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Title: Catholic World, Vol. 14, October 1871-March 1872 - A Monthly Magazine of General Literature and Science
Author: Various
Language: English
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                          CATHOLIC WORLD.


                          MONTHLY MAGAZINE



                             VOL. XIV.
                   OCTOBER, 1871, TO MARCH, 1872.

                             NEW YORK:
                          9 Warren Street.


                        JOHN ROSS & COMPANY,
                     PRINTERS AND STEREOTYPERS,
                       27 ROSE ST., NEW YORK.


  Affirmations, 682
  Afternoon at St. Lazare, An, 683
  Air, Travels in the, 757
  American Catholic Bishops, Clarke’s Lives of the, 562
  Arcueil, The Martyrs of, 613
  Association, The International, 694
  Authority in Matters of Faith, 145

  Catholic Libraries, On, 707
  Catholicity and Pantheism, 376, 830
  Chateau Regnier, 520
  Christianity and Positivism, 1
  Civilization, Egyptian, According to the Most Recent
    Discoveries, 63
  Clarke’s Lives of the American Catholic Bishops, 562
  Color--Its Poetry and Prose, 279
  Cooper’s An Englishman in China, 322
  Cosmic Philosophy, The, 633
  Craven’s Fleurange, 651, 813

  Döllinger Scandal, The, 248
  Duties of the Rich in Christian Society, The, 577, 753

  Egyptian Civilization According to the Most Recent Discoveries, 63
  Elements of our Nationality, The, 91
  Elinor’s Trial, 790
  Englishman in China, An, 322
  Executive Document No. 37; or, Several Calumnies Refuted, 665

  Faber, Dr., The Princeton Review on, 400
  Faith, Authority in Matters of, 145
  Fleurange, 651, 813
  Foxvilles of Foxville, The, 604
  _Fraction du Centre_ in the German Parliament, The, 269
  France, Recent Events in, 289

  Gambetta, M., Letter of Mgr. Dupanloup to, 849
  Ghost Story of the Revolution, A, 261
  God is our Aid, 364

  History, The New School of, 549
  Holy Father, On the Present Condition of the, 777
  House of Yorke, The, 16, 158, 305, 473, 582, 738

  International Association, The, 694
  Island of Saints, The, 335

  Lake George, A Week at, 78
  La Roquette, The Place Vendôme and, 127, 233, 347
  Lasserre’s Our Lady of Lourdes, 100
  Lateau, Louise, The Stigmata and Ecstasies of, 171
  Late General Convention of the P. E. Church, 506
  La Vendée, One Christmas Eve in, 447
  Leper of the City of Aosta, The, 767
  Letter of Mgr. Dupanloup, Bishop of Orleans, to M. Gambetta, 849
  Liquefaction of the Blood of St. Januarius, The, 32, 200, 391, 526
  Lourdes, Our Lady of, 100
  Lucas Garcia, 49, 189

  Maistre’s Leper of the City of Aosta, 767
  Mammoth Cave, A Visit to, 621
  Martyrs of Arcueil, The, 613
  Modern Opera, 415

  Nationality, The Elements of Our, 91
  New School of History, The, 549

  On Catholic Libraries, 707
  On the Present Condition of the Holy Father, 777,
  One Christmas Eve in La Vendée, 447
  Opera, Modern, 415
  Our Lady of Lourdes, 100
  Owen on Spiritism, 803

  Pantheism, Catholicity and, 376
  Papal Infallibility, Popular Objections to, 597
  Philosophy, The Cosmic, 633
  Place Vendôme, The, and La Roquette, 127, 233, 347
  Poetry and Prose of Color, 279
  Popular Objections to Papal Infallibility, 597
  Positivism, Christianity and, 1
  Princeton Review on Dr. Faber, 400
  Protestant Episcopal Church, Late General Convention of the, 506
  Protestant Rule of Faith, The, 488

  Recent Events in France, 289
  Religious Movement in Germany, and the _Fraction du Centre_
    in the German Parliament, 269
  Revolution, A Ghost Story of the, 261
  Rich, Duties of the, 577, 753
  Riot of the Twelfth, The, 117
  Rome, St. Cecilia’s Day in, 646
  Rule of Faith, The Protestant, 488

  St. Cecilia’s Day in Rome, 646
  St. Januarius, Liquefaction of the Blood of, 32, 200, 391, 526
  St. Lazare, An Afternoon at, 683
  Saints, The Island of, 335
  Several Calumnies Refuted, 665
  Spiritism, Owen on, 803
  Stigmata, The, and Ecstasies of Louise Lateau, 171
  Study of Sacred History, 421

  Thoughts for the Women of the Times, 467
  Travels in the Air, 757

  Uncivil Journal, An, 721

  Valentine, 214
  Venite Adoremus, 557
  Visit to Mammoth Cave, A, 621

  Week at Lake George, A, 78
  Who is to Educate Our Children?, 433
  Women of Our Times, Thoughts for the, 467

  Yorke, The House of, 16, 158, 305, 473, 582, 738


  Annunciation, The, 812

  Bethlehem, 487
  Broad School, The, 525

  Convert, A, 30

  Dante’s Purgatorio (New Translation), 503

  Evening Clouds, 15
  Ever, 472
  Epiphany, Our, 632

  Lamartine’s The Wayside Spring (Translation), 213
  Last Days of Oisin, The Bard, 845
  Legends of Oisin, The, 185, 343
  Limitation, 414

  Martyrdom of St. Agnes, The, 828
  Memory, A, 304
  Mountain, The, 278

  New Outspoken Style, The, 596

  Our Epiphany, 632

  Purgatorio, Dante’s (New Translation), 503

  St. Agnes, The Martyrdom of, 828

  True Faith, 232

  Uhland’s Evening Clouds (Translation), 15

  Veiled, 620

  Wayside Spring, The, 213

                         NEW PUBLICATIONS.

  American Home Book of In-Door Games, Amusements, and
    Occupations, 720
  Antidote to “Gates Ajar,” 572
  Arians of the Fourth Century, The, 857
  Augustine, Aurelius, Works of, 281

  Bayle’s Pearl of Antioch, 719
  Benni’s Tradition of the Syriac Church of Antioch, 428
  Beecher’s Life of Jesus the Christ, 428
  Biographical Sketch of Mother Margaret Mary Hallahan, 143
  Brightley’s Leading Cases on the Law of Elections, 431

  Catholic Directory, Almanac, and Ordo, Sadliers’, 1872, 720
  Catholic Choir, Peters’s, 283
  Catholic Family Almanac, Illustrated, 284
  Cineas; or, Rome under Nero, 429
  Collection of Leading Cases on the Law of Elections in the
    U. S., 431
  Congregation of St. Paul, Sermons by the Fathers of, 576, 716
  Critical Greek and English Concordance of the New Testament, 286
  Curci’s Taking of Rome by the Italian Army, 718

