rags; but we've been awfully knocked about since father died, and
mother says we're all going to hell, soul and body." This Maggie is
now one of the best and brightest in the school, and an efficient
assistant of the teachers. Others are emulating her example. In fact,
so much has already been done, that the ladies who commenced are
irresistibly committed to a more efficient prosecution of the work.
They see in it possibilities for good which do not allow them to stop
short of the more thorough organization which they have attempted in
forming "The Association for Befriending Children." They feel that a
necessity is laid upon them to make secure the good already attained,
and that they would be recreant to their duty as Christians if they
did not go on to the more perfect results plainly within their
reach. The necessity of such an organized charity has been shown in
the rough outline which has been given above of the destitution of
these children. Notwithstanding all the charitable associations for
children, under the names of "Industrial Schools," "Protectories,"
"Orphan Asylums," etc., there are at least twenty thousand children
in the city outside of any such institution, whose necessities are
even greater than those within them. In its circular the association
says that it

    "does not intend to relieve parents from their just
    responsibility for their children, simply because they are
    poor. The possession of children, and the duty of maintaining
    them, are conducive among many parents, contending with extreme
    poverty, to habits of industry and sobriety. But any one
    who knows even a little of the very degraded portion of our
    population, is aware that there are multitudes of children in
    this city utterly abandoned by their parents, and exposed to
    every form of vice, or rather who are actually being trained,
    by precept and example, in habits of debauchery. Such children
    the association desires to bring under the influence of daily
    instruction, to minister to their daily necessities, to
    educate them for useful employments."

Such, then, in brief, are the aims of this association.

The first step toward realizing them has already been taken. Aided
by the liberality of a few gentlemen, the association has rented the
building No. 316 West Fourteenth street, which is admirably adapted
to the purposes of a home for those who may be received as inmates,
for a longer or shorter term, combined with a day-school for others.
There is room for fifty of these inmates, and for at least three
hundred more day-scholars. The house is under the charge of a matron
and assistants in every way fitted to care for, control, and teach
the children, who find their highest reward in this opportunity to
rescue and elevate these little girls. The new and most important
feature of this charity is that it combines an asylum, a protectory,
an industrial school, and common school in one institution. It
encircles in its arms those who are so low that they are overlooked
by all other charities. It finds, after all, that "the ninety and
nine" have gone astray, and it seeks to bring them back to the
fold. It completely removes from evil influences those who are most
exposed, and shelters and fosters them till new habits are formed,
and seeds of good are implanted and germinate. It gives to all food
and clothing. It instructs all in the rudiments of knowledge. It
gives the girls such industrial instruction as will enable them
to enter on the various employments which society offers to their
sex. Such a home-school the association plants in the midst of
these utterly necessitous children. There should be one or more of
them established in every parish in the city; and if the Christian
liberality of Catholics be not found wanting, such a result will be
accomplished. At present the association must be sustained in the
immediate attempt which has been made. Responsibilities have been
assumed which must be met by generous donations. Surely the ladies
who are willing to give their best energies to this glorious work,
as well as their portion of the money needed, will not appeal to the
public in vain.



FRA BERNARDINO OCHINO.


The blessed Bernardine, the glory of Sienna and of the Franciscan
order, had a sad counterpart in him who forms the subject of this
sketch. Fra Bernardino Ochino, one of the conspicuous scandals of
the sixteenth century, was a son of Domenico Tommassino, of Sienna.
He received his surname from the Via del Oca, which contained the
residence of his obscure parents. Having taken the habit of the
Observantines, he left his convent to study medicine at Perugia.
He there formed a friendship with Giulio de' Medici, afterwards
Clement VII. Returning to his order, he received successive places
of dignity; but whether dissatisfied with these, or really seeking a
more perfect life, he again left it to embrace the austere rule of
the Capuchins, then for the first time established in Sienna. Few
details remain of this portion of the life of Ochino, and historians
differ in explaining the motives of this change. Whatever they might
have been, it is certain that his fame as a preacher was acquired
shortly after his entrance in the Capuchin order. His reputation
grew daily. The most exacting critics gave him unqualified praise.
Sadoletus ranked him with the greatest orators of antiquity. The
Bishop of Fossombrone addressed him the most flattering sonnets, and
Charles V. was heard to exclaim that the spirit and unction of Fra
Bernardino could melt the very stones. The over-fastidious Bembo had
said of the preachers of his day, "Why should I go to listen to their
sermons? One hears nothing but the subtle doctor disputing with the
angelic, and, finally, Aristotle called in to settle the question."

Nevertheless, Ochino stood even the test of Bembo's criticism. For
the latter wrote from Venice to the Marquis of Pescara, April 23d,
1536:

    "I send inclosed to your illustrious lordship the letters
    of our reverend Fra Bernardino, whom I have heard with
    inexpressible pleasure during the too short period of this
    Lent."

To the parish priest he wrote:

    "Do not neglect to force Fra Bernardino to eat meat. For,
    unless he suspend his Lenten abstinence, he cannot resist the
    fatigue of preaching."

This last remark of Bembo reveals to us something of Ochino's way of
life at that time. He had, indeed, adopted those severe austerities
which, according to the unanimous doctrine of the saints, though
often the means of advancement in the supernatural life, yet, when
undertaken or persevered in from an ill-advised spirit, generally
lead to ruin, and become at once food and clothing for the most
diabolical pride. The famous preacher travelled always on foot,
bare-headed and unshod. He slept at night beneath the trees that
grew on the wayside, or, if under the roof of some noble host, on
the pavement of the guest's chamber. As he begged from door to door,
in the crowded cities, the throng knelt, awed by his wan features
and fiery eye, and the thin emaciated frame, which seemed barely
to support the coarse brown habit of his order. At the tables of
the nobility he did not vary the least detail of his penitential
abstinence, eating from only one dish, and never even tasting wine.

When he preached, says a contemporary, the churches could not contain
his hearers, and a great crowd followed him wherever he went. Nor was
his preaching without fruit. The infamous Aretino either underwent
or feigned a conversion, and wrote to the pope, at the instance of
Ochino, begging pardon for his libels against the papal court. In the
same letter, dated from Venice, April 21st, 1537, he says that Bembo
"has sent a thousand souls to paradise by transferring from Sienna
to this Catholic city Fra Bernardino, a religious as humble as he is
virtuous."

While at Venice, Ochino procured a convent and installed there a
community of Capuchins. In June, 1539, by invitation of the municipal
assembly, he preached at Sienna. This he did again in the following
year, with great success and fruit. It was on this occasion that he
introduced the devotion of the Quarant' Ore. It appears, however,
that instead of the blessed sacrament, the usual object of this
devotion, Fra Bernardino exposed for veneration the crucifix. In
a letter to the confraternity of St. Dominic, preparatory to the
introduction of this pious practice, he writes:

    "You are asked in charity to join with many others in
    accomplishing two very pious and holy works--the first of
    which consists in inviting and encouraging one another, with
    a holy love, to do penance with a true contrition, a sincere
    confession, and entire satisfaction, joining spiritual and
    corporal alms with fasts strictly kept and holy prayer, in
    order to meditate on the transformation of the soul in Christ,
    her well beloved; and, humbly prostrate at his sacred feet, to
    expose to him our particular spiritual wants and those of all
    our brethren, encouraging and aiding our soul, by good will,
    to clothe herself with those divine virtues, faith, hope, and
    charity."

The remainder of the letter sets forth in detail the arrangements for
carrying out the public ceremonies of the Quarant Ore, all breathing
the fragrance of Catholic piety. Yet it is more than probable that
the first plague-spots had already become visible in his character.
Boverio, the Capuchin annalist, still praises him, thus sketches this
portion of our history, and says that Fra Bernardino was

    "endowed with sagacity, good manners, and practical skill in
    management gained by a long and varied experience, gifted with
    a penetration and generosity of soul fit for the greatest
    enterprises, of an exterior so modest and retiring that every
    one recognized in him a rare stamp of virtue and sanctity; an
    admirable preacher, whose eloquence won souls, so that, by
    unanimous approval, in the third chapter of the entire order,
    he was elected general, in 1538. He governed the order with
    such good sense, prudence, and zeal for the observance of the
    rules, himself giving an example of every virtue, that his
    brethren applauded the choice of such a man. He visited all the
    convents, nearly always on foot. His exhortations to poverty,
    to observance of the rule, and other virtues were made with
    such admirable eloquence that the reputation which he had
    acquired both at home and abroad could not but increase; he
    enjoyed such great confidence with kings and princes that they
    employed him in the most difficult undertakings; the pope held
    him in the highest esteem; so much so, that it was necessary to
    have recourse to the pope in order to obtain him for preacher;
    the largest churches did not suffice to hold the throng of his
    hearers, so that temporary porticoes had to be erected, many
    even raising the tiles of the roof and climbing into the church
    to hear him. While preaching at Perugia, in 1540, he settled
    the most angry feuds. At Naples, having recommended from the
    pulpit some pious work, the alms collected amounted to five
    thousand sequins."

To this we may add that when three years, his term of office, had
expired, Fra Bernardino was reëlected. Yet, despite all this fair
appearance, things had not gone well in his heart. His passions,
restrained from sensual outbreaks and left more free in other things,
developed pride, and confidence in his own judgment, to the contempt
of others. The desire of gaining souls yielded slowly and almost
imperceptibly to the ambition of the orator. Moreover, he drew
from the works of Luther that fatal tendency to find in Holy Writ
a response to the dictates of private passion and prejudice. It is
said that, while preaching at Naples, in the church of San Giovanni
Maggiore, he had been incited by Valdes to insult Paul III., because
the holy father had not decorated him with the purple. Certain it
seems to be, that Valdes was intimately associated with the friar,
and helped to fill his heart with ambition and his head with the
doctrines of the Swiss and German heretics. The viceroy, Pedro de
Toledo, being informed that he was teaching the Lutheran novelties,
complained to the ecclesiastical authorities; but Ochino either
fairly stood the test of inquiry, or concealed his real opinions
under astute forms of speech. The latter is probably the case; for
the Dominican Caracciolo, in his MS. life of Paul IV., says,

    "Since he"--Ochino--"concealed within himself the venom of his
    doctrines under the appearance of an austere life, (a fair
    cloak,) and because he pretended to thunder against vice, the
    number of persons was small who could detect the cunning of the
    fox. Nevertheless there were some who discovered it; and among
    the first, as I have learned from my elders, could be cited our
    venerable fathers Don Gaetano and Don Giovanni; but they saw it
    more clearly in 1539, when Ochino, preaching in the pulpit of
    the cathedral, uttered many propositions against purgatory,
    indulgences, and the ecclesiastical laws about fasting, etc.;
    and, what is worse, the impious monk was accustomed to present
    as an interrogation that which St. Augustine has said in a
    simply negative form, as in the following passage: _Qui fecit
    te sine te, non salvabit te sine te?_--thus giving his audience
    to understand that faith alone suffices, and that God saves us
    without any good works on our part to coöperate with his; just
    the contrary of that which St. Augustine really teaches."

Caracciolo further narrates that systematic means were secretly taken
to spread these doctrines of Ochino, and that clandestine meetings
of those infected contributed to this end. Yet Fra Bernardino still
kept his fair fame, and maintained perfectly his Catholic exterior;
for the ensuing year witnessed the public devotions at Sienna to
which we have before alluded. It was at Venice, in 1541, that he was
for a time suspended from preaching. This was not due to any plain
and palpable errors of doctrine. For, although accusations against
him had been made by several persons, he had in a private interview
relieved the nuncio's present suspicions, if not his forebodings of
the future. The temporary prohibition to preach was caused by the
distrust of the nuncio, which was greatly aggravated by an allusion
on the part of Ochino to the arrest of Giulio Terenziano. The latter
was a theologian of Milan, an avowed and contumacious preacher of
heresy, whom the nuncio had silenced in the previous year. From the
pulpit Ochino appealed to the Venetians against such an exercise of
authority. He placed himself on the same footing with Terenziano, and
cried, "What have we done, O Venetians? What plots have we arranged
against you? O Bride and Queen of the Sea! if you cast into prison,
if you send to the gallows, those who announce the truth to you, how
shall that truth prevail?" Nevertheless, in three days the nuncio
restored to him his faculties, owing to the pressure brought to bear
by the friends and admirers of the monk.

After the close of Lent in 1542, Ochino gathered at Verona many of
the Capuchins of the Venetian province, and taught them his errors
with all that subtlety of argument and eloquence of persuasion which
seems to have characterized both his private and public speaking.[43]
He had now passed the zenith of his career and was fairly started on
his downward course. The luxury which he had ordered Fra Angelo to
use in rebuilding the convent at Sienna, was so openly against the
letter and spirit of his rule that many devout persons looked for his
speedy punishment. St. Cajetan Tiene had prevented him from preaching
at Rome. Among the number of those greatly alarmed for his safety was
Angela Negri de Gallarate, a friend of the Marquis del Vasto, the
latter at this time an intimate friend and private correspondent of
Ochino. This excellent lady, after hearing Fra Bernardino at Verona,
where he commented on the epistles of St. Paul, predicted that he
would fall into heresy. It soon became only too manifest. His disgust
for prayer, his absence from the choir, his weariness in assisting
at the sacred mysteries shocked his brethren, so long edified by his
pious bearing and assiduity in these good works. Among others, Fra
Agustino, of Sienna, gently reproved him, saying, "When you go to
administer the sacrament without prayer, you remind me of a rider
setting forth without stirrups; take care that you do not fall." Fra
Bernardino, whose soul was withering for want of that celestial dew
which falls only in the calm evening stillness of prayer, all worn
and jaded as he was with earthly labors, and, alas! success, could
only answer, that he did not cease praying who kept on doing good.