  Dahlgren, Ulric, Memoir of, 859
  Doane’s Passion Play, 576

  East and West Poems, 575
  Essays Critical and Historical, 427

  Florence O’Neill, 718
  Formby’s Pictorial Bible and Church History Stories, 284
  Fourfold Sovereignty of God, 427
  Four Great Evils of the Day, 286

  Gates Ajar, Antidote to, 572
  Graduale de Tempore et de Sanctis, 287
  Grand Demonstration in Honor of the XXVth Anniversary of the
    Election of Pius IX., 287

  Hallahan, Mother Margaret Mary, Biographical Sketch of, 143
  Harte’s East and West Poems, 575
  Harsha’s Life of John Bunyan, 287
  Hastings and Hudson’s Greek and English Concordance of the
  New Testament, 286
  Hewit’s Light in Darkness, 282

  Ignatius Loyola and the Early Jesuits, 144
  Illustrated Catholic Family Almanac, 284

  Japan in Our Day, 720
  Johonnot’s School Houses, 143
  Julia, Life of Mother, 285

  Lenten Sermons, 860
  Letters of Mme. de Sévigné, 430
  Letters of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, 430
  Life of Card. Howard, 715
  Life of Jesus the Christ, 428
  Life of John Bunyan, 287
  Life of Mother Julia, 285
  Light in Darkness, 282
  Lord’s Prophetic Imperialism, 574

  Macaronic Poetry, 717
  McCorry’s Mount Benedict, 144
  Manning’s Fourfold Sovereignty of God, 42
  Manning’s Four Great Evils of the Day, 286
  Manual of Piety, 288
  Martyrs of the Coliseum, 288
  Memoir of Ireland, A, 719
  Meehan’s Rise and Fall of the Irish Franciscan Monasteries, 719
  Montagu’s Letters, 430
  Montalembert’s Monks of the West, 283
  Morgan’s Macaronic Poetry, 717
  Mount Benedict; or, The Violated Tomb, 144

  Newman’s Arians of the Fourth Century, 857
  Newman’s Essays Critical and Historical, 427
  Nieremberg’s Of Adoration in Spirit and Truth, 143

  O’Connell’s Memoir of Ireland, 719
  O’Reilly’s Martyrs of the Coliseum, 288
  Of Adoration in Spirit and Truth, 143

  Palmer’s Life of Card. Howard, 715
  Pearl of Antioch, The, 719
  Peters’s Catholic Choir, 283
  Pictorial Bible and Church History Stories, 284
  Pius IX., Grand Demonstration in Honor of the Election of, 287
  Preston’s The Vicar of Christ, 571
  Prisoners of St. Lazare, The, 573
  Prophetic Imperialism, 574

  Rise and Fall of the Irish Franciscan Monasteries, 719
  Rose’s Ignatius Loyola and the Early Jesuits, 144

  Sadliers’ Catholic Directory, Almanac, and Ordo, 1872, 720
  St. Lazare, The Prisoners of, 573
  School-Houses, 143
  Segneri’s Lenten Sermons, 860
  Sermons by the Fathers of the Congregation of St. Paul, 576, 716
  Sévigné’s Letters, 430
  Smith’s American Home Book, 720
  Spouse of Christ, The, 860
  Stewart’s Florence O’Neill, 718

  Taking of Rome by the Italian Army, 718
  Taylor’s Japan in Our Day, 720
  The Internationale--Communism, 859
  Tissandier’s Wonders of Water, 720
  To and From the Passion Play, 576
  Tradition of the Syriac Church of Antioch, 428

  Vessels of the Sanctuary, The, 860
  Vicar of Christ, The, 571
  Villefranch’s Cineas, 429

  Wonders of Water, 720
  Works of Aurelius Augustine, 281

                                THE                                         1

                          CATHOLIC WORLD.

                 VOL. XIV., No. 79.--OCTOBER, 1871.

     Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by
  REV. I. T. HECKER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at
                         Washington, D. C.


Dr. McCosh had acquired a considerable reputation among Presbyterians
in his own country and ours, by several philosophico-theological works
he had published, before he was invited to become the president of the
New Jersey College at Princeton, one of the most distinguished
literary institutions of the Union. It had an able president, also a
Scotsman, in Dr. Witherspoon, one of the signers of the Declaration,
and a devoted champion of American independence, and, though a
Presbyterian, a sturdy defender of civil and religious liberty. Dr.
McCosh comes to the presidency of the college with a high literary and
philosophical reputation, and comes under many advantages, and its
friends expect him to contribute much to raise still higher its
character, and place it on a level with Harvard and Yale, perhaps even
above them.

There is some ability and considerable knowledge displayed in the
volume of lectures before us, though not much originality. The author
professes to take the side of Christianity against the false and
mischievous theories of such men as Sir William Hamilton, of
Edinburgh, J. Stuart Mill, Huxley, Darwin, Herbert Spencer, and
others, whom he classes as belonging to the Positivist school. We have
every disposition in the world to think and speak well of the volume,
and to give it full credit for every merit it may claim. It is
directed against our enemy even more than against his. Positivism is
the most open, frank, honest, and respectable antagonist Christianity
or Catholicity has had in modern times, and, we may add, the ablest
and the most logical, especially as represented by avowed Positivists.
In fighting against us, positivism fights against our Presbyterian
doctor, so far as he retains any element of Catholic truth, and there
is no good reason why his war against it should not tend as far as it
goes to the same end as ours. Positivism can be opposed and                 2
Christianity defended only on Catholic ground; and so far as Dr.
McCosh really does either, he must assume our ground and serve in our
ranks, or at any rate be on our side; and it would be churlish in us
to reject or underrate his services because in certain other matters
he is against us, or is not enrolled in our ranks.

It is certain that in these lectures, which show marks of much hard
mental labor, the author has said many good things, and used some good
arguments; but having truth only in a mutilated form, and only his
private judgment to oppose to the private judgment of Positivists, he
has been unable to give a full and conclusive refutation of
positivism. As a Protestant trained in Protestant schools, he has no
clear, well-defined catholic principles to which he can refer the
particular truths he advances, and the special arguments he urges for
their unity and support. His book lacks unity, lacks the mental grasp
that comprehends in its unity and universality the whole subject,
under all its various aspects, or in its principle, on which it
depends, and which explains and justifies it. His book is a book of
particulars, of details, of general conclusions drawn from particular
facts and statements, like all Protestant books. This is not so much
the fault of the author perhaps as of his Protestantism, which, since
it rejects catholicity and has nothing universal, is essentially
illogical, and can deal only in particulars or with individual things.
The contents of the book are referred to no general principle, and the
particular conclusions drawn are of little value, because isolated,
each standing by itself instead of being reduced to its principle and
co-ordinated under its law. The author lacks the conception of unity
and universality; he has particulars, but no universals--variety, but
no identity--multiplicity, but no unity, except in words. This is a
great defect, and renders his work inconclusive as an argument, and
exceedingly tedious to the reader as well as the reviewer. This defect
runs all through the author’s philosophy. In his _Intuitions of the
Mind_, there is no unity of intuition, but a variety of isolated
intuitions--no intuition of principle, of the universal, but simply
intellectual apprehension of supersensible particulars, as in _The
Human Intellect_ of Prof. Porter, who is a far abler man than Dr.

We are utterly unable to analyze these lectures, reduce their
deliverances to a universal principle, which, if accepted, is decisive
of the whole controversy they attempt to settle, or if rejected proves
the whole worthless. Then we complain of the author for the indignity
he offers to Christianity by suffering the Positivists to put it on
the defensive, and in attempting to prove it against positivism.
Christianity is in possession, and is not called upon to defend her
right till strong reasons are adduced for ousting her. Consequently,
it is for those who would oust her to prove their case, to make good
their cause. The Christian controversialist at this late day does not
begin with an apology or defence of Christianity, but attacks those
who assail her, and puts them on their defence. It is for the
scientists, or Positivists, who oppose the Christian religion, to
prove their positivism or science. It is enough for the Christian to
show that the positivism or alleged science is not itself proven, or,
if proven, that it proves nothing against Christ and his church. Dr.
McCosh seems to have some suspicion of this, and occasionally attempts
to put positivism on its defence, but he does it without laying down        3
the principle which justifies it; and in doing it he renders it
useless, by immediately running away after some pet speculation of his
own, which gives his opponent ample opportunity to resume the

Dr. McCosh, also, more than half agrees with the Positivists, and
concedes that the religious society, as such, has no right to judge of
the bearings of the conclusions of the scientists on religion. “All
this shows,” he says, pp. 5, 6, “that religious men _qua_
religious men are not to be allowed to decide for us the truths of
science. Conceive an Œcumenical Council at Rome, or an Assembly of
Divines at Westminster, or an Episcopal Convocation at Lambeth, or a
Congregational Council at Plymouth, or a Methodist Conference in
Connecticut (why not say Baltimore?) taking upon it to decide for or
against the discoveries of Sir Isaac Newton, or the grand doctrine
established in our day of the conservation of force and the
correlation of all the physical forces, on the ground of their being
favorable or unfavorable to religion!” This concedes to the
Positivists that science is independent of religion, and that religion
is to be accepted or rejected as it does or does not accord with
science, and wholly overlooks the fact that religion is the first
science, and that nothing can be true, scientifically or otherwise,
that is contrary or unfavorable to religion. Religion is the word of
God, and every religious man says with the inspired apostle, “Let God
be true, and every man a liar.”

Dr. McCosh, of course, cannot say this, for, having no infallible
authority to define what is or is not religious truth or the word of
God, he is obliged to place religion in the category of opinions which
may or may not be true, and therefore to deny it as the law for all
intelligences. Supposing God has appointed an authority, infallible
through his gracious assistance, to teach all men and nations his
religion, or the truth he has revealed, and the law he commands all to
obey, this authority must be competent to decide whether any alleged
scientific discoveries are or are not favorable to religion, and must
necessarily have the right to decide prior to all scientific
investigation. If this authority decides that this or that theory is
unfavorable to religion, we as religious men must pronounce it false,
and refuse to entertain it. Dr. McCosh, as a Presbyterian or
Protestant, would have no right to say so, but the Catholic would have
the right, and it is his duty to say so; because religion is
absolutely true, and the supreme law for reason as well as for
conscience, and what is or is not religion, the authority unerringly
decides for him. Nothing that is not in accordance with the teachings
of religion can be true in science any more than in religion itself,
though many things may be true that are not in accordance with the
opinions and theories held by religious men.

The moment the Christian allows that the authority is not catholic;
that it is limited and covers only one part of truth; and that there
is by its side another and an independent authority, another and
independent order of truth, he ceases to be able to meet successfully
the Positivists; for truth is one, and can never be in opposition to
truth--that is, in opposition to itself. Religion, we concede, does
not teach the sciences, or the various facts with which they are
constructed, but it does judge and pronounce authoritatively on the
inferences or conclusions scientific men draw from these facts, or the
explanations they give of them, and to decide whether they are or are       4
not consistent with her own teachings. If they are inconsistent with
the revealed word, or with what that word implies, she pronounces them
false; and, if warranted by the alleged facts, she pronounces the
alleged facts themselves to be misinterpreted, misapprehended,
misstated, or to be no facts. Her authority is higher than any
reasonings of men, than the authority even of the senses, if it comes
to that, for nothing is or can be more certain than that religion is
true. We cannot as Catholics, as Christians, make the concession to
the Positivists the Presbyterian doctor does, that their science is an
authority independent of religion, and not amenable to it.

Dr. McCosh, we think, is unwise, in a controversy with Positivists, in
separating natural theology, as he calls it, from revealed theology.
The two are only parts of one whole, and, in point of fact, although
distinguishable, have never existed separately at any epoch of
history. The existence of God, the immateriality of the soul, and the
liberty of man or free-will, are provable with certainty by reason,
and are therefore truths of philosophy, but they were not discovered
by unassisted reason or the unassisted exercise of our natural powers
before they were taught to our first parents by the Creator himself,
and have never been held as simple natural truths, unconnected with
supernatural instruction or some reminiscences of such instruction.
Natural theology, or philosophy, and revealed theology form one
indissoluble whole, and Christianity includes both in their unity and
catholicity. In defending Christianity against positivism, which
denies both, we should defend both as a whole; because the natural is
incomplete and unable of itself alone to satisfy the demands of
reason, which is never sufficient for itself; and the truths necessary
to complete it and to solve the objections to the being and providence
of God are not obtainable by reason alone or without the light of
revelation. We may assert and prove miracles as a fact, but the
objections of Positivists to them cannot be scientifically answered
till we have proved that they have their law in the supernatural
order. The inferences we draw from miracles will not be appreciated or
allowed by men who deny the supernatural and reduce God to nature.

The author in reality has no method, but he begins by attempting to
prove the being of God, then the existence of mind in man, and the
reality of knowledge, and finally, in the second part, that the life
of Christ was the life of a real personage, and proves the reality of
his religion. He offers only one argument to prove that God is, and
that is the well-known argument from design, which he bases on the
principle that every effect has its cause. He does not develop this
argument, which has been so fully done by Paley and the _Bridgewater
Treatises_, but simply asserts its sufficiency. There are marks of
design in adapting one thing to another throughout the universe, which
can be only the effect of the action of an intelligent designer.
Giving this argument all possible force, it does not carry the author
in his conclusion beyond Plato or Aristotle, neither of whom was
properly a theist. Plato and Aristotle both believed in an intelligent
mind in the universe, operating on an eternal uncreated matter,
forming all things from pre-existing materials, and arranging them in
an artistic order. The argument from design can go no farther, and
this is all that is proved by Paley’s illustration of the watch, which      5
would be no illustration at all to a mind that had no intuition or
conception of a designer. Neither Plato nor Aristotle had any
conception of a creator or supermundane God. Whether the intelligent
mind has created all things from nothing, or has only formed and
disposed all things from pre-existing matter, as the soul of the
world, _anima mundi_, is what can never be determined by any
induction from the alleged marks of design discoverable in the

We therefore hold, and have always held, that this famous argument,
the only one the Baconian philosophy admits, however valuable it may
be in proving or illustrating the attributes or perfections of God,
when God is once known to exist, is inconclusive when relied on alone
to prove that God is, or is that by which the mind first obtains the
idea. It may serve as a corroborative argument, but of itself alone it
cannot originate the idea in the mind, or carry one beyond an
intelligent soul of the world, or the pantheism of Plato and
Aristotle, and of all Gentile philosophy, except the school of
Leucippus and Democritus, followed as to physics by Epicurus--unless
we must also except the sceptics, Pyrrho and Sextus Empiricus. We
think, therefore, the author has damaged the cause of Christianity,
instead of serving it, by risking it on a single argument, by no means
conclusive to his purpose. A weak and inadequate defence is worse than
no defence at all.