He was now engrossed with secular things, giving counsel in the
affairs of princes; and so completely was his time occupied, that he
requested the holy father to be relieved from the daily recitation
of the divine office. At this same period he entered into friendly
relations with the heretics, and eagerly read all their works.

The pope still had hopes of holding him back, invited him to Rome,
and even dreamed of giving him the purple. This brought affairs to
a crisis. Before accepting or rejecting the invitation, Ochino took
council with his friends. Giberti, the holy Bishop of Verona, sent
him to consult Cardinal Contarini, at Bologna. The latter was too
ill to hold a long conversation, and Ochino left him immediately to
seek Peter Martyr Vermigli, at Florence. This visit to Peter Martyr,
who, already rotten to the core, was shortly to fall, convinced the
Capuchin that his doctrines could not stand the censorship of Rome,
and that, if he went there, he must be prepared to renounce them.
This conviction and the urgent advice of Peter Martyr decided him to
leave Italy immediately. On the 22d of August, 1542, he writes to the
Marquis of Pescara, detailing his anxieties and the causes of his
flight.

    "I have learned," he writes, "that Farnese says I have been
    summoned to Rome for having preached heresy and scandalous
    things. The Theatine Puccio, and others whom I do not wish to
    name, have spoken so as to cause people to think that, if I had
    crucified Christ, they could not have made more noise about it."

Further on he shows consciousness of the sensation he is creating.
"These men," he says, "tremble before a poor monk."

Flight being determined upon, he took refuge, first, with Catharine
Cibo, Duchess of Camerino. Thence he fled to Ferrara.

Here he received letters of introduction to the principal heretics
of Geneva. On his way across the Apennines he had taken with him Fra
Mariano, a saintly lay-brother, of whose dove-like tenderness and
simplicity sweet anecdotes are told, recalling the early memories
of Assisi. Mariano, under the impression that they were going to
preach to the heretics, agreed to lay aside the religious habit; but,
on learning the fraud which Ochino had practised on him, sought to
recall his unfortunate superior. The haughty orator was proof to the
tears and entreaties of his humble brother, and the latter finally
turned back alone, carrying the seal of the order, which the apostate
had kept to the last.

Arrived at Geneva, Ochino was welcomed by the heretics as a great
accession.

Calvin wrote to Melancthon, "We have here Fra Bernardino, the famous
orator, whose departure has stirred Italy as it has never been
moved before." Prayers for him, indeed, were offered throughout
Italy. Among the Capuchins--who, it is said, came near being
suppressed--great pains were taken to eradicate the evil germs
sown by Ochino; and Fra Francesco, vicar of Milan, renouncing his
heresies, expiated them by a severe penance. Cardinal Caraffa, who,
a few years later became Paul IV., publicly lamented the apostasy of
Ochino in most eloquent terms, contrasting the austere Capuchin with
the unfrocked preacher, and calling on the erring son to return to
his mother. He promised in this case, moreover, kind treatment from
the pope, who had always shown great favor to Ochino.

In a letter from Geneva, in April, 1543, the apostate sought to
justify his career and to explain his later course of action.
This letter, addressed to Muzio, begins with that allusion to
youthful enthusiasm, which has since become the threadbare apology
of those who fling away the cowl. He describes his life among the
Observantines in the words of the apostle, "I made great progress
in the Jews' religion, above many of my equals in my own nation,
being more zealous for the traditions of my fathers." (Galat. i.
14.) But very soon he was enlightened by the Lord to the following
effect: "That it is Christ who has satisfied for the sins of his
elect, and has merited for them paradise, and that he alone is their
justification; that the vows pronounced in the religious orders are
not only invalid but impious; and that the Roman Church, although of
an exterior splendid to carnal eyes, is none the less an abomination
in the sight of God." This, he would have us believe, took place
before his entering the Capuchin order. This doctrine of the vanity
of good works, of the sinfulness of monastic vows, his excuse for
abandoning both, was rooted in his mind during those years of
rugged asceticism, while he still preached prayer and penance, as
we have seen at Sienna! A liar or a hypocrite? Perhaps neither. For
the remainder of the letter is full of that fanatical declamation
against Antichrist and the harlot of Babylon, and all that railing
cant in which weak brains and over-excited imaginations have, ever
since, found expression and relief. The magistrates of Sienna also
received a pointed letter, in which Ochino set forth his doctrine on
justification. The letter is in very much the same style as that to
Muzio.

Poor, despised Carlstadt, when he saw his hopeful pupil upset (as he
then supposed) the pope and cast the church to the winds, thought
that surely Luther would not assume to himself infallible authority
and supreme jurisdiction. In this he was mistaken, as he found to
his cost. For men who aid in rebellion against lawful authority
too often find themselves a prey to usurpers; and the Bible, torn
from the anointed hands of its only rightful interpreter, became
simply a slave; its sacred text an exordium for every fanatic and an
accomplice to every scoundrel. The position which Ochino took was the
same as that of all other heresiarchs, from him whom St. Polycarp
addressed as "the first born of Satan," down to the very latest. He
constantly applied to himself the language which only one apostle
dared to use. Although he did not profess to have seen the third
heaven, yet he did profess to be thoroughly competent to teach and
determine the Christian revelation. Under these circumstances, it is
not strange that he soon found himself in bad odor at Geneva, where
an authority, equally respectable, and likewise acknowledging the
right of private examination, nevertheless burned alive poor wretches
who were so unfortunate as not to agree with it. After founding the
Italian Church at Geneva, and there publishing several works, so
outrageous in their character as to draw condemnation even from some
Protestant historians, Ochino became embroiled with the Calvinists.
The natural result of these quarrels was his excommunication and
banishment by the latter. He fled with a woman to whom he had been
sacrilegiously married. At Basle, he published his sermons. Thence he
was called to preach at Augsburg, where he enjoyed great popularity
and a salary, until the invasion of Charles V. compelled him to
flee with Stancari of Mantua. Having met, at Strasburg, his old
friend, Peter Martyr, who, meanwhile, had openly apostatized, he
journeyed with him to England, and there preached to the Italian
refugees. On the death of Edward VI., he returned to Switzerland,
and was chosen pastor of the exiles of Locarno, who had obtained
from the Senate the use of a church and their native language. But
as at Geneva, so at Zurich, the right of private judgment involved
not merely the right to believe as one might list, but also the
right, if one were able, to force every body else to believe in
like manner. Ochino was accused of anti-trinitarianism and also of
sanctioning polygamy, and obliged to swear that he would live and
die in the faith of--what? who? The Catholic Church, whose demand on
the human intellect is at once a command to believe and a reason for
believing, backed by the pledged word of Jesus Christ? No! Ochino had
rejected her authority. He now swore to live and die in the teaching
of Zwinglius. This oath, however, seemed to lose its force in a few
days. For he shortly attacked what he had sworn to defend, and, in
his _Laberinto_, denied almost every article of the Christian faith.
Banished from Switzerland, he fled, in the dead of winter, with his
four children, into Poland, where he soon afterward earned universal
contempt, by publicly countenancing King Sigismund in a projected
bigamy. Bullinger, whom Ochino had called the "pope of Zurich," says
of him, "He is far advanced in the science of perdition, and an
ungrateful wretch toward the senate and the ministers, full of malice
and impiety." Beza also characterizes him as "_Bernardinum Ochinum,
monachum magni nominis apud Italos, et auctorem ordinis Capucinorum,
qui in fine se ostendit esse iniquum hypocritam_. Bernardino Ochino,
a monk of great name among the Italians, founder of the Capuchins,"
(this a mistake,) "who finally showed himself to be a wicked
hypocrite."

From these words of Beza, Boverio has sought to infer that the
apostate finally repented and was restored to the Catholic communion.
He has also introduced testimony to prove that Ochino was poniarded
at Geneva, after professing the Catholic faith and confessing to
a priest. But historians seem to favor the tradition recorded by
Graziani, who says, "_Ochinus Polonia excessit, ac omnibus extorris
ac profugus, cum in vili Moraviæ pago a vetere amico hospitio esset
acceptus ibi senio fessus cum uxore ac duabus filiabus, filioque una
peste interiit_. Ochino died in Poland a universal outcast, after
having accepted the hospitality of an old friend, in an obscure
village of Moravia. Here, worn out with age, he perished, together
with his wife, two daughters and son, in one pestilence."

To rehearse the various opinions of Ochino would be a difficult
and thankless task. Like most of the reformers, he taught the
total depravity of human nature and human reason, and, in order to
establish the motives of faith, appealed to private illumination,
assuming for the disciple what he denied to the teacher.

Besides this miserable travesty of the Christian distinction between
the natural and supernatural orders, there is in his doctrine
scarcely one point of resemblance to the Catholic faith. Having cast
away the ballast that had steadied his earlier years, the power which
had carried him on such a brilliant course proved his ruin. His
ignominious death did not excite enough pity to cause itself to be
remembered. He disappeared a lonely and abandoned wreck.

FOOTNOTE:

[43] Among those who yielded to his fatal and seductive influence
was Fra Bartolomeo Coni, guardian of the monastery of Verona, who
afterward became a heretic.



OLD BOOKS.


I.

Let the world run after new books; commend me to the enduring
fascination of old ones--not old only in authorship, but old in
imprint, in form and comeliness, or perhaps _un_comeliness!

What value is there in gilded edges and Turkey leather, which must
be handled so gingerly, compared with the sturdy calfskin, ribbed
and bevelled, which has outlived generations of human calves? and
what is tinted hot-press to the page grown yellow in the atmosphere
of centuries? The quaintly spelt word, the ornamented initial
which begins each chapter, and the more elaborate ornamentation of
dedication and title-page--all so poor now as works of art, yet in
their day masterpieces of handicraft--there is a spell in them! till
from that olden time

           ... "a thousand fantasies,
    Begin to throng into my memory."

                                                    _Comus._

A heavy quarto lies here bearing impress on its exterior, _Workes of
Lvcivs Annævs Seneca. Both Morall and Naturall. Translated by Thomas
Lodge, D. of Physicke_; and within is a long Latin dedication to the
_Illvstrissimo D. Thomæ Egertono, Domino de Ellismere, etc., etc.
London, 1614_.

Not so very old either; but within that time what changes have
passed over the world! How often has ambition or popular discontent,
or perchance honest resistance, revolutionized nations, and swept
away the boundaries of kingdoms! How often some power, seemingly
inadequate to the effect, has changed the currents of human thought,
and exalted or degraded not only individuals, but aggregate masses
of humanity, as effectively as the earthquake convulses, and then
depresses or upheaves the visible surface on which they dwell!

What changes also in the especial surroundings of this individual
volume! What improvements in the petty affairs of domestic life,
the little arrangements of the household; in the union of science
and mechanical art to produce necessaries and superfluities;
in refinements of sentiment and manners; in a better relation
between rulers and the ruled; and, to sum up all, in a more just
appreciation by each individual of what he owes to himself and to his
fellow-creatures!

All through the wide extent of this past time history and legends
stretch back their ramifications, like paths through some vast
extended landscape. In some places clear and well defined, and easily
followed; again, leading through tangle and uncertainty, and at more
than one point brought to an abrupt termination, beyond which all
vestige of a way is lost. We tread here in thought a space of time
which has been passed over by millions and millions--that countless
throng of the nameless whose steps have left no foot-print--and where
to a few only has been accorded the privilege of marking, by deed
or word, the spot whereon they stood. It is the buried city of the
immaterial world--where is uncovered to us noble deeds, and lofty
aspirations, and holy purposes; and in darker spots are wrecks of
hopes, and hearts, and immortal souls, to which all the wealth gone
down in ocean counts as nothing.

To retrace again and again these paths, so often indistinct and so
often awakening an interest they fail to gratify; to remove with
patient toil here the doubt and there the untruth which encumber
them, and anon to clear away some obstacle and open to sight a
new vista, has been at all periods the occupation and the richest
intellectual enjoyment of some of the most gifted minds, who accepted
their ample reward in the simple success of their labors. Even the
more humble wanderer through the mazy labyrinth, whose limited scope
it is only to gaze and wonder, finds a charm in such investigations
widely different from any other mental pursuit. It is the charm of
a common humanity--the recognition and acknowledgment of a chain,
invisible and intangible, and in a measure undefinable, but too
strong ever to be broken, which unites each to the other the whole
human family. It is not religion--neither philosophy; for in many a
land, despite the barbarous precepts of a so-called religion, and
where philosophy was never heard of, it vibrates in the savage heart
to the necessities of the stranger. Its first link is riveted in our
common origin; and its mysterious existence widely and wisely asserts
itself in the interest with which, for human creatures, is ever
invested the affairs of human kind.

Furthermore, it is this great social bond which attracts us to the
personages of fiction, and always precisely in proportion as they
assimilate to real life; and since even the most successful creations
of fancy can hardly fail to fall short, in some point, of realities,
so truth itself, properly presented, will always possess attractions
beyond any fiction.