The principle that every effect has a cause, on which the author bases
his argument, is no doubt true; but we must know that the fact is an
_effect_ before we can infer from it that it has or has had a cause.
Cause and effect are correlative terms, which connote one another;
but this is no proof that this or that fact is an _effect_; and
we cannot pronounce it an effect unless we know that it has begun to
exist; nor even then, unless we have the intuition of cause; and no
intuition even of a particular cause suffices, unless we have
intuition of a universal cause. It is not so simple a thing, then, to
pronounce a given fact an _effect_, and to conclude that there is
between it and something else, the relation of cause and effect. It is
precisely this relation that Hume, Kant, Thomas Browne, Sir William
Hamilton, Dr. Mansel, Auguste Comte, John Stuart Mill, Huxley, Herbert
Spencer, and all the so-called Positivists deny or relegate to the
region of the unknowable. Dr. McCosh does not refute them, by assuming
and arguing from the principle; he simply begs the question.

Now, we venture to tell our learned and philosophic author that his
whole argument for natural theology falls to the ground before a mind
that has no intuition of the relation of cause and effect, that is not
previously furnished with the knowledge of design and of a designing
cause. Hence, from the alleged marks of design and adaptation of means
to ends, it is impossible to infer a designer. When the watch was
presented for the first time to the untutored savage, he looked upon
it as a living thing, not as a piece of artificial mechanism
constructed by a watchmaker. He must know that it is a piece of
artificial mechanism before he can conclude man has made it. There
falls under our observation no more perfect adaptation of means to
ends than the octagonal cell of the bee. Does the bee work by design
in constructing it? Does the beaver work by design, by intelligent
design, in building its dam and constructing its house? It is generally     6
held that the bee as well as the beaver works by instinct, or by a law
of its nature, as does the swallow in building its nest. This proves
that a designer cannot be inferred from the simple facts observed in
nature, as the Positivists maintain. This is the condemnation of the
so-called inductive philosophy. The induction, to be valid, must be by
virtue of a principle already held by the mind, intuitively or
otherwise, and therefore can never of itself supply or give its
principle, or by itself alone obtain its principle. God is not an
induction from the facts observed in nature; and the Positivists have
shown, demonstrated so much, and have therefore shown that observation
and induction alone can give no principle, and, therefore, end in
nescience--the termination of the so-called _philosophie positive_.

Dr. McCosh is not wholly insensible to this conclusion, and seeks to
escape it by proving that there is a mind in man endowed with the
capacity of knowing things as they are. But if the existence of the
mind needs to be proved, with what can we prove it? By consciousness,
the author answers; but that is a sheer paralogism, for consciousness
is simply an act of the mind, and presupposes it. God can no more be
an induction from the facts of consciousness than from the facts of
nature. In either case, the God induced is a generalization; in the
one case, the generalization of nature, and, in the other, the
generalization of consciousness. The former usually goes by the name
of atheism, the latter by the name of egoism.

Dr. McCosh very properly rejects Hamilton’s and Mansel’s doctrine of
the pure relativity of all knowledge, and Herbert Spencer’s doctrine
that all knowledge is restricted to the knowledge of phenomena or
appearances, though conceding that appearances are unthinkable without
a reality beyond them, but that the reality beyond them, and which
appears in them, is itself unknowable; and maintains truly that we
know things themselves, both sensibles and supersensibles. We know
them, he contends, by intuition, or a direct looking on or beholding
them by the simple intellectual force of our minds. Of this we are not
so certain, for we do not ourselves know by intuition why salt is
bitter and sugar sweet, and we think the doctor knows things
themselves only in so far as he excepts their essence or substance,
and confounds the thing with its properties, or its accidents, as say
the schoolmen, in which case he makes no appreciable advance on Mr.
Herbert Spencer. I know the appearances and the sensible properties of
bread, but I do not know its essence or substance. Has the
Presbyterian doctor, who seems to have a holy horror of Catholicity,
invented a philosophy for the express purpose of combating with
apparent reason the mystery of transubstantiation, by making it
conflict with the positive testimony of the senses and the human

But let that pass. The intuition the doctor recognizes is empirical
intuition, and intuition of particular or individual things, not of
principles, causes, relations. And from the knowledge of those
individual things, he holds that man rises by generalization and
abstraction--that is, induction--from one degree of knowledge to
another, till he finally attains to the knowledge of God distinct from
the world, and clothes him with infinite perfections. Yet the good
doctor claims to be a philosopher, and enjoys a high reputation as
such. None of these individual things, nor all of them together, are
God, or contain him; how, then, from them, supposing you know them,         7
rise scientifically to him? and what by abstraction and generalization
is that to which the mind attains? Only their generalization or
abstraction, which as a creation of the mind is a nullity. He, like
Hamilton, in this would make philosophy end in nescience.

We, of course, hold that we apprehend and know things themselves, not
phenomena merely, and as they are, not as they are not--that is, in
their real relations, not to us only, but in the objective world. But
to know things as they are, in their real objective relations, or to
know them at all, demands intuition of them, in their contingency or
in their character of creatures or effects--that is to say, as
existences, not as independent, self-existent beings, which they are
not. And this is not possible without the intuition of the necessary,
of real being, on which they depend and from which they are derived.
When I say a thing is an effect, I say it has been caused, and
therefore, in order to say it, I must have intuition of cause; and if
I say of a thing that it is a particular cause, I deny that it is a
universal cause, which I could not do without the intuition of
universal cause. So when I say of a thing it is contingent, I simply
deny it to be necessary being, and I could not deny a thing to be
necessary being if I had no intuition of necessary being. If the
author means by abstracting and generalizing our knowledge of things
or individual existence, distinguishing this ideal intuition, or the
intuition of real necessary and universal being--what philosophers
sometimes call necessary ideas--from the intuition of things or
contingent existences, along with which it is presented in thought, and
as the necessary condition of our apprehending them, and by reflection
and contemplation ascertaining that this ideal, necessary and
universal, is really God, though not intuitively known to be God, we
do not object to the assertion that we rise from our knowledge of
things to the knowledge of God himself. What we deny is that God can
be concluded from the intuition or apprehension of things. We rise to
him from the ideal intuition, or intuition of the real and necessary,
which enters the mind with the intuition of the things, and without
which we never do or could have intuition of them, any more than they
could exist without the creative act of real and necessary being
creating them from nothing and sustaining them in existence; but it
needs to be disengaged by a mental process from the empirical
intuition with which it is presented.