But it is not in battle-fields and conquests, nor yet in the
impassioned eloquence or astute wisdom of senates and council
chambers, that we hold closest communion with the buried of long
ago; it is in that homely every-day life which we are ourselves
living; in the little pleasures, regrets, and loves; in the
annoyances, successes, and failures; in the very mistakes and
imprudences which made up the _ego ipse_ so like our own that we
find companionship. How they return to life again in all these
things! and we enter into their most private chambers--the doors
are all open now--and read their most private thoughts. We know
them better than did their contemporaries; and they suffer a wrong
sometimes in this ruthless unveiling which our heart resents. Now,
it is proper that truth should ultimately, even on earth, prevail;
and that the traitorous soldier and unscrupulous courtier, after
having lived their lives out in ill-gotten wealth and undeserved
honor, should wear in history their true colors; that even a woman's
misdeeds, when they touch public interest, should be brought to meet
a public verdict; but then these little private endurances--the
life-long struggle with poverty here, the unavailing concessions to
unreasonable tyranny by home and hearth there, the martyrdom of life,
as it may be called, which they so carefully guarded from sight--how
it is all paraded now to the world, and passed from book to book!

And yet it takes all this to make up the entire truthful portrait.
Indeed, so very far does it go to modify our opinions of them, that
the judgments formed without it must be oftentimes very erroneous.


II.

Had our old book but a tongue, what tales it might tell of the life
after life which has passed before it!

Since the date of its printing, 1614, twelve sovereigns have worn
the English crown; for in that year James I. was upon the throne of
his mother's enemy. Eleven years before, when a messenger was sent
to him in Scotland with an announcement of the death of Elizabeth
and his own accession, the tidings found him so poor that he was
obliged to apply to the English secretary, Cecil, for money to pay
his expenses to London. His wants multiplied rapidly. From his
first stopping-place he sent a courier forward to demand the crown
jewels for his wife; and a little further on another messenger
was dispatched for coaches, horses, litters, and, "above all, a
chamberlain much needed."

This journey of James was a very unique affair. Honors were scattered
so lavishingly that knighthood was to be had for the asking; and a
little pasquinade appeared in print, advertising itself--_A Help to
Memorie in learning Names of English Nobility_.

    "At Newark-upon-Trent (says Stow) was taken a cut-purse, a
    pilfering thief all gentleman outside, with good stores of
    gold about him, who confessed he had followed the court from
    Berwick; and the king, hearing of this gallant, did direct a
    warrant to have him hanged immediately."[44]

And so began at the very outset the spirit which said afterward,
"Do I make the lords? Do I make the bishops? Then God's grace--I
make what likes me of law and gospel!" So outspoke the king; who
is described by those who went to meet him as "ill-favored in
appearance, slovenly, dirty, and wearing always a wadded dagger-proof
doublet."

These eleven years of his reign had been fruitful in troubles of all
kinds. The death of his son Henry, and the alleged, but never proven
schemes of Lady Arabella Stuart to gain the throne, made a portion
of them; and all were aggravated by that spectre, conjured up by his
reckless extravagance, and which haunted him to the last moment of
his life--an empty purse. When his daughter Elizabeth was married to
the Palatine of Bohemia, the fireworks alone of London cost seven
thousand pounds; and when my Lord Hargrave accompanied the bride to
the Rhine and brought back a bill of thirty thousand pounds, the
king, having neither gold nor silver to pay with, gave him a grant
_to coin base farthings in brass_.

King James, in a book which he wrote on _Sports_, advocates all
active exercises, and one of his own greatest pleasures had always
been hunting. When so engaged, every thing else was forgotten,
and hence arose a grievance by no means trifling to his English
subjects--he and his courtiers, his companions in the chase, not
unfrequently quartered themselves in some district where game
abounded, until the provisions of the locality were absolutely
exhausted. There is a story told of him that, while hunting at
Royston, his favorite hound Jowler was missed one day, and the next
he reappeared with a paper fastened on his neck, upon which was
written--

    "Good Mister Jowler, I pray you speak to the king, for he hears
    you every day, (and he doth not so us,) that it will please his
    majesty to go back to London, for all our provision is spent."
    ... "however, (says the courtier,) from Royston he means to go
    to New-Market, and from thence to Thetford."[45]

How much further he might have been led to hunt, is unknown; for
there Lord Hay, who loved hounds, and horns also, promised no more to
importune his majesty, and his more sedate counsellors succeeded in
getting him back to business. In the mean time, in the more weighty
matters of politics and religion, where the ambitious nobles of
two countries intrigued and plotted for power over a monarch easily
imposed upon, discord and contention reigned, until in 1614 they seem
to have reached their height.

And so stood the world, old book! into which thou wert launched. Guy
Fawkes and his crew had been swept from the earth; but in the Tower
of London this year lay a more noble company, accused of the same
crime--treason. There was Earl Grey, and Lord Cobham, and Sir Walter
Raleigh, besides some others. These three had been tried, convicted,
sentenced to die, and taken to the scaffold; and at the last moment
reprieved and committed to the Tower. At the last moment it was, and
it came near being a minute too late; for James wrote his order in
such haste that he forgot to sign it, and the messenger was called
back; then when this one man on horseback reached the place of
execution, the great crowd gathered there prevented his being seen
or heard for a long time, and the axe was just ready for the fatal
stroke. On what a chance hung three lives! But what availed their
added years? Earl Grey is dying now in that Tower; and Lord Cobham,
never very strong in intellect, has grown weaker still in captivity;
and so, after a little time, he is suffered to wander out; and he
goes to a miserable hovel in the Minories, and climbs a ladder to a
loft, and lies down on straw--to die of very destitution.

Three years hence King James will want money even more than he does
now; and he will call Sir Walter Raleigh from his cell, and place
him at the head of a fleet; for Sir Walter--who has been to the
new world in years long gone by--insinuates that _there_ gold is
to be had for the digging. He fails to get it, though; and on his
return to England, he is seized, and, with only the shadow of a just
trial, executed; partly on the old sentence, but more to please the
Spaniards, whom he came in conflict with abroad.

Another life is this year pining itself away in that Tower--the Lady
Arabella Stuart; a woman descended from royalty, Henry VII., in the
same degree as King James himself, and therefore to be feared. Many
years ago charges of conspiracy against the government were brought
against her, and she was placed in confinement. She contrived to
escape, and with her husband, Lord Seymour, attempted to reach
France. By some mischance they were separated in their flight; he
reached the coast of Flanders in safety, but the little vessel in
which she had embarked was pursued, overtaken, and the unhappy
fugitive compelled to return. Love and hope bore her up bravely for a
time; but she is sinking at last, and it is recorded that September
27th, 1615, she died there.

High above all this misery merry notes were heard; for in 1614, was
a grand marriage and banqueting such as London had not seen--no, not
even at the bridal of the king's own daughter. The story is sadder
than any fiction, a "sad o'er true tale"--as follows:

Some years before this, the Lady Frances Howard, daughter of the Earl
of Suffolk, beautiful and accomplished, though still a mere child
of thirteen years, was married to the Earl of Essex, a few years
older. The ceremony was merely to secure the alliance; for the young
countess returned to her home and her embroidery, and the earl to
the university. Four years after, he went to claim the bride whose
image had doubtless oftentimes stolen between him and his books; "but
(says the chronicle) his joy was overcast: he found her cold and
contemptuous, and altogether averse to him."

A change had come over the lady. She had met her evil genius in the
unprincipled favorite of King James, the Lord Rochester, who on his
side was vain of his conquest. At this point Lady Frances is an
object of pity; for she was the victim of a usage of courts which
makes and mars the most solemn of all contracts without the least
regard to individual bias; a usage which is responsible for some of
the blackest crimes of history; but, O woman! from thy first steps
downward how rapid is the descent; wandering thoughts, folly--crime!
Such was the story of Lady Frances. Pity changes to horror at her
subsequent career, and the unscrupulous vindictiveness which she
displayed toward all those who strove to arrest her course. Most
conspicuous among such was Sir Thomas Overbury, the bosom friend of
Lord Rochester himself. He had more than once aided their meetings,
and--so said gossip--had even penned the epistles which won her;
but he became alarmed at the length to which their ventures were
carried; and when the next step proposed was a divorce from the Earl
Essex, he gave Rochester much good advice and solemn warning that
he withdrew his aid in future. This was reported to the countess,
and his doom was sealed. She failed in several attempts to involve
him in individual disputes, whereby, as she hoped, a duel might
have closed his life; she failed in having him sent in a public
capacity abroad; she succeeded, however, in having him implicated in
disloyalty and committed to the Tower, when shortly after he suddenly
died. A divorce was now sought on some trifling pretext; and as no
remonstrance was offered by Earl Essex, it was soon obtained; and in
order that she might not lose rank, King James created Rochester Earl
of Somerset.

And now, with nothing to mar their felicities, London was ablaze
with bonfires over their marriage celebration.

    "The glorious days were seconded by as glorious nights, when
    masques and dances had a continual motion; the king affecting
    such high-flying festivities and banqueting as might wrap
    up his spirit and keep it from earthly things.... Upon the
    Wednesday following was another grand masque, got up by the
    gentlemen of Prince Charles's household; and this so far
    surpassed the other, that the king caused it to be acted again.
    Then, January 4th, the bride and bridegroom with a crowd of
    nobles were invited to a treat in the city, where my lord mayor
    and aldermen entertained them in scarlet gowns. After supper
    was a wassail, a play, and a dance.... At three in the morning,
    they returned to Whitehall. On Twelfth-day the gentlemen of
    Grey's Inn invited the bride and bridegroom to masque." (Roger
    Coke.)

A brilliant triumph, soon to meet with a dark reverse. Scarcely a
year had passed, when a new candidate for the king's favor appeared
in Villiers, afterward created Duke of Buckingham; and the weak
monarch, readily attracted by a new face, was very soon anxious to
rid himself of Somerset. Enemies of the still beautiful countess were
not slow to avail themselves of the royal mood; nor was it difficult
to find in her questionable career a pretext for suspicion. With
consent of the king, they were conjointly accused of having caused
the death of Sir Thomas Overbury by poison, and sent to the Tower. It
is recorded that Earl Somerset was hunting with the king at Royston,
and actually sitting beside him when the warrant was served; and when
he appealed to his royal master to forbid the indignity, King James
only answered,

"An' ye _must_ go, mon; for if Coke sent for _me_, I must go."

After the examination of some three hundred witnesses, Sir Edward
Coke reported that the countess had used unlawful arts to separate
herself from Earl Essex, and to win the love of Rochester, and that
they had together plotted the death of Sir Thomas Overbury. Some
of the inferior actors in the tragedy were condemned and executed;
among them Mrs. Turner, who had in former years been governess to
the countess, and who had once persuaded her to consult a wizard
or fortune-teller--from whence came the charge of "unlawful arts."
The unhappy principals were repeatedly questioned, and exhorted
to confess; but with no avail. The countess at times made some
admissions, but none which implicated the earl or seriously
convicted herself; and we are fain to believe they arose rather
from her unmitigated misery, and the harassing importunities of her
judges, than from conscious guilt. They were at length restored to
liberty--at least to the liberty of banishment from court; liberty to
return to their country-seat and remain there; and there, a writer of
that day tells us, "they lived in the same house many years without
exchanging a word with each other."

King James seems to have devoted no small portion of his time to
advancing the interests of Cupid--if love it could be called, where
love there was none. Sir Edward Coke had himself an only daughter,
whom the king assigned to Viscount Purbeck, brother of the Duke of
Buckingham. The wife of Coke, Lady Hatton, was a very Xantippe; and
the eloquence of the great jurist, which could sway multitudes, and
check or change the course of political events, was totally powerless
within the walls of his own castle. Lady Hatton wisely opposed this
match, to which her daughter was averse; but in this case the king
as well as Sir Edward had decided, and for once she was obliged to
yield; "the king doing the matter (says an old writer) as if the
safety of the nation depended on its completion." Lady Hatton had
one retaliation within her reach, and she took it; she gave orders
that at the wedding "neither Sir Edward Coke nor any of his servants
be admitted."[46]

How fared at last the hapless Lady Purbeck, the heiress of thousands
and thousands? She had the misery to see the husband _not_ of her
choice become in a short time hopelessly insane; while his brother,
under pretence of looking after his affairs, left her, at times,
almost penniless. Her letters to this unprincipled miscreant, written
oftentimes under bodily as well as mental suffering, are truly
touching. In one of them she says,

    "Think not to send me again to my mother. I will beg my bread
    in the streets, to all your dishonors, rather than more trouble
    my friends." (Letter in the Caballa.)

Such were the tales of wretchedness within the precincts of a court.


III.

The career of King James and his son after the insolent and
unscrupulous Buckingham appeared to lead or drive them, as the case
might be, seems scarcely the actual history of sane men. When the
downfall of Somerset left him supreme master, he seems to have taken
possession of both king and palace. He soon sent for his kindred from
all parts of the country; and their arrival is thus described:

    "... the old countess, his mother, providing a place for them
    to learn to carry themselves in a court-like garb. He desired
    to match them with wives and husbands, inasmuch as his very
    female kindred were enough to stock a plantation. So that King
    James, who in former times so hated women, had his lodgings
    replenished with them; ... little children did run up and down
    the king's lodgings like little rabbits; ... for the kindred
    had all the houses about Whitehall, like bulwarks and flankers
    to a citadel." (Weldon.) #/

The most amusing event--or rather the most amusing absurdity in the
annals of that period, or one might say of any other period--was the
expedition of Prince Charles to Spain, in 1623, to bring home a wife.