This ideal intuition is not immediate and direct intuition of God, as
the pseudo-ontologists contend, and which the church has condemned;
but is intuition under the form of necessary, universal, eternal, and
immutable ideas--of that which the mind, by reasoning, reflection, and
contemplation, proves really is God. What misleads the author and so
many others who use the argument he uses, is that the intuition of
real and necessary being, and the intuition of contingencies, are
given both in the same thought, the one along with the other, and most
minds fail to distinguish them--which is done, according to St.
Thomas, by the _intellectus agens_, in distinction from the
passive or receptive intellect--and hence they suppose that they
conclude the ideal intuition from the empirical intuition. This is
decidedly the case with Dr. McCosh. The learned doctor admits
intuitions, but only intuitions of individual existences--what we
call empirical intuitions--whether causes or effects, not intuition of      8
the ideal; and hence his argument for the existence of God proves
nothing, for the universal is not derivable from the particular, the
necessary from the contingent, nor being from existences. Had he
recognized that along with, as its necessary condition, the intuition
of the particular there always is the intuition of the universal,
etc., he would have placed theology against positivism on an
impregnable foundation. The necessary ideas, the universal, the
eternal, the immutable, the necessary, connoted in all our thoughts,
cannot be simply abstractions, for abstractions have no existence _a
parte rei_, and are formed by the mind operating on the concrete
object of empirical intuition. As these ideas are objects of
intuition, they are real; and if real, they are either being or
existences. But no existences are or can be necessary, universal,
eternal, immutable, for they depend to be on another, as is implied in
the very word existence, from _ex-stare_. Then they must be being,
and identifiable in the one universal, eternal, real, and necessary
being, and distinguishable from existences or things, as the creator
from his creatures, the actor from the act.

We have said that the ideal intuition is not intuition of God, but of
that which is God; we say now that the ideal intuition is not formally
intuition of _ens_ or being, as erroneously supposed by some to
be maintained by Gioberti and Dr. Brownson, but of that which is
_ens_. The process of demonstrating that God is consists in
identifying, by reflection and reasoning, the necessary ideas or ideal
intuition with real, necessary, universal, eternal, and immutable
being, and real and necessary being in which they are all identified
with God. This process is demonstration, not intuition. When I say, in
the syllogism, the conclusion follows necessarily from the premises, I
have intuition of the necessary, else I could not say it; but I have
not intuition of the fact that the necessary is being, far less that
it is God. This is known only by reflection and reasoning, disengaging
the ideal from the empirical. The idea must be real, or there could be
no intuition of it, but if real, it must be being; if being, it must
be real and necessary being; and real and necessary being is God. So
of all the other necessary ideas. As the intuition is of both the
ideal or necessary and the contingent in its principle, and in their
real relation, it gives the principles of a complete demonstration of
the being of God as creator, and of the universe as the effect of his
creative act, and therefore of the complete refutation of pantheism.
The vice of Dr. McCosh’s argument is that it proceeds on the denial of
ideal intuition, and the assumption that being, God, is obtainable by
generalization and abstraction from the individual things given in
empirical intuition. It is not obtained by reflection from them, but
from the ideal intuition, never separable from the empirical.

This process of proving that God is may be called the ideal process,
or the argument from universal and necessary ideas intuitively given.
It is not _a priori_, because the ideal is held by intuition; nor
is it an argument from innate ideas, as Descartes held; nor--since
really objective, and present to the mind--is it an argument from the
primitive beliefs or constituent principles of human nature, as Dr.
Reid and the Scottish school maintained, and which is only another
form of the Cartesian doctrine of innate ideas; or an argument drawn
from our own _fonds_, as Leibnitz imagined, or from the _a priori_          9
cognitions or necessary forms of the intellect, as Kant held, and
which is only the doctrine of the Scottish school of Reid and Stewart
differently stated; but from principles or data really presented in
intuition, and along with the empirical intuition of things. It
places, therefore, the being of God on as firm a basis and renders it
as certain to the understanding as our own existence, or as any fact
whatever of which the human mind has cognizance; indeed, renders it
absolutely certain and undeniable. But while we say this, and while we
maintain that the ideal intuition is given along with the empirical
intuition, with which our author confounds it, and from which
philosophy or natural theology disengages it, we by no means believe
that the race is indebted to this ideal or metaphysical process--which
is too difficult not only for the Positivists, but for their great
opponent, Dr. McCosh--for the origin of their belief in God. All ages
and nations, even the most barbarous and savage tribes, have some sort
of belief in God, some religious notions which imply his existence;
and, hovering above the various Eastern and Western mythologies, we
find the belief in one God or the divine unity, though neglected or
rejected for the worship of inferior gods or demons, or the
elements--that is, the worship of creatures, which is idolatry, since
worshipped as God. The ignorant savage, but a grade above the beasts,
has never risen to the conception of God or of the Great Spirit from
the contemplation of nature, nor has he attained to religious
conceptions by a law of his nature or by instinct, as the bee
constructs its cell or the beaver its dam.

It is very true, nothing more true than that “the heavens show forth
the glory of God, and the firmament declareth the work of his hands,”
but to him only who has the idea of God or already believes that he
is. Nothing more true than God can be traced in all his works, or that
“the invisible things of him, even his eternal power and divinity, are
clearly seen from the creation of the world, being understood by the
things that are made,” but only by those who have already learned that
he is, are intent on answering the question, _Quid est Deus?_ not
the question, _An sit Deus?_ Hence we so far agree with the
traditionalist, not indeed that the existence of God cannot be proved
by reason prior to faith, but that, as a fact, God revealed himself to
man before his expulsion from the garden; and the belief, clear and
distinct or dim and confused, in the divine being, universally
diffused among all races and conditions of men, originated in
revelation and is due to the tradition, pure or impure, in its
integrity or mutilated and corrupted, of the primitive revelation made
by God himself to man. In this way the fact of the universality of the
belief in some form is a valid argument for the truth of the belief,
and we thus obtain a historical argument to corroborate the already
conclusive ideal or metaphysical argument, the principles of which we
have given.

We bear willing testimony to the good-will and laudable intention of
our author, but we cannot regard him as able, with his mutilated
theology and his imperfect and rather superficial philosophy--though
less superficial than the philosophy generally in vogue among British
and American Protestants--to carry on a successful war against the
Positivists. We are almost tempted to say to him:

  Non tali auxilio nec defensoribus istis
  Tempus eget.