Lord Bristol was at the court of Philip IV., negotiating a marriage
between the infanta, his sister, and Prince Charles, and endeavoring
to secure for him her magnificent dower; when Buckingham, thinking
he was gaining too much credit by his labors, felt desirous of going
himself to the spot and taking a part in the matter.

How was this to be accomplished? His wits never failed him. He
approached Charles with a general lamentation over royal marriages,
where the parties meet first at the altar--too late to retreat--and
suggested to him the advantages and romance of presenting himself in
person to the infanta, and bringing her home a bride. Charles was
charmed with the quixotic notion, and they adjourned to the palace
to obtain the king's consent. He at first flatly refused; then
consented. The next day he fell into a passion of tears, and prayed
to be released from his promise; for he feared the dangers of the
journey, and the false reports and suspicions it might give rise to
among his subjects. Charles was persuasive, the duke indignant and
insolent, and once more the king told them to go. In the words of a
historian--

    ... "So he said he would send Sir Francis Cottington and
    Endymion Porter with them; and he called Cottington in and told
    him that baby Charles and Stenie (as he always called them) had
    a mind to go to Spain and bring the infanta; and Cottington
    being pressed to speak of it, said it was both unsafe and
    unwise; whereupon the king wept again, and said, 'I told you
    so! I told you so!' Then Buckingham abused them all."

After another storm of words, it was decided that they should go in
disguise, with only these two attendants. Their incognito was very
poorly carried out; for at Gravesend they were suspected by giving
gold coin, and at Canterbury they would have been arrested, had
not Buckingham taken off his false wig and privately made himself
known to the mayor. Finally they reached Dover, where they found
Cottington, who had gone on before, in readiness with a vessel, and
they set sail for the French coast.

In Paris, a Scottish nobleman who had somehow received intimation of
their being there, called late one night on the English ambassador,
and asked if he had seen the prince. "What prince?" "Prince Charles,"
was the reply; but it was too incredible for belief. Yet while in
Paris, although not considering it worth their while to visit the
British ambassador, they contrived to gain admission, without being
recognized, to a court dancing-party, where Charles saw for the first
time the fascinating Princess Henrietta.[47]

The consternation in England when their departure, so unbefitting
royalty, was discovered, can scarcely be imagined. The king ordered
prayers to be offered for their safe return; but no allusion made to
their destination. A gentleman of that day, named Meade, writing to a
friend, tells this story:

    "The Bishop of London, you know, gave orders, as from the king,
    that they pray for the safe return of the prince to us; and no
    more. An honest, plain preacher here prayed 'that God would
    return our noble prince to us, and no more!' thinking it all a
    piece of the prayer."

Meanwhile these two knights-errant, or, as the king said, "sweet boys
and dear venturous knights, worthy to be put in a new romanzo,"[48]
continued their journey. At last, at the close of an evening in
March, two mules stopped at the house of my Lord Bristol in Madrid,
and the riders alighted. _Mr. Thomas Smith_ went in first with a
portmanteau under his arm--then _Mr. John Smith_ was called in; and
before the amazed diplomatist stood the heir to the British crown and
the Marquis of Buckingham. He stared as if he had seen two ghosts;
but he presently took Prince Charles to a bed-chamber, and dispatched
a courier to inform his father of his safe arrival.

The Spanish court took the matter in its most chivalrous light, as
the impulse of a lover; although rather puzzled how to arrange a
reception in a case which certainly had no precedent. The Spanish
people were enthusiastic. The infanta blushed charmingly at such
unheard-of homage, and began to study English. King James sent over a
troop of courtiers for a retinue, who proved a rough set--"jeering at
the cookery and the religion, and making themselves odious."[49] The
Spanish prime minister was soon disgusted with Buckingham, and would
have been still more so if he could have understood all his swearing
words--"which fortunately he cannot, (says a contemporary,) because
they are done in English."

The letters which passed between this precious couple and the king
at home are amusing. A want of money was his majesty's normal
condition; and the pitiless way in which they seemed to ignore it, by
making constant requisitions on his purse, is surprising and amusing
effrontery. Prince Charles writes,

    "I confess you have sent me more jewels than I'd have use for
    but here, seeing so many. Some that you have appointed me to
    give the infanta, in Stenie's opinion and mine are not fit for
    her. I pray your majesty send more for my own wearing." #/

Then Buckingham defines more precisely their necessities.

    "Though your baby himself hath sent word what needs he hath,
    yet will I give my poor and saucy opinion what will be fittest
    to send. Sire, he hath neither chain, or hat-band; and pray you
    consider how rich they are here, and since your chiefest jewel
    is here, your son, I pray you let loose these after him. First,
    your best hat-band of the Portugal diamond, and the rest of
    the pendants to make up a necklace to give his mistress. Also
    the best rope of pearls, with a rich chain or two for himself,
    and some other jewels, not to deserve that name, that will
    serve for presents and save your purse. They never had so great
    occasion to get out of their boxes as now."

King James found consolation in believing that they would soon return
with the infanta and her dower; so he strove his best to supply them,
and touched on smaller matters. He besought baby Charles and Stenie
not to forget their dancing, though they

    "should whistle or sing, one for the other, for the lack of
    better music; ... but you must be as sparing as you can in your
    spending, for your officers are put to the height of their
    speed.... I pray you, my baby, take care of being hurt if you
    run at tilt." (Letters in Ellis Collec.)

Difficult as it was for the king to satisfy their pecuniary demands,
and desirous though he was to act on Prince Charles's frequent
suggestion, to "consult no counsel, but leave all to Stenie and me,"
he received from them some proposals which rather exceeded his powers
of acceptance; one of which was nothing less than that, to please
Spain, he should acknowledge the pope's spiritual supremacy![50]
Probably at this point some little vision of the people of England
flitted over him; for he replied that he had made a great many
concessions already, and added--

    "Now, I cannot change my religion as a man changes his shirt at
    tennis."

The end of their expedition, and of the negotiations with Spain,
are well known. After meeting the most honorable hospitality, they
raised objections which they never intended to have removed, and made
promises which they never meant to fulfil; and returned home without
the infanta, and without her dower, to reject with insult the Spanish
alliance and lay the blame on Spain.

King James died like any common mortal, in the most literal
acceptation of the phrase. The same slight cold passing into mortal
sickness, the household called up in alarm at day-dawn, the same
hugging on to the dear old life. The countess, mother of Buckingham,
"ran with a draught and a posset;" he took the draught and applied
the posset, but it was too late--and the prince, as Charles I.,
succeeded him.

Charles had married the sister of the French king, the Princess
Henrietta, whose dancing had captivated his youthful fancy on his way
to Spain; but some little discord and confusion had crept into the
music and dancing of their English home. He had promised religious
freedom for herself and her household. Her retinue was very numerous,
and, with different religious creeds and widely different social
habits, it is not surprising that year by year a sort of estrangement
seemed to grow up between them. His majesty ascribed this to foreign
influence; and he resolved to rule his own household, and in that
very expressive phrase--_make a clean sweep_.

    "One fine afternoon the king went unannounced to the queen's
    side of the house, and finding some Frenchmen dancing and
    curvetting in her presence, took her hand and led her to his
    own lodgings; ... then my Lord Conway called forth the French
    bishop and others, and told them the king's pleasure was that
    all her majesty's servants of that nation, men and women, old
    and young, with three or four exceptions, should depart the
    kingdom. The bishop stood on, that he could not go unless the
    king his master commanded; but he was told the king his master
    had nothing to do in England.... The women howled and wept as
    if they were going to execution; but it did no good, they were
    thrust out and the doors locked."[51]

Buckingham was charged with their transportation and shipping at
Dover; and his master wrote--

    "Stick not long in disputing with them, Stenie; but drive them
    away like wild beasts--and the devil go with them."

But an ambassador was dispatched to the French court with
explanations.

The civil wars which desolated the kingdom under Charles I., and
stained the soil of England with English blood, are familiar to all.
Buckingham fell by the knife of an assassin. Whether sadly unwise or
fearfully criminal, the king expiated his mistakes with his life. He
was seized and imprisoned; and after a trial condemned and executed.
His queen, Henrietta, with her children, all except one, were in
France for safety. His little daughter, the Princess Elizabeth, was
in England, and at his request was conducted to him the last evening
of his life. Then, says Whitlock,

    "it was sad to see him--he took the princess in his arms and
    kissed her, and gave her two diamonds; and there was great
    weeping."

There is preserved, in several collections of old poetry, a long and
pathetic elegy, written by King Charles at Carisbrook Castle, where
he was imprisoned; it is entitled, _An Imploration to the King of
Kings_, and he sadly says therein--

    "The fiercest furies that do daily tread
    Upon my grief, my gray, discrowned head,
    Are those that owe my bounty for their bread.

    But sacred Saviour! with thy words I woo
    Thee to forgive, and not be bitter to
    Such as thou knowest do not know what they do."

The _Commonwealth of England_, whose first grand state seal dated
1648, came virtually to its end at the death of its founder in 1658;
and a few years later Charles II. was called from exile to the throne
of his fathers.

He is called the _merrie_ monarch; but very far from _merrie_ was
the nation under his rule--dissensions and discontent pervaded it
in every direction. The truth is, that the prominence given in
brief histories to this epithet, the madcap frolics of his court,
the witty and unprincipled nobles, and the uncommon array of female
beauty which made up the surroundings of his own indolence and love
of pleasure, lead to a sort of general idea that all England was
one grand carousal. A nearer view changes the scene. The religious
contests between conformists and non-conformists, which began in
1662 and lasted some twenty-six years--the fruitful harvest planted
in preceding years of anarchy and fanaticism--present pictures of
persecution and suffering such as enter only into religious warfare;
and which, perhaps, it is most charity to refer to the importance
which the opposing parties attach to their subject. During these
twenty-six years it is computed that the penalties which were
inflicted amounted to between twelve and fourteen millions sterling,
and the sufferers for conscience' sake numbered 60,000. Homeless, and
hungry, and penniless, they wandered about or were immured in jails;
and contemporary writers (Defoe, Penn) assert that from 5000 to 8000
perished "like sheep, in those noisome pest-houses." Surely that was
not the day of _merrie_ old England, beyond the precincts of the
court.

Charles was succeeded by his brother, James II., who was soon
deposed, and William, Prince of Orange, who had married his daughter
Mary, was invited to the throne. Next to these came another daughter
of James, Queen Anne; and with her expired the line of the Stuarts.
The dark fortunes of Mary Stuart rested in some form on all her
descendants.


IV.

In what quiet library, in what lordly mansion, was this old book
safely stored away through all these changing scenes of pageantry
and splendor, of riot and bloodshed? Who was he that first received
it, new and comely, from the hands of _William Stanly, printer_,
(who is saved to fame in a little corner of the title-page,) and
what name is this, written on the margin in ink, embrowned now and
almost obliterated, which evidently was once intended to establish
ownership? The dedication to my Lord of Ellismere bespeaks for it a
place with the noble and learned; who among them found time then to
seek

    "how to liue wel and how to die wel, from our Seneca--whose
    diuine sentences, wholesom counsailes, serious exclamations
    against vices, in being but a heathen, may make us ashamed
    being Christians." (Translator's preface.)

What statesman, by lamplight perhaps, when the toils of the day were
over, turned these very pages, and drew a rule for his steps from
the maxims of the Roman? Hadst thou but a tongue, old book, what
tales thou mightest tell! Where wert thou when that pestilence, the
plague, swept from London 100,000 of its inhabitants? or where when
its career was checked by that other horror, the great conflagration?
when the bells from a hundred steeples tolled their own requiem, and
the number of houses in London was diminished by 13,000.

One hundred years had passed over it when George I. ascended the
English throne; then came Georges II., III., and IV., King William
and Queen Victoria. Under the two first, no small portion of the
troubles, both at home and with foreign nations, were traceable to
the plots and intrigues of the last solitary scion of the house of
Stuart; and with George III. a new war boomed over the Atlantic. At
last it was finished; and at the somewhat mature age of two hundred
and fifty-six years, but still in good condition, our time-honored
volume has crossed the ocean to find a new home under the stripes and
stars. One more exponent, in its silent eloquence, of that

    "Vitæ summa brevis"

which the Roman poet warns us is not to be counted on.

FOOTNOTES:

[44] Letters in Sir Henry Ellis's Collec.

[45] Letter of Lascelles to Earl Shrewsbury.

[46] Stratford.

[47] Wotton Reliq. (Sir Henry Wotton, once secretary to Raleigh.)

[48] Ellis Collec.

[49] Howell.

[50] Hardwicke State Papers.

[51] Letter of John Porry in Ellis Col.



THE VATICAN COUNCIL.

NUMBER FOUR.