He is too near of kin to the Positivists themselves, and adopts too        10
many of their principles and conclusions, to be able to battle
effectively against them. No doubt he urges much that is true against
them, but his arguments, as far as effective, are inconsistent with
his position as a Protestant, and are borrowed from Catholicity, or
from what he has retained from Catholic instruction and Catholic
tradition, not from his Protestantism. Having no authority but his own
private interpretation of the Scriptures to define what is or is not
Christianity, he knows not how much or how little he must defend
against the Positivists, or how much or how little he is free to
concede to them. He practically concedes to them the Creator. He
defends God as the efficient cause, indeed, but not as Creator,
producing all things by his word from nothing. He would seem to hold
it enough to defend him as the organizer and disposer of materials
already furnished to his hand. God does not seem to him to be his own
_causa materialis_. He works on a pre-existing matter. He constructs,
the author concedes, the existing worlds out of “star-dust,” or
disintegrated stars, without telling us who made the stars that have
dissolved and turned to dust, and without bearing in mind, or without
knowing, that Christianity teaches us that “in the beginning God
_created_ the heavens and the earth,” and therefore could not have
formed them out of “star-dust” or any other material.

The Protestant divine accepts and defends Darwin’s theory of the
origin of species by “natural selection,” though he does not believe
that it applies universally, or that man has been developed from the
ape or the tadpole. He denies that Huxley’s protoplasm can be
developed from protein, or life from dead matter; maintains that all
life proceeds from a living organism, that the plant can spring only
from a seed, and the animal only from a living cell or germ; and yet
concedes that some of the lower forms of organic life may spring or
may have sprung from spontaneous generation, and even goes so far as
to tell us that some of the most eminent of the fathers held or
conceded as much. What becomes, then, of the assertion that life
cannot be evolved from dead matter? He would seem to hold or to
concede that man lived, for an indefinite time, a purely animal life,
before the Almighty breathed into his nostrils and he became a
spiritual man, and quotes to prove it St. Paul’s assertion that “not
first that which is spiritual, but that which is animal; afterwards
that which is spiritual” (1 Cor. xv. 46). He seems, in fact, ready to
concede any and everything except the intelligent Mind recognized by
Plato and Aristotle, that has arranged all things according to a
preconceived plan, and throughout the whole adapted means to ends. He
insists on efficient causes and final causes, but hardly on God as the
_causa causarum_ or as the _causa finalis_ of all particular final

Throughout, as we have already remarked, there is a want of unity and
universality in his philosophy, as there necessarily must be in his
Protestant theology, and a sad lack of logical consistency and order,
or co-ordination. His world is a chaos, as is and must be the
Protestant world. Herbert Spencer undertakes to explain the universe
without God, or, what is the same thing, with an absolutely unknowable
God, which is of course an impossibility; but he has a far profounder
intellect and a far more logical mind than Dr. McCosh. He is
heaven-wide from the truth, yet nearer to it than his Presbyterian
critic. His logic is good; his principles being granted, his               11
conclusions, though absurd, cannot be denied. His error lies in his
premises, and, if you correct them, your work is done. He will correct
all details, and arrive at just conclusions without further
assistance. But Dr. McCosh is one who, however much he may talk about
them, never reduces his doctrines to their generic principles, or
reasons from principles. He is a genuine Protestant, and cannot be
refuted in refuting his principles, which vary with the exigencies of
his argument, and are really no principles at all, but must be refuted
in detail; and when you have convinced him twice three are six, you
have still to prove that three times two are also six.

Now, such a man--and he is, perhaps, above the average of Presbyterian
divines--is the last man in the world to attempt the refutation of
positivism. No Protestant can do it. Indeed, all the avowed
Positivists we have known regard Protestant Christianity as too
insignificant a matter to be counted. It is too vague and fluctuating,
too uncertain and indefinite, too unsubstantial and intangible, too
unsystematic and illogical, to command the least respect from them.
They see at a glance that it is too little to be a religion and too
much to be no-religion. It cannot, with its half affirmations and its
whole denials, stand a moment before an intelligent Positivist who has
a scientific cast of mind. The Positivist rejects the church, of
course, but he respects Catholicity as a logical system, consistent
with itself, coherent in all its parts, and for him there is no _via
media_ between it and positivism. If he were not a Positivist, he
says openly, he would be a Catholic, by no means a Protestant, which
he looks upon as neither one thing nor another; and we respond that,
could we cease to be a Catholic, we should be a Positivist, for to a
logical mind there is no medium between the church and atheism. The
middle systems, as Protestantism, Rationalism, Deism, etc., are
divided against themselves, and cannot stand, any more than a house
divided against itself. Their denials vitiate their affirmations and
their affirmations vitiate their denials. They are all too much or too

The Positivists reject for what they call the scientific age both
theology and metaphysics. They believe in the progress of the race,
and indeed in all races, as does Dr. McCosh. They distinguish in the
history of the human race or of human progress three epochs or
stages--first, the theological; second, the metaphysical; and third,
the scientific. Theology and metaphysics each in its epoch were true
and good, and served the progress of man and society. They have now
passed away, and the race is now entering the scientific age, which is
the final stage, though not to last forever; for when the field of
science is exhausted, and all it yields is harvested, the race will
expire, and the world come to an end, as having no more work to do. It
will be seen there is here a remarkable difference between the real
Positivists, or believers in Auguste Comte, and our author and his
Protestant brethren. The Positivists never calumniate the past, but
seek to appreciate its services to humanity, to acknowledge the good
it did, and to bury it with honor, as the children of the New
Dispensation did the Old, when it had lived its day. One of the finest
appreciations from the point of view of humanity of the services of
the mediæval monks we have ever read is from the pen of M. E. Littré,
the chief of the French Positivists, and one of the most learned men
of France. It said not all a Catholic would say, but scarcely a word       12
that could grate on a Catholic ear. Dr. McCosh also believes in
progress, in the progress of our species, and, for aught we know, in
the progress of all species and genera, and that we outgrow the past;
but he takes pleasure only in calumniating it, and like a bad son
curses the mother that bore him. Because he has outgrown his nurse, he
contends the nurse was of no use in his childhood, was a great injury,
and it would have been much better to leave him to himself, to toddle
about at will, and toddle into the fire or the cistern, as he saw

Now, we think, if one believes in the progress of the species or the
perfectibility of man by development or by natural agencies, the
Positivist doctrine is much the most reasonable as well as far the
most amiable. Its effect, too, is far better. We--we speak
personally--owed much to the doctrine, which we borrowed not from
Comte, but from Comte’s master, Saint-Simon, the influence of which,
under the grace of God, disposed us to return to the old church. It
softened the animosity, the bitter hatred, toward the past which we
had inherited from our Protestant education, and enabled us to study
it with calm and gentle feelings, even with gratitude and respect, and
disposed us to view it with impartiality and to appreciate it with
justice. Studying the past, and especially the old church which we had
complacently supposed the race had outgrown as the man has outgrown
the bib and tucker of his childhood, in this new and better mood, we
soon discovered that there was much more in the past than we had ever
dreamed of, and that it was abundantly able to teach us much more than
we or any of our Protestant contemporaries supposed; and we were not
long in beginning to doubt if we had really outgrown it, nor in
becoming convinced that, instead of outgrowing it, we had fallen below
it; that the old church, the central institution of the world, was as
needful to us now as in the beginning; and that, in comparison with
the full noonday light which beamed from her divine countenance, the
light in which we had hitherto walked, or stumbled, rather, was but a
fading twilight, nay, midnight darkness.