Another month of the Vatican Council has passed by without any public
session. There has not been a general congregation since February
22d, when the twenty-ninth was held. This absence of grand public
ceremonials has driven some of the newspaper correspondents to turn
elsewhere in search of sensational items. We are no longer inundated,
and at times amused, by column after column of newspaper accounts
narrating speeches and events in the council that had scarcely any
existence, except in the fertile imaginations of the writers. The
outward calm in Rome has produced its effect in no small extent in
the newspaper world.

This calm, however, is by no means the calm of inaction. Quite the
contrary. At no time were the fathers so assiduously engaged in the
deep study of the matters before them, or more earnestly occupied
with their conciliar labors.

We stated in our last number that they were then engaged in the
discussion of the subjects of discipline, on which several
_schemata_, or draughts, had been drawn up by preparatory committees
of theologians, in anticipation of the council. The discussion was
continued, on February 19th, with six speakers, on the 21st with
seven speakers, and was closed on the 22d with seven other speakers,
when the fourth _schema_, or draught, on discipline, was referred,
as the preceding ones had been, to the appropriate committee or
_deputation_ on matters of discipline.

Thus, within two months, since the congregation of December 28th,
when the discussion began, one _schema_ on faith and four on
discipline had come up before the bishops; and there had been in all
one hundred and forty-five speeches delivered on them. The experience
of those two months had made several points very clear:

First, the _schemata_, or draughts, as prepared by the theologians,
did not prove as acceptable to the bishops as perhaps their authors
had expected. On the contrary, the bishops subjected them to a very
searching examination and discussion, criticising and weighing every
point and every expression; and seemed disposed, in measure, to
recast some of them entirely.

Secondly, the mode in which this examination had so far been
conducted might, it was thought, be improved, both in its
thoroughness and in the length of time it occupied. So far, all the
prelates who wished had spoken one after another. The sittings of the
congregations usually lasted from nine A.M. to one P.M., and became a
great trial of the physical endurance of many of these aged men. The
prelates could not refrain from asking each other, What progress are
we making? How long will this series of speeches last?

Again, many of the speakers, unwilling to occupy the attention of the
congregation too long, strove to condense what they wished to say,
and sometimes omitted much that might have thrown additional light on
the subject, or would be material for the support of their views. Yet
how could this be avoided without extending the discussion beyond the
limits of endurance.

Still more, many prelates, whose mature and experienced judgments
would have been most valuable, would not speak; some, because they
were unwilling to increase the already large number of speakers;
others, because their organs of speech were too feeble to assure
their being heard throughout a hall which held over a thousand
persons in by no means crowded seats.

These points had gradually made themselves manifest, and, as we
intimated in our last article, the question had been raised, how
these difficulties could be met. Some suggested a division of
the prelates into a number of sections, in each and all of which
the discussions might go on at the same time. But, after much
consideration, another method was resolved on, and was announced in
the congregation of the 22d of February as the one to be followed in
the examination and discussion of the next _schema_, or draught, to
be taken up by the council.

The main points of these additional regulations are the following:
When a _schema_ comes before the council for examination, instead
of the _vivâ voce_ discussion, which according to the first system
would take place in the congregations, before sending it to the
proper committee, if necessary, the cardinals presiding shall fix
and announce a suitable time, within which any and every one of
the fathers, who desires to do so, may commit his views on it to
writing, and shall send in the same to the secretary of the council.
Any amendments, additions, and corrections which he may wish to make
must be fully and clearly written out. The secretary must, at the
end of the appointed time, transmit to the appropriate committee,
or _deputation_ of bishops, all the remarks on the _schema_. The
_schema_ will be examined and remodelled, if necessary, by the
committee, under the light of these written statements, precisely
as would be done if the members had before them the full report
of speeches made in the former style before the congregation. The
reformed _schema_ is again presented to the congregation, and with
it a summary exposition of the substance of the remarks and of the
amendments proposed. "When the _schema_, together with the aforesaid
summary, has been distributed to the fathers of the council, the
said presidents shall appoint a day for its discussion in general
congregation." In parliamentary usage, this corresponds to having the
discussion, not on the first, but on the second reading of a bill.

This discussion must proceed in the strict order of topics, first
generally; that is, on the _schema_ wholly or in part, as it may have
been brought before the congregation; then on the several portions of
it, one by one. The speakers who wish to take part in the discussion
must, in giving in their names as before, state also whether they
intend to speak on the _schema_ as a whole, or on some special parts
of it, and which ones. The form of amendment, should a speaker
propose one, must be handed in, in writing, at the conclusion of his
speech. Of course, the speakers must keep to the point in debate.
If any one wanders from it, he will be called to order. The members
of the reporting committee or deputation will, moreover, be free to
speak in reply, during the debate, as they judge it advisable.

The last four of these by-laws are the following:

    XI. "If the discussion be unreasonably protracted, after the
    subject has been sufficiently debated, the cardinals presiding,
    on the written request of at least ten bishops, shall be
    at liberty to put the question to the fathers whether the
    discussion shall continue. The fathers shall vote by rising or
    retaining their seats; and if a majority of the fathers present
    so decide, they shall close the discussion.

    XII. "When the discussion on one part of a _schema_ is closed,
    and before proceeding to another, the presiding cardinals
    shall take the votes of the general congregation, first on the
    amendments proposed during the discussion itself, and then on
    the whole context of the part under consideration.

    XIII. "The votes, both as to the amendments and as to the
    context of such part, will be given by the fathers in the
    following mode: First, the cardinals presiding shall require
    those who assent to the amendment or text to rise; then, by a
    second call, shall require those who dissent to rise in their
    turn; and after the votes have been counted, the decision of
    the majority of the fathers will be recorded.

    XIV. "When all the several parts of a _schema_ have been
    voted on in this mode, the cardinals presiding shall take
    the judgment of the fathers on the entire _schema_ under
    examination as a whole. These votes shall be given _vivâ
    voce_, by the words, PLACET or NON PLACET. But those who think
    it necessary to add any condition shall give their votes in
    writing."

It is already evident that the first provision of these by-laws or
regulations is attaining its purpose. At the congregation of February
22d, when they went into force, a certain portion of a new _schema_,
or draught, on matters of faith, was announced as the next matter
regularly coming up for examination, and the space of ten days was
assigned within which the fathers might write out their criticisms,
and propose any emendations or amendments to it, and send such
written opinions to the secretary. There was no limit to hamper the
bishops in the fullest expression of their sentiments. They might
write briefly, or at as great length as they deemed proper. Moreover,
in writing, they would naturally be more exact and careful than
perhaps they could be in speeches often made extempore. There would
also be less liability of being misunderstood. Moreover, many more
could and probably would write than would have spoken. It is said
over one hundred and fifty did so write on this first occasion; so
that, in reality, as much was done in those ten days as under the old
system would have occupied two months. The second portion, touching
the debate before the congregation, will of course be effective and
satisfactory. And it is confidently hoped that the third portion, as
to the mode of closing the debate and taking the vote, will, when the
time comes for testing it, be found equally satisfactory.

In our previous numbers we have avoided falling into the very error
of the correspondents which we have repeatedly blamed; we have not
pretended to have succeeded in getting a glimpse behind the curtain
which veils the council, and so to have qualified ourselves to speak
without reserve of the matters treated by the fathers in their
private debates. Even had circumstances brought some knowledge of
this to us, it would be under obligations which would effectually
prevent our touching on it in these articles. But we can be under no
such obligation in regard to questions which, if we are correctly
informed, have not come, at least up to the present time, before
the congregations of the council. There is one such question which
excites universal attention, perhaps we should rather say universal
talk, outside the council--the infallibility of the pope. It has
become in Europe the question of the day. Books have been written
on it, pamphlets discussing it are issued every week, and England,
France, Germany, and Spain have been deluged with newspaper articles
upholding it or attacking it--articles written with every possible
shade of learning and of ignorance, and in every degree of temper,
from the best to the worst. The articles are what might be expected
when the writers are of every class, from erudite theologians down
to penny-a-liners, and when, if some are good and sincere Catholics,
many are by no means such. Protestants have written on it, some in
favor of the doctrine (!), most of them against it. The bitterest and
most unfair articles, however, have been and are those written by the
political opponents of the church; though how this precise question
can come into politics, any more than the existence of religion, the
divinity of the Saviour, the infallibility of the church, or any
other point of doctrine, we cannot see. But in Europe, if religion
does not go into politics, politics, or at least politicians and
political writers, have no scruples in going into religious matters.
In fact, the most advanced party of "_progress, and enlightenment,
and liberty_" proclaim that there should be no religion at all,
that it narrows the intellect by hampering freedom of thought, and
enslaves man by forbidding him to do much that he desires; and
as they think mankind should, on the contrary, be free from all
its trammels; and as they hold it to be their special mission to
effect this liberation, they systematically omit no occasion of
attacking religion. For them, one point is as good as another; the
infallibility of the pope will do as well as the discovery that
a crazy nun, subject to furious mania, was confined in a room so
small that the sides of it only measured twenty feet one way and
twenty-three the other, and so low that one had to stand on a step to
reach the window. Any thing will serve this class of writers. And,
unfortunately for religious news, much of what appears in the press
of Europe, and must gradually be infused, in part at least, into the
press in the United States, is from such pens, and is imbued or is
tinged with their spirit.

We would not do justice to Rome and the council if we omitted to
mention a very interesting event with which the council is connected,
if only as the occasion. We mean the Roman Exposition of Arts, as
applied to religious purposes. It was opened by the pope three weeks
ago.

The traveller arriving in Rome by the railway cannot fail to be
struck with wonder at the view which opens before him the instant
he steps out of the door of the central station. Just across the
square, huge dark masses of rough masonry rise before him. Some are
only twenty or thirty feet high, and their tops are covered with
the herbage or bushes that grow on the soil, wafted thither by the
winds of centuries. Others are still higher, and are connected by
walls equally old, some broken, some nearly entire. Here and there
immense arches of masonry, a hundred feet high in the air, still span
the space from pier to pier, and bear a fringe of green herbage.
Every thing tells you of the immensity of the building, or group
of buildings which men erected here in ages long gone by. But even
still, as you see, portions of these walls and arches are used. Not
every pier is a mere isolated ruin; not under every arch can you
look and see through it a broad expanse of blue Italian sky. Modern
walls are joined to these piers; the ancient walls too are turned to
account; irregular roofs, some high, some low, come against them.
Here, through the high openings in the original wall, men are busy
taking in or delivering bundles of hay from the store-house they
have constructed. There, through doorways and windows of more modern
shape, you see that another portion is made to serve as barracks
for soldiers. Other buildings stretch away northward and westward,
schools, orphanages, and a reformatory, as you see by their various
inscriptions. But though of more recent date, they have not lost all
connection with the ruins; for the ground all along shows traces
of the original constructions in the fragments of broken columns
and in patches of the ancient masonry, which between and beyond
them continues ever and anon to rise in outlying masses. But in the
centre, where the strong masonry rises higher than elsewhere and is
best preserved, there spreads a wide roof surmounted by crosses at
the gables. To the eastward, the ruins seem to die away in a long and
not very high line of buildings, evidently cared for and inhabited.
The walls are covered with plaster, and the windows are glazed, and
protected by shutters. Over the ridge of the roof you may see the
lofty summits of some cedars that are growing in a court-yard or
garden within.

These are the mighty remnants of the Baths of Diocletian, commenced
by that emperor in the year 302. Built at the period when Rome was
at the zenith of her wealth and luxury, it far exceeded all other
buildings of its class in the seven-hilled city, both in vastness
and in grandeur. It was undertaken in a time of the most cruel
persecution of the church, and the Christians who were condemned
to imprisonment and hard labor, because they would not deny their
Lord, were brought here day after day from many a prison, and
fettered like convicts, and were made to labor in erecting this pile
devoted to pride, and luxury, and debauchery. Many an account of the
martyr Christians of that age tells of old and young men and women,
condemned for their faith, and sent to die here a lingering death of
martyrdom. Many a soul passed from this spot straight to heaven. For
who hath greater love than he who giveth his life for his friend?
Many a prayer of Christian faith, of holy resignation, of ardent hope
of a better life, was here uttered day after day, and hour after
hour, all the years the work lasted. The antiquarian still finds
here and there the bricks which believing hands marked with a cross,
the outward expression of the prayer of their hearts, offering their
labors and sufferings, endured for his sake, to Him who for their
sakes labored and suffered on the cross. It is estimated that more
than forty thousand Christians toiled at the work. It was in these
ruins, if we mistake not, that was found one of the marble tablets
inscribed with an encomium of Diocletian, for having purged the world
of that vile and hateful superstition called Christianity.

In this vast pile of buildings, thirteen hundred feet from east to
west, and twelve hundred from north to south, there were halls,
court-yards surrounded by ample porticoes, pools for swimmers,
thousands of baths, libraries, galleries of painting and sculpture,
portions set aside for philosophic discussion, other portions for
gymnastic exercises and games, and every thing that Roman luxury or
Roman debauchery called for, and Roman wealth could provide.

The first dismantling and partial destruction of the buildings seems
to have occurred when Alaric sacked Rome. Yet even a century later
portions of them were still used for the original purpose as baths.

It is needless to say how they suffered still more, by alternate
violence and neglect, for many centuries afterward. Often it was
occupied by soldiers as a stronghold, and it suffered at their hands,
as by alterations here and there they strove to make the place more
defensible. Often it was assailed and taken, and then suffered still
more, as whatever could be was toppled over in anger. And when the
soldiers left it quiet, rain and winds and storms continued the work
of destruction. In the sixteenth century all this property was owned
by Saint Charles Borromeo. He gave it to the pope, Pius IV., who
determined to construct a church, if possible, in the midst of these
ruins, and so put them under the guardianship of that very religion
which gave so many martyrs toward their construction. The pontiff
committed the task to Michael Angelo, who executed it in a manner
which won an admiration next to that gained by his great work at St.
Peter's.

Amid the ruins there stood a vast hall, three hundred and twenty-five
feet long and sixty feet broad. Its massive walls were perfect, and
the vast arch of masonry that covered it, at the height of over one
hundred feet, though weakened by the exposure of centuries, still
stood unbroken. The Caldarium stood near by on one side, and the
old natatio, or swimming room, joined it on the other. Both still
preserved their vaulted roofs. Michael Angelo united them, and,
preserving the walls and the massive monolith columns of red Egyptian
granite, which were all standing, skilfully produced a noble church
in the form of a Greek cross, which is known as St. Mary of the
Angels. One loves to pass an hour in that vast, quiet, and attractive
church, under the olden arch, now protected from the weather by an
additional tiled roof, viewing the exquisite statues of saints,
and the masterpieces of painting, the originals, some of them, of
the mosaics over the altars of St. Peter's, or listening to the
Cistercian monks who serve the church as they slowly and reverently
chant the divine office at their stated hours of day and night.

On the eastern side, toward the Pretorian Camp, war had done its most
destructive work. Here Michael Angelo found the ruins so entirely
beaten down that most of the space had been devoted to gardens,
though encumbered indeed by sundry picturesque mounds of masonry.
Here, using the materials at hand so far as they would serve, he
erected a monastery for the Cistercians, a plain quadrangular
building, inclosing an open space about four hundred feet square.
To each side of this the building presents a portico, or arcade,
which thus forms a cloister, supported by twenty-five columns of
travertine. No work of that great architect and artist exceeds this
cloister in its simplicity, and the exquisite beauty of form and
proportion in all its parts. In the centre of the yard is a majestic,
ever-flowing fountain, throwing its stream of water aloft. This falls
into an ample marble reservoir beneath, whose waters ripple and
sparkle in the sunlight as the gold-fish are darting to and fro into
the shade of water-lilies or out to court the beams of the sun. By
this basin the architect planted with his own hand four young cedars,
which throve apace. Three of them are still standing, historic trees.
Two are strong and vigorous, though three centuries old; a third is
in the decrepitude of old age, shattered and broken by the winds, but
still bravely struggling to the last to raise its topmost branches
upward toward heaven. The fourth perished some years ago, and has
been replaced by another, younger one, which a good Cistercian, they
say, obtained by securing in time and carefully nursing a young shoot
of the old tree itself.

Around the cloister are the cells of the brethren. They seem to have
a curious fancy of fastening placards on their doors. You can see
half a dozen of them of different sizes. On some doors the sheet of
paper is apparently fresh and clean, and is still securely fastened
by four tacks, or by wafers under the corners. On other doors some of
the tacks have fallen out, or the wafers have lost their hold, and
the paper hangs dangling by a single corner. The winds have blown
it until it is torn. The rain has moistened and caused it to curl.
The upper portion hangs loosely over, half hiding the writing on it.
You approach and stretch out your hand to lift it up, that you may
read what a Cistercian had placarded on the door of his cell. It is
all a delusion! There is no paper! Some painter, quitting the world,
retreated to this community. In its quietude and silence, and in its
penitential life, he found again peace and tranquillity of soul, and
the gayety of his youth came back to him. He took a boyish pleasure
in playing this clever artistic practical joke on the strangers whom
curiosity, or other motives, from time to time, brought to look
at the interior of a Carthusian monastery. He died peacefully and
piously years ago, but the brethren have not ceased to enjoy the joke
he perpetrated.

What a practical lesson of the power with which God rules the
world! In this spot where a cruel and sanguinary emperor persecuted
and martyred Christians by the thousands, and boasted that he had
exterminated the Christian church, the ruins of his vast work owe
their preservation to the sacred power of a Christian church. Where
luxury, and the pride of the world, and every form of sensuality were
wont to seek their gratification, now meek and humble white-robed
Cistercians who have renounced the world and its pomps and sins, and
are vowed to poverty, chastity, and obedience, work and study in
silence, fast austerely, and make the hours of day and the hours of
night holy by prayer and chanting of psalms. The heathen empire of
Rome has passed away, but the church it tried to destroy lives in
perpetual youth. Rome has lost her heathen power of ruling with the
sword the bodies of men from the Pillars of Hercules. But through
that very Christianity Rome has received and wields a far higher
power than the sword could give. She guides the consciences and
minds of men, not only through the provinces of her olden temporal
empire, but beyond their limit, in lands where the eagle of a Roman
legion was never raised, and in countries of whose existence the
Roman emperors never dreamed. To the thoughtful mind the Cistercian
monastery and the noble church of St. Mary of the Angels but typify
the glory of Christian Rome, built amid the ruins of her olden
heathen power.

The proposal, made originally by whom we know not, of opening an
exposition of religious art at Rome during the sittings of the
council, was immediately taken up with enthusiasm. His Holiness
assigned the garden of this noble cloister as the best adapted site
to be found in Rome, except at a large expense. The Cistercians
withdrew temporarily to other buildings close by, and gave up their
own beautiful place to architects and workmen. The cloister, or broad
open arcade, which runs round the square garden was chosen to form
the outer gallery or halls, altogether about twelve hundred feet
long by twenty broad. Within this outer gallery, and just touching
each side in the middle, is a series of sixteen rooms, all of the
same size, and of the same irregular, or rather rhomboidal, shape,
forming, as it were, a broad polygon of sixteen sides. Within this
polygon is the central portion of the garden, still unoccupied, with
its gravelled walks, its green sward, its rose-trees and flowering
plants, its ever-gushing fountain, the ample basin receiving the
water, the glistening gold-fish, and the majestic cedars of Michael
Angelo. The arcade has, of course, its own covering. The sixteen
rooms of the polygon are roofed with glass, to let in the flood of
light, and a few feet below the glass is another roofing, or awning,
to soften its intensity and to mitigate the heat of the direct rays
of the sun. Large openings in the partition walls allow free passage
from room to room, all around the polygon; and where it touches the
arcade or outer halls, other doors allow you to pass to them, or by
opposite doors you may pass out to walk in the garden.

The exposition was opened on the 17th of February by the pope
himself, in the presence of the commission for the exposition, a
number of cardinals, some three hundred of the bishops, and a large
concourse of clergy and laity. He made an impromptu discourse,
touching chiefly on the true progress which art has made under the
inspiration of religion and the patronage of the church, and in
illustration referred to some of those unrivalled works of religious
painting and sculpture which are found in Rome.

Nothing could be more appropriate to the assembling of so many
bishops and priests and pious laymen in Rome, drawn by the council,
than this exposition. Go when you will, you will find many of all
these classes spending hours in studying a collection of religious
works of every kind, such as most of them have never seen. In size
and extent this exposition cannot, of course, compare with those vast
ones of London and Paris. They sought and received objects of every
kind. This admits nothing that is not devoted to, or in some way
connected with, religion. It would correspond, therefore, with one
section of the Paris Exposition of 1867. Considered in this light,
it does not, as a whole, fall below it; in several respects it is
superior.

We have not the space now to enter into a detail of the many and
multifarious objects offered for examination. Every art seems
represented. For what is there that cannot be made to give glory to
God? Still, we may glance at a few of the chief groups.

The exterior arcade is chiefly devoted to sculpture and paintings. Of
the former there are here and elsewhere in the exhibition over two
hundred and fifty pieces, in marble, in plaster, or metal, or wood. I
do not count the hundreds of sweet little things in terra cotta, nor
the many objects in ivory. Tadolini, Benzoni, Pettrich, and a hundred
other artists from Rome, and other parts of Italy, Germany, and
France, have sent the work of their chisels. As a whole, this group
of subjects stands far higher in point of good art than was looked
for. Some of the statues are of a high order. We may instance a
group of heroic size by Tadolini, representing the Archangel Michael
overcoming Lucifer, after the painting by Guido, and two life-size
Madonnas by Pettrich, all of which, we understand, will be forwarded
to the United States. There is in one of the French rooms a plaster
copy of the statue of the holy Vianney, curate of the village of
Ars, near Lyons, in France, who died a few years ago in the odor of
sanctity, and who, the Catholics of France are confident, will in due
time be canonized. He is robed in soutane, surplice, and stole, and
is kneeling in prayer, his face turned upward toward heaven. I do not
speak of the style and execution, which are good; but of the face,
which attracts every one. It is said to be a perfect likeness. Thin,
gaunt, with features sharp and exaggerated by the lack of flesh,
rather ugly than otherwise, there is an expression of simplicity,
of piety, of kindness, of earnestness, which makes it far more than
beautiful, a face that grows in sweetness as you look on it. And yet
study the individual features, forehead, eyebrows, nose, mouth, chin,
cheek-bones, the chief lines and wrinkles. They are precisely the
same as on the repulsive face of Voltaire! What different expressions
were given to the same features by the calm piety, the love of God
and our neighbor, the spiritual peace dwelling in the soul of the
saintly priest, and the pride, and envy, and passions, and the
bitter, hopeless or despairing unbelief of the apostle of evil.

As we examine these statues, so good in their execution and so
truly religious in their type, one cannot but feel a regret that in
the United States we are such strangers to the use of them in our
churches and chapels and oratories. Here and there are found, indeed,
casts in plaster of Paris, sometimes in _papier-maché_. But how few
real works of merit in materials and in style! If the clergy who
are at work building our churches, and some of the laymen who are
seconding them in this work, could only see those statues of our Lord
on the cross, or bearing the cross and sinking under its weight,
or healing the blind, or blessing little children; or those sweet
ones of the Mother and Divine Child, in various positions; or of the
Blessed Virgin, of St. Joseph, of Saint Cecilia, Saint Agnes, and
of so many other saints and groups representing religious subjects;
surely among them, in marble, in iron, bronzed, silvered, gilt, or
illuminated with polychrome, and such a variety in size and in cost,
they would understand the void in our churches, and would each do his
part to supply it.

Especially would this be the case with the stations of the way of the
cross. No devotion is more tender and consoling, and at the same time
none more strengthening to true piety and the practice of virtue,
than this pilgrimage of faith, in which we accompany our Lord, and,
as it were, stand by his side, during the several scenes of his
sufferings down to his death on the cross and his burial. No devotion
is more popular, because none better suited to the faithful of every
condition and class. Would it not be well if the engravings of those
different scenes, so often found--we had almost said, disfiguring the
walls of our churches, could give way to some of those basso-relievos
and alto-relievos of France, of Italy, and of Germany, such as we see
here? The love of the beautiful and striking is innate in man. Even
the child feels it; and in manhood, use and education but develop and
increase the satisfaction it gives. While we smiled, we could not
but sympathize in some measure with the Italian sculptor who, on his
dying-bed, pushed away a crucifix which a pious attendant wished to
place in his hands. "Not that, not that! it makes me angry," he said;
"it is horrid! Give me the other one; it is well made. That will
excite devotion." Let children be taught, in a way they will love, to
think often, to know, to realize, even from their tenderest years,
what the loving and merciful Saviour suffered for man. Lessons well
learned at that tender and innocent age seldom fade from the mind
and heart in after years. And no way of teaching that lesson is more
effectual than the one we indicate.

There are more than five hundred paintings in the exposition. Of
these perhaps two hundred are by the old masters, and have been
placed here by their owners.

These embrace paintings by the divine Raffaele, as the Italians
call him, Domenichino, Annibale Carracci, Correggio, Maratta, Carlo
Dolce, Salvator Rosa, Murillo, Leonardo da Vinci, Guido Reni, Rubens,
Vandyke, Ribeyra, Del Sarto, and a host of other old masters,
Italian, German, Flemish, and Spanish, whom we need not name. There
we may gaze with rapture on the excellence of art inspired by
religious thought. It is a fact not to be overlooked or forgotten,
in these days of irreligion, that the best paintings which the best
artists ever painted were all produced when they brought their powers
to represent a religious subject. In painting, and in other things
too, he works best who works in the spirit of religion and the fear
of God.

The larger number of the paintings are of later date, many of them
by living artists. To our eye, certainly not trained to criticism,
many of them appear worthy of high praise. But we believe the general
verdict is not so favorable to them as to the statuary. Still, we
must remember that here they have to compete side by side with
those old paintings of the highest order. The contrast between their
freshly laid colors and the colors of older paintings, toned down by
age, if not somewhat faded, is so strong and striking that this very
difference, often no real difference on the part of the painters, is
set down as a defect to be censured. The portrait of the pope, by our
American artist Healy, is undoubtedly the best likeness of the Holy
Father in the exposition.