Of course we differ far more from positivism than does Dr. McCosh, but
we can as Catholics better discriminate than he what is true and just
in them, and better understand and refute their errors or false
principles, because we have the whole truth to oppose to them, not
merely certain fragments or disfigured aspects of truth. It is only
Catholics who can really set right the class of men Dr. McCosh wars
against. Protestants cannot do it. When Theodore Parker published his
_Discourse of Matters pertaining to Religion_, we had not--we speak
personally again--outgrown the Protestantism in which we had been
trained. We set about refuting him, and we saw at once we could not do
it on Protestant grounds, and we planted ourselves on Catholic ground,
as far as we then knew it, and our refutation was a total failure
except so far as we opposed to the _Discourse_ the principles of the
Catholic Church. Dr. McCosh has tried his hand in the volume before us
against Theodore Parker and the Free Religionists, and with no success
save so far as he abandons his Protestantism and quietly appropriates
the arguments of Catholics, to which he has no more right than he has
to his neighbor’s horse. It was hardly generous in the learned doctor,
while using their arguments--and they were the only arguments that
availed him anything--to turn upon Catholics and twit them of              13
“ignorance and superstition.” Was he afraid that people might discover
the source whence he drew the small stock of wisdom and truth he

We might have made Dr. McCosh’s lectures the occasion of presenting a
formal refutation of positivism, but we had already taken up from time
to time the false principles, the errors and untenable theories and
hypotheses, which his lectures treat, and refuted them, so far as they
are hostile to Christianity, far more effectively, in our judgment,
than he has done or could do. He may be more deeply versed in the
errors and absurd hypotheses of the false scientists of the day, who
are laboring to explain and account for the universe without creation
and Providence, than we are; but we have not found in his volume
anything of any value which we have not ourselves already said, and
said too, perhaps, in a style more easily understood than his, and in
better English than he ordinarily uses. Our readers could learn
nothing of positivism from him, and just as little of the principles
and reasonings that Christianity is able to oppose to it. He writes as
a man who measures the known by what he himself knows, and is now and
then out in his measurement.

Dr. McCosh, also, adopts rather too depreciatory a tone in speaking of
our countrymen, especially considering that he has but just come among
us, and knows us at best only imperfectly. We own it was no striking
indication of American intelligence and judgment the importation of
him to preside over one of the best Protestant American institutions
of learning and science; but men often loom up larger at a distance
than they are when seen close by, and there is no country in which
bubble reputations from abroad more speedily collapse than our own.
The doctor will find, when he has lived longer among us, and becomes
better acquainted with us, that if England is nearer Germany, German
speculations are known to Americans and appreciated by them at least
as soon as they are by Englishmen or Scotsmen. Kant, Fichte,
Schelling, Hegel, were known to American scholars before there was
much knowledge of them in England or Scotland. The English and Scotch
are now just becoming acquainted with and are carried away by theories
and speculations in philosophy which had been examined here, and
exploded more than thirty years ago by Americans. The doctor
underrates the scholarship and intelligence even of his American
Presbyterian friends, and there are scholars, men of thought, of
science, general intelligence, in the country many degrees above
Presbyterians, respectable as they are. Presbyterians are not by any
means the whole American people, nor the most advanced portion of
them. They are really behind the Congregationalists, to say nothing of
“the ignorant and superstitious” Catholics, whose scholars are in
science and learning, philosophy, theology, especially in the history
of the church, it is no boast to say, superior to either, and know and
understand better the movements of the age, intellectual, moral,
social, and political theories, crotchets, and tendencies of the
present, than any other class of American citizens. It takes more than
a Dr. McCosh, although for a time a professor in Belfast, Ireland, to
teach them more than they already know.

We pass over the second part of the lectures, devoted to Apologetics,
as of no importance. One needs to know what Christianity is, and to
have clearly in his mind the entire Christian plan, before one can
successfully defend it against the class of persons the author calls       14
Positivists. This is more than the author knows, or as a Protestant
can know. His Christianity is an indefinite, vague, variable, and
uncertain opinion, and he has no conception at all of the Christian
plan, or what St. Paul calls “the new creation.” No doubt the miracles
are provable by simple historical testimony by and to one who knows
nothing of the Christian plan, or of its supernatural character; but
to the unbelievers of our time it is necessary to set forth, in its
unity and catholicity, the Christian _schema_, if we may be allowed
the term, and to show that miracles themselves have their reason or
law in the divine plan or decree, and are no more anomalies, in
relation to that plan or decree, or _ex parte Dei_, than are earthquakes
and volcanoes. It is only in this way we can satisfy the demand for
order and regularity. The unbeliever may not be able to resist the
testimony which proves the miracle a fact, but till we show him that
in a miracle the natural laws are not violated, or that nature does
not go out of her course, as he imagines, we cannot satisfy him that
he can yield to the miracle without surrendering his natural reason,
and the law and order of the universe.

Now, this the Protestant cannot do; and though he might adduce the
historical evidences of Christianity satisfactory to a simpler age, or
to minds, though steeped in error, yet retaining from tradition a full
belief in the reality of a supernatural order, he cannot as a
Protestant do it to minds that deny that there is or can be anything
above nature, and that refuse utterly to admit the supernatural order,
which the miracles manifest, or that reject miracles, not because the
testimony is insufficient, but because they cannot be admitted without
admitting the reality of the supernatural. The prejudice against the
supernatural must be removed as the preliminary work, and this can be
done only by presenting Christianity as a whole in its unity and
catholicity, and showing that, according to it, the supernatural or
Christian order enters into the original decree of God, and is
necessary to complete what is initial in the cosmos, or to perfect the
natural order and to enable it to fulfil the purpose for which it
exists, or realize its destiny or final cause, in which is its
beatitude or supreme good. This done, the prejudice against the
supernatural is removed, miracles are seen to be in the order, not
indeed of nature, as Carlyle pretends, but in the order of the
supernatural, and demanding only ordinary historical testimony to be
proved, and consequently Hume’s famous argument against miracles,
refuted by no Protestant that has protested against it, shown to have
no force.

Now, this requires a profound knowledge of Christianity, which is not
attainable by private judgment from the Scriptures, or outside of the
infallible authority of the church with which the revelation of God,
the revealed word, is deposited as its guardian and interpreter. M.
Migne, indeed, admits some treatises written by Protestants into his
collection of works he has published under the title of _Evangelical
Demonstration_, which are not without their merit, but are valuable
only on certain points, and on those only so far as they rest on
Catholic principles and use Catholic arguments. Christianity being
supernatural, a revelation of the supernatural, it, of course, while
addressed to natural reason, cannot be determined or defined by
natural reason, and can be determined or defined, preserved or             15
presented, in its purity and integrity, only by an authority
supernaturally instituted and assisted for that very purpose. Even
what the author calls natural theology, since it is only initial, like
the cosmos, is incomplete, and, though not above natural reason, needs
the supernatural to fulfil it, and therefore the supervision and
control of the same supernaturally instituted and assisted authority
to preserve it from error, from a false development, or from assuming
a false direction, as we see continually occurring with those who have
not such an authority for guide and monitor. Hence, even in matters
not above the province of natural reason, natural reason is not a
sufficient guide, or else whence come those errors of the Positivists
in the purely scientific order the learned doctor combats with so many
words, if not thoughts--with so many assertions, if not arguments?