What we said of the statuary we may repeat with equal reason of
religious paintings. How easy it would be to adorn our churches
and chapels with these books of the eye, one glance at which often
teaches more than a sermon. The artists at home capable of producing
a religious painting worthy of being placed in a church are few,
perhaps might be counted on one's fingers. European painters capable
of giving an original ask such prices for their work as generally to
put them as far beyond our means as if they were to be painted at
home. Even at that, their conception and treatment of a subject will
scarcely stand comparison with approved works of the best masters who
have already treated the same subjects. But there is a large class
of painters here who devote themselves to copying and reproducing
those old paintings, on every scale as to size. The execution of many
of them is good, and the prices for which the artists are willing
to work seem very low. It is wonderful how much painting, and good
painting, five hundred dollars well laid out in Rome will obtain.
Several of our clerical friends, who have visited Rome this winter,
carry back with them evidences of this fact.

Next to the paintings should come the stained glass, which is superb,
and is offered at a price which seems really astonishing--about five
dollars a square foot for the richest kind, with life-size figures.

The large windows, from several competing manufacturers, are so
mounted that the light shines through them, and you can examine
at full leisure and carefully the wondrous effects of united
brilliancy and softness in these works of peculiarly Christian art.
The art of painting on glass, which many, up to a recent period,
thought entirely lost, has revived in this century, and seems fast
approaching the perfection which it attained in the middle ages.
There is one marked difference observable between the old windows
and some of the work here. The ancients displayed their skill in
combining together thousands of minute pieces of glass of different
colors, so as to make up a picture in its proper colors and its
lights and shadows. The modern artists have attempted the task of
producing the picture on a single large sheet of glass. This would
free it from the single defect almost unavoidable in this work--the
stiffness of the figures. But the earlier attempts presented such
variation in the perfections of the several colors used as to be
failures, in point of that brilliancy and play of light which
constitute the charm of this work. The source of the defect was to
be found in the laws of nature, on which every work, and this work
directly, depends. The general mode of procedure in which glass is
colored is this: The subject is painted on the surface of a sheet
of glass with metallic paints. The glass is placed in an oven and
slowly and carefully raised to that point of heat at which it grows
soft. The particles of metal constituting the colors sink into the
glass and become portions of its substance. The difficulty was found
to spring from the great difference in the rate and manner in which
the colors would sink into the softened substance. What would give
some colors perfectly, would leave others imperfect; and continuing
the work until these were perfect, would often destroy the first. But
patient study and careful work have overcome these difficulties to a
degree which we did not expect. There are full-size figures here in
stained glass rivalling those of the middle ages in brilliancy, and
possessing the freedom of a painting on canvas.

The perfection of the Gobelins tapestry is almost incredible. A
large canvas, twenty-five feet by ten, presents the Assumption by
Titian, and near it is a life-size figure of our Lord in the tomb.
It is a sermon but to look on the cold, rigid body of him who bore
our transgressions. There are specimens of photography, some showing
life-size figures, of oleography, lithography, chromo-lithography,
engravings on copper, for which Rome cannot be excelled, on steel,
and on wood. In many of these branches France and Germany rival, if
they do not surpass Italy. But Rome stands unrivalled in mosaics, of
which there are here exquisite specimens.

In architecture, we find plans of churches and colleges, very full
and clear, but not striking; designs for the interior of chapels and
sanctuaries, of a far higher order of art, several miniatures of
churches; a fac-simile in white marble of the front of St. Peter's,
and another in wood, on the scale of about one inch to ten feet,
showing the entire exterior of the church front and dome in all its
details, the colonnades, fountains, and square before it, and so
constructed that it can be opened in several ways, in order to give
an equally correct and minute view of the interior with all its
ornamentation. You may recognize every painting and statue in the
basilica. It took years of patient labor to make this model, and it
is said to have been sold to an Italian prince for twenty thousand
dollars. What a pity such a work should be shut up in some palace in
the city where every one can go to the real St. Peter's. It should
rather be sent to distant countries, where thousands, who will never
go to Rome, might be able to obtain from it a far clearer conception
than any books can give of the form and splendor of this great
temple, which is deservedly the pride and the glory of the Christian
world.

In music, there are organs with the latest and best improvements,
harmoniums, Alexandre organs of various powers and many stops, and
chimes and church-bells hung on a new patent system, by which a mere
boy can swing easily and ring loudly a bell of nearly a ton weight.
As for texts of church music, you may turn over the parchment leaves
of huge folio graduals and antiphonaries, in which the good old monks
of past ages wrote the Gregorian notes and the words so large and so
clear as to be easily read in the choir, even at the distance of ten
feet. There are later ones printed nearly as large, and collections
of modern church music from Italy, Germany, and from France.

Ecclesiastical vestments abound in the exposition. Rome, Milan, and
other cities of Italy are represented by the most celebrated of
their manufacturers. France has sent a multitude from Paris, Lyons,
Grenoble, Montpellier, Nismes, and elsewhere. Others have come from
Germany and from Spain. Here are copes and chasubles, dalmatics,
antipendiums, and veils, of the richest material and exquisite
workmanship. You can examine the ample yet light and pliable
vestments of Italy, the rich and stiffer ones of France, the narrow
and scantier form of Austria, and the heavier ones from Spain, that
ought never to wear out. In the matter of vestments you are taught
a lesson of history. For here, carefully preserved in large glass
wardrobes, are shown the vestments used six hundred and eight hundred
years ago, if not a thousand years ago, in St. Peter's, in St. Mary
Major's, in St. John Lateran's, and in the cathedral of Anagni.

The emperors of the Holy Roman Empire, as it was called, which sprung
into existence in the ninth century, and died in the convulsions
of Europe consequent on the French revolution, were bound to come,
if circumstances allowed it, to Rome, to receive their royal
consecration in St. Peter's at the hands of the pope. On such
occasions, the emperor was admitted for that time into the sanctuary,
wore a deacon's dalmatic, and chanted a gospel. Here you may look at
the identical dalmatic which they wore a thousand years ago. It is of
silk, and the figures which decorate it were worked with the needle,
in gold thread. Near by are copes, and chasubles, and mitres faded
and worn; which still give evidence of the art and care in making
them, the richness of the materials used, and of the skill of the
embroidery and painting which decorated them. What will the modern
chasubles and copes around us, now so fresh and splendid, look like
in A.D. 2500?

Church vessels of every class are equally abundant. Chalices, pixes,
cruets, censers, incense-cups, crosses, crucifixes, ostensories,
croziers, every thing that can be thought of, are here, often in
their richest forms. There are chapelles for priests, and chapelles
for bishops. Altar candlesticks and candelabra of every size and
graceful form tempt you. Perhaps the most interesting in a scientific
and also a pecuniary view, is the large collection of all those
vessels made of bronze aluminium, of a light gold color, and not
liable to tarnish. The weight is light, and the prices low.

There are altars of marble, of cast-iron, of bronze gilt, and of
wood colored and illuminated, the last-named truly beautiful, and
they would well replace some of those far more costly constructions
sometimes to be met in our churches.

Altars lead us to candelabra, candlesticks, and chandeliers; and
here they are displayed in every size, from an immense chandelier
to be suspended in a church, of metal gilt, ornamented with angels
and religious emblems, and bearing sixty-five lights, down to the
tasteful bongie, or tiny candlestick which an acolyth holds in his
hand when he attends a bishop at the altar. Altar candlesticks and
candelabra seem a specialty with the French artists. The graceful
curve of the outlines, the appropriateness and suggestiveness of the
decoration, and the ease with which all these pieces may be combined
to produce on the altar a whole simple and tasteful, or rich and
splendid, can scarcely be conceived. They bring to their work the
spirit of the children of Israel in the desert, offering their gold
and jewels to Moses for the ornamentation of the tabernacle of the
Most High. Man can never do too much to testify his homage and his
loving obedience to God.

In Christian bibliography the chief Catholic publishers have done
well. The polyglott press of the Propaganda exhibits many of its late
publications; among others an accurate _fac-simile_ of the Codex
Vaticanus of the Scriptures, and a volume containing the Lord's
Prayer in two hundred and fifty languages, in the proper characters
of each language, where it has any. The volume presents one hundred
and eighty different forms of type. Salviucci, of Rome; Pustet, of
Ratisbon; Dessain, of Malines, and many others exhibit well printed
and richly bound copies of their chief publications. Vecco & Co., of
Turin, show the eighteen volumes they have already printed of the new
edition of the _Magnum Bullarium_. Victor Palmé, of Paris, displays
an enormous line of folio volumes, the _Acta Sanctorum_ of the great
Bollandists, the republication of which he has just finished in
fifty-eight volumes. To this he adds his edition of the _Ideologia_,
by the professors of Salamanca, his _Gallia Christiana_, his edition
of _Annales Baronii_, and the introductory volume of a new edition of
the _Collectio Maxima Conciliorum_, which he has just commenced.

It was sad not to find the veteran Migne here, and to think of that
sad conflagration which consumed the work of a lifetime. He had
undertaken, and after fifty years of steady persevering labor, was
finishing the greatest bibliographical achievement of the publishers
of this century. The twelve or thirteen hundred large volumes he
had published in his collection, embracing all the fathers, Greek
and Latin, ample courses of Scripture, theology, and canon law,
encyclopædias, history, theologians, preachers, etc., would have
presented the largest and most imposing array of volumes--almost a
complete theological library in itself. Great as was his loss, that
to the clergy was greater.

We mention last a collection which every visitor to the exposition
hurries to see first, as most deserving of his attention, the
collection of articles which the Holy Father himself directed
should be sent here from the Sixtine Chapel: 1. The famous tiara
presented to him by the Queen of Spain. The three crowns on it are of
brilliants and pearls, the roses are rubies and emeralds, the ball on
the summit is of rubies, and the cross above of diamonds. As a work
of art, it is considered a _chef-d'œuvre_ of grace and elegance,
and does honor to the artists of Spain. 2. A chalice of gold covered
with brilliants and diamonds. These diamonds and brilliants were a
present from Mehemet Ali. 3. A large golden ostensory, of Byzantine
style, the rays of which are studded with brilliants, from the same
donor. 4. A large processional cross of gold, the staff of silver
gilt. The cross is of an elegantly flowering Gothic form, and is
adorned with precious stones and enamel. It was made to order in
France, and is a present from the Marquis of Bute. Chalices, mitres,
vestments, cruets, an ancient MS. missal, exquisitely illuminated
and richly bound, with many other objects, make up a large list of
articles which His Holiness has sent to give additional interest to
the exposition. Others have acted in the same spirit; and certainly,
if the number, the richness, and the exquisite taste and elegance of
the articles displayed can effect it, the exposition is a success.
The attendance has been pretty fair, and as the governmental outlay
has been but small, may prove remunerative. The exhibitors will
certainly succeed in introducing their works to the religious world
far more generally than they could have ordinarily looked for. And
the visitors seem all satisfied that each repeated visit to the
exposition is a renewed and increased pleasure. We may perhaps
endeavor next month to be able to write more at length of the more
prominent articles in the exposition, with reference to the needs of
our American churches.



NEW PUBLICATIONS.


    AN ESSAY IN AID OF A GRAMMAR OF ASSENT. By John Henry Newman,
    D.D. 1 vol. 12mo. New York: The Catholic Publication Society.
    1870.

It would be quite impossible without exceeding proper limits to give
any thing more than an incomplete sketch of the plan of this able
work; it must, of course, be read in full to be appreciated.

At the outset three states of mind are distinguished, assent,
inference, and doubt, corresponding to the external actions of
assertion, conclusion, and interrogation, though not necessarily
accompanying them. The subject of the essay is, as its name implies,
principally the first of these; doubt being merely alluded to, and
inference treated in its relation to assent, and only that species
being considered at length which is not strictly demonstrative. The
various modes in which assent exists, and in which it is formed, are
the first objects of examination.

The division made here of assent, and which recurs throughout the
work, is into real and notional, the former relating to propositions
whose terms, in the words of the author, "stand for things external
to us, unit and individual," the latter "for what is abstract,
general, and non-existing;" and this last is distinguished under the
names of profession, credence, opinion, presumption, and speculation,
which terms are necessarily used in senses somewhat different from
those ordinarily attached to them.

The strength of real assents in comparison to notional ones is
shown, and the difference in this point of view between assent and
inference; the latter being clearest in purely abstract matters.
Not but that assent is always unconditional or absolute; still, its
material, when real, is so much more vividly apprehended that the
assent elicited is much more energetic and operative. Thus also when
notional assents become real, as they may in consequence of some
special circumstances, their hold upon the mind and control upon
action is much increased.

This subject is illustrated by a discussion of religious assents,
with special reference to the being of God, and to the Holy Trinity;
it is shown that the former truth, and the constituent parts of the
latter, can be, and usually are, the objects of real assent, though
the latter in its completeness or unity can only be notionally
apprehended; and though the definition of the Divine Being may give
only a notional idea. The implicit assent which unlearned Christians
give to all the definitions of the church is also explained.

The absolute and unconditional character of assent is next treated,
and it is shown that it has this character even when given without
good grounds, or when those grounds are forgotten; and that it is not
necessarily conceded to convincing proofs, and may disappear while
the inference which led to it still remains. Without this character
the act is not assent at all, or at least is only that notional form
of it called by the author opinion, which he defines as assent to
the probable truth of a proposition. The possibility and continual
occurrence of full assent without intuition or demonstration is
defended against those who, though really they have no doubt about
some theoretically uncertain matters, yet "think it a duty to remind
us that, since the full etiquette of logical requirements has not
been satisfied, we must believe those truths at our peril."

The distinction is drawn between simple or unconscious assent and the
conscious, reflex, or complex assent, as the author calls it, which,
when the thing believed is true, has the name of certitude, and is
irreversible or indefectible. In simple assent we do not give any
place, or in any way incline mentally to the opposite belief, though
we may examine the grounds of our own for various reasons; but when
we are certain, we explicitly refuse to admit any thing opposed to
it. The occurrence of false or supposed certitudes does not suffice
to prove the non-existence of real ones; and certitude is not to be
confounded with infallibility, which is a faculty applicable "to all
possible propositions in a given subject matter," while certitude is
"directed to this or that particular proposition."

The next part is the discussion of the act of inference. In its most
perfect or formal state it can be used without limitation only upon
abstractions; it "comes short of proof in concrete matters, because
it has not a full command over the objects to which it relates, but
merely assumes its premises." Hence, even when what we do assume is
true, as shown in an earlier part of the work, processes of inference
in concrete matters may easily end in mysteries. In many cases it
cannot profitably be used, owing to the labor required for taking
account of all the circumstances, as well as the real difference
of the first principles from which our syllogisms proceed. We
are, therefore, obliged to resort to informal inference, in which
arguments and probabilities are estimated in the mass, and have a
different force to different individuals, according to the character
in them of what Dr. Newman calls the illative sense. He concludes by
treating of the exercise of this combining and directing faculty in
its application to religious inferences, both in natural and revealed
religion, and shows that by means of it we may fairly arrive at
certitude regarding Christianity, and that such a method is at least
as likely to succeed as more formal demonstrations. The lawfulness
and reasonableness of assent in religious matters, as well as in
others, without such demonstrations, may be regarded as one of the
main objects of the work, though by no means its only one.

       *       *       *       *       *

    DE L'UNITÉ DANS L'ENSEIGNEMENT DE LA PHILOSOPHIE AU SEIN
    DES ECOLES CATHOLIQUES D'APRÈS LES RECENTES DECISIONS DES
    CONGREGATIONS ROMAINES. Par le P. H. Ramière, S.J. Paris, 1862.

F. Ramière is well known as the head of the admirable confraternity
of "The Apostleship of Prayer," and the author of a number of
excellent works on spiritual subjects, and also on the great
religious questions of the day. We have recently been indebted to
him for some extremely able essays in defence of the rights of the
Holy See, for which he has received the eulogium of the Holy Father
himself. The work whose title is given above has been sent to us by
the reverend father himself, we presume on account of the article
translated, with some preliminary observations of our own, from F.
Vercellone, on the ideology of St. Augustine, which appeared in a
recent number; and we beg to thank him for his kindness. We had not
before had the pleasure of reading it, although it has been eight
years published. We have read it with attention, and, we are happy to
say, with much satisfaction. The learning and logical force of the
author command our respect, and his calmness, candor, impartiality,
and truly Christian charity win our esteem, throughout the whole
course of his argument. The argument is divided into three parts. In
the first part, the author sustains the possibility and the great
importance of unity in philosophical instruction, and lays down the
conditions by which it can be obtained. In all that he says under
this head we fully and cordially concur with him. In the second
part, he discusses traditionalism; and here again we find ourselves
in perfect agreement with all his positions. In the third part, he
attacks the grand difficulty of the origin of rational cognition,
and, of course, discusses the vexed question of ontologism. It would
be a futile effort to attempt a critical appreciation of this part of
F. Ramière's work in a brief critical notice, and we will not attempt
it. An opinion on these very grave and much controverted topics,
in order to be worth attention, must be supported by elaborate
arguments, and based on deep and patient study of all the principal
authors, ancient and modern, whose works are the great sources
of philosophical knowledge. We agree perfectly with F. Ramière,
that thorough discussion, carried on in the spirit of moderation,
directed by a pure love of truth, and regulated by obedience to the
authority of the church, is the only road by which we can attain
to that degree of unity in philosophical doctrines which prevails
among all truly orthodox theologians in respect to dogmatic and
moral theology. We desire to see this discussion go on, and hope for
a good result from it; and as a necessary preparation, we cannot
too earnestly insist on the necessity of a more thorough study of
scholastic philosophy than has been common among those who have
written on these subjects in the English language. Both in theology
and philosophy, we hold it as certain that we must follow the great
fathers and doctors of the church as our guides and masters, or go
astray and lose our labor. The essential truths of philosophy must be
contained in that system which the church authorizes, and in which
she trains up her clergy.

As we understand them, there is no difference between F. Vercellone
and F. Ramière on this point. We are not authorized to speak for
Dr. Brownson, who is the great philosophical writer among American
Catholics; but we think he would agree with us fully in this
judgment; and that the passage in a contrary sense, quoted by F.
Ramière, is to be regarded as one of those _obiter dicta_ which
his mature, deliberate wisdom would not ratify. We cheerfully
acknowledge that the doctrine which F. Ramière so lucidly exposes
as the Thomistic doctrine of the origin of cognition is sufficient
as a basis of rational certitude and natural theology, and we
are perfectly agreed with him that this is the main point to be
secured. As for the profound and difficult, and therefore intensely
interesting and attractive, questions which relate to the nature of
the intellectual light itself, and the objective truth seen by its
aid, it does not seem to us that they have yet been as thoroughly
discussed as they need to be, in order to bring the various schools
into a closer agreement. This is certainly so as respects philosophy
in the English language, which is yet in its cradle, and we think it
is true universally. Of course, the great question to be settled
at the outset is, how far the boundary of philosophical doctrine,
as rendered certain by the consent of the great doctors, intrinsic
evidence, and the decisions of the supreme ecclesiastical authority,
extends; and where opinion begins. The true understanding of the
famous decisions of 1861 is absolutely necessary to this end, so far
as ideology is concerned; and F. Ramière has given an explanation
of their sense and intention which perfectly agrees with that of F.
Vercellone in a supplement to the article which we translated. It is,
namely, the intuition of the essence of God, and created things in
that essence, as the natural, intellectual light of reason, which we
are forbidden to affirm.

Are we, therefore, required, as an only alternative, to adopt the
Peripatetic philosophy as taught by the Thomists? It would seem that
this has not yet been sufficiently proved. The works of Gerdil,
Vercellone, and others, who profess to find in Plato, St. Augustine,
St. Bonaventure, St. Anselm, and other great authors, a philosophical
wisdom which supplies a want not fully satisfied by St. Thomas,
have not yet been marked by any note of disapprobation. It is true
that F. Ramière tells us that Gerdil changed his opinions in his
later years. But F. Vercellone denies this, on the authority of
Cardinal Lambruschini. F. Ramière is extremely tolerant of opinions
differing from his own, where he thinks he has only a greater
probability on his side. He does not censure the following of these
great authors, or discourage the study of them; but he thinks they
are misunderstood, and that a better study of them would result in
making us all Peripatetics and Thomists. Let us by all means, then,
especially those who have youth, strength, and leisure, study the old
masters of philosophy more deeply than we have done, and truth and
unity will be the gainers. F. Ramière protests strongly, however,
against the high esteem which some Catholic writers have expressed
for Gioberti. As it happens that one of our correspondents has done
the same in the present number, we feel bound to assure F. Ramière,
and our readers generally, that we detest, as much as any one can,
the rebellious conduct of Gioberti toward the sovereign pontiff,
that we have no sympathy with his hatred of the Jesuits, and condemn
every thing in his works which the Holy See intended to censure when
they were placed on the Index. Nevertheless, as F. Perrone has had
the generosity to place his name on the list of illustrious Catholic
writers, we do not think it improper to give him credit for the
genius he undoubtedly possessed, or the true and elevated teachings
which his works may contain. Even if the worst things said against
him be true, there is no reason why we should not make use of every
thing good in his works, as we do in those of Tertullian, Photius,
and the Port Royal divines.

In conclusion, we recommend and applaud F. Ramière's essay as a
specimen of that kind of discussion which he so strongly advocates,
with the most ardent sympathy in his desire that sound philosophy
may go hand in hand with theology, to deliver the world from the
destructive influence of scepticism, sophistry, and every species of
error.

       *       *       *       *       *

    GUYOT'S GEOGRAPHICAL SERIES. By Professor Arnold Guyot. New
    York: Charles Scribner & Co.

Since Humboldt gave his scientific facts to the world, and Ritter
generalized upon them, the study of geography has been converted from
an exercise of the memory upon unrelated facts to a science whose
laws of mutual dependence of cause and effect hold good in common
with other physical sciences. But it has remained for the American
mind to generalize the later scientific discoveries of Maury, Hugh
Miller, Livingstone, Kane, and others, and, adding them to former
achievements, give the results in the modern school geographies.
The very number of these text-books presented by aspiring authors
and publishers to the public is an encouraging symptom to the lover
of improvement in knowledge, though sadly annoying to the practical
teacher, who is so frequently urged to change the text-books in the
hands of his pupils.

The series before us is evidently the result of the profoundest
research united to a practical knowledge of the best manner of
presenting facts to young minds. None but an enthusiast in physical
science, a good expounder of original ideas, and a polished English
scholar could have given so complete a series of text-books to our
schools and teachers. The language in which the facts are presented
is one of the chief recommendations of the books; for nothing
more certainly impresses itself upon the youthful mind than the
language of the text-books used in schools, affecting the habits
of thought and expression in all after-life. With a view also to
the varied peoples among whom these books would be adopted, and
in answer to the demands of the age and period, a world-wide and
catholic spirit seemed to animate the author when treating the
subject of the governments and religions of different sections and
political divisions. Facts, as generally understood, are fairly
stated. Opinions based upon those facts judiciously withheld. Some
improvements might be made in the execution of the maps, and also in
the text of the primary book, the style of which is weak and careless
compared with the rest of the series. But the illustrations, and
print, and style of getting up are equal, if not superior, to any
books of the kind published.

       *       *       *       *       *

    STATUTES OF THE SECOND SYNOD OF THE DIOCESE OF ALBANY. 1869.
    Troy: Scribner & Co. Received from P. J. Dooley, 182 River
    street, Troy.

We have read this beautifully printed document with great pleasure,
and we will cite several of the statutes, which have in our opinion
a special importance, giving, however, only their import in our own
language, without quoting _verbatim_ the Latin text, which is easily
accessible to those who are interested in ecclesiastical matters.

1. Confessors and pastors are commanded to teach their spiritual
children the evil and danger of attending the sermons and religious
exercises of sectarians, and not to permit it under any pretext.

2. The faithful, especially heads of families, are admonished to
exclude non-Catholic versions of the Bible, and all kinds of noxious
books and papers, from their houses, and to make use of good and
Catholic books and periodicals.

3. All who are concerned in the publication of books relating to
religion and the divine worship are admonished not to venture to
publish any thing without the license of the ordinary. The desire is
also expressed that clergymen will not publish any thing whatever
without the previous consent of the bishop. It is announced that
several members of the episcopal council will be designated as
censors of books. In the recent bull of Pope Pius IX., abrogating all
previous laws inflicting the censure of excommunication reserved to
the pope, and promulgating anew the causes of incurring this censure,
the authors and publishers of books _de rebus sacris_, who put forth
such books without the permission of the ordinary, are declared
to incur the censure of excommunication _latæ sententiæ_. It is,
therefore, of the utmost importance that regulations should be made
and published in every diocese, prescribing to authors and publishers
the conditions under which the ordinary permits the publication
of books _de rebus sacris_, and the Bishop of Albany has given an
excellent example, which we hope will be universally followed.

4. The faithful are to be seasonably exhorted to sustain the
sovereign pontiff in maintaining his temporal authority by their
contributions.

5. Pastors are earnestly exhorted to use earnest efforts to extirpate
the vice of intemperance, which is the cause of such immense scandals.

6. The necessity of sustaining Catholic schools, and the dangers
of theatrical exhibitions, immodest dances, and festive amusements
or exhibitions intended for the benefit of pious causes, such as
picnics, fairs, and excursions, are noticed.

7. Priests will be subjected to an annual examination _in scriptis_,
before theological examiners, during the first five years after their
ordination.

8. The faithful are to be sedulously warned and exhorted not to
contract mixed marriages.

These are only a few of the great number of excellent statutes,
entirely in accordance with the decrees of general councils, the
plenary and provincial councils of the United States, and the decrees
of the Apostolic See, enacted by this admirable synod, which is
indeed worthy of the best days of the church.

       *       *       *       *       *

    THE SUN. By Anedee Guillemin. From the French, by A. L.
    Phipson, Ph.D. With fifty-eight illustrations.

    WONDERS OF GLASS-MAKING IN ALL AGES. By A. Sanzay. Illustrated
    with sixty-three engravings on wood.

    THE SUBLIME IN NATURE; compiled from the descriptions of
    travellers and celebrated writers. By Ferdinand de Lanoye; with
    large additions. New York: Charles Scribner & Co. 1870.

The above are the titles of three beautiful volumes, the latest
additions to the "Illustrated Library of Wonders," now being
published by Messrs. Scribner. These little books must prove highly
interesting, especially to the young, and are very well adapted for
premiums. The illustrations are well executed, and give additional
value to the books.

       *       *       *       *       *

    NATURAL HISTORY OF ANIMALS. By Sanborn Tenn