Hence, since Protestants have no such authority, and make it their
capital point to deny that anybody has it, it follows that they are
unable to present any authoritative statement, or any statement at
all which an unbeliever is bound to respect, of what Christianity
really is, or what is the authentic meaning of the term. They can give
only their private views or opinions of what it is, and these the
unbeliever is not bound to place in any respect above his own,
especially since they vary with every Protestant sect, and, we may
almost say, with every individual Protestant who thinks enough to have
an opinion of any sort. Even if they borrow Catholic traditions,
Catholic principles, and Catholic doctrines and definitions, these in
their hands lose their authoritative character, and become simply
opinions resting on private reason. They can present as Christianity
nothing authentic to be defended by the Christian, or to be accepted
or rejected by the unbeliever. Clearly, then, Protestants are in no
condition to manage apologetics with acute, scientific, and logical
unbelievers; and if we wanted any proof of it we could find it, and in
abundance, in the volume before us.

     [1] _Christianity and Positivism._ A Series of Lectures to
     the Times, on Natural Theology and Apologetics, delivered in
     New York, January 16 to March 20, 1871, on the “Ely
     Foundation” of the Union Theological Seminary. By James
     McCosh, D.D., LL.D., President of the College of New Jersey,
     Princeton. New York. Carter & Brothers. 1871. 16mo, pp. 369.


                          EVENING CLOUDS.


                I see the clouds at eventide
                All in the sunset floating wide,
                Clouds now in gold and purple dyed
                    That hung so dark and hoary:

                And my dreaming heart says, Wait!
                A sunset comes, though come it late,
                That shall life’s shadows dissipate,
                    Light up its clouds in glory.


                        THE HOUSE OF YORKE.                                16

                            CHAPTER XIV.

                         BREAKING THE ICE.

Shortly after Mr. Rowan’s baptism, a miniature avalanche of letters
reached the Yorke family. Mrs. Rowan-Williams wrote to Edith, in a
very scrawly hand, in lines that sloped down, in a depressing manner,
toward the southeastern corner of the page: “Do come and make me a
visit, now that Dick is at home. You have no idea how handsome, and
good, and smart he is. Mr. Williams thinks the world of him; and as to
Ellen--well, it wouldn’t become me to say what I think. But it’s of no
use for her to try. Now, do come. This is the twentieth time I have
asked you. We will go everywhere, see all that is worth seeing, and
you shall be waited on like a lady, as you are.

“So the old clay bank has slipped down again, and the bushes have
tumbled into the mud, and the men have piled their lumber over the
ashes of my poor home. O Edith! my heart is buried under those boards.
Thank you, dear, for going to see it for me.”

Dick wrote: “Which is Mohammed, and which is the mountain? I must see
you, and if you cannot come here, I shall go to Seaton, though that
would not be easy for me to do now. Besides, I want you to see your
namesake. I have not long to stay, for the ship is about ready to
start, and we take our cargo in at New York. It would be almost like a
soldier deserting his army on the eve of battle for me to go away now.
Do come if you can. It seems to me that you must wish to.”

This young man, we may remark, has got quite beyond the model
letter-writer and the practice of penmanship. He writes quite in his
own way, and is a very creditable writer, too. He has also a fair
education, and can converse more intelligently on most subjects of
general interest than many a young man for whom education has done its
best. When Dick Rowan spoke, he said something, and one never heard
from his lips inanities, meanness, nor malice. Neither did he say much
of such things, even in condemnation. He looked on them with a sort of
wonder, a flitting expression of disgust, then forgot all about them.
His time had been too much occupied, his mind too busy for trifling.
He had studied constantly and methodically, and the little library in
his cabin on board ship was a treasury of science, art, and
_belles-lettres_. So far as it went, it was the library of a man
of cultivated mind. His life, too, had educated him, and been a
perpetual commentary on, or illustration or refutation of, his books.
The phenomena of the sea he had studied not merely as a sailor, but as
a student of natural history. Whatever culture can be derived from the
intelligent visiting of foreign countries, without going into society
there, that he had. He had not spent his time about wharves, and
ships, and sailors’ boarding-houses. Aside from his own tastes, he
never forgot that he was aspiring toward a girl who, if she should
visit these lands, would walk in palaces. Therefore, whatever was          17
famous in nature or art in those places, he sought and examined. Many
a traveller who fancied himself perfectly cultivated brought away less
pleasant and valuable information than this sailor from the cities
they had both visited. Moreover, Dick had studied hard to acquire
something of the language of every port he stopped at, and was already
able to speak French and Italian with ease, if not with elegance. The
elegance he did his best to improve by reading the best authors in
those languages, and by a few lessons in pronunciation, when he could
find time. Therefore, Miss Edith Yorke’s friend and correspondent was
by no means one whom she had reason to be ashamed of.

But the Rowans were not the only ones who insisted on Edith’s visiting
Boston at this time. Miss Clinton dictated a letter to Mr. Yorke, and
Carl, suppressing his laughter, wrote it: “I have sent three times for
that girl, and this is my last invitation to her. Why is she not
allowed to come? Has she nothing to wear? I enclose a check for a gown
and a pair of shoes. When she reaches here, I will give her what she
may need to make her decent. Or is it that Amy Yorke is jealous
because her own daughters are not invited? If one of them must come as
company for Edith, I will pay her passage up, but I don’t want her
here. She can go to Hester’s or Alice Mills’s. Melicent has too
ridiculous an idea of her own consequence, and Clara is too sharp and
impudent. Bird has read me her book, and I think it a very
disagreeable book. She had better learn to cook and mend her
stockings, and let writing alone.”

“Have you finished?” the old lady asked, as Carl, with pen suspended,
looked up from his writing.


“Then sign my name.”

“Shall I write ‘yours respectfully’ or ‘yours affectionately’?” Carl
asked, with perfect gravity.

“Neither!” she replied curtly. “Sign my name without any compliment.”

“May I add a few lines for myself?” the young man asked, when he had
signed the name as directed. “There is a whole page left.”

“Yes.” The answer was given very softly, and a smile of singular
sweetness flitted across the old lady’s face as she looked at the
writer. Miss Clinton was very fond of Carl, in a tyrannical,
tormenting, selfish way, and liked nothing so much as to have him ask
favors of her.

He wrote rapidly a few minutes, and was about closing the letter, when
she stopped him. “Read me what you have written,” she said.

Carl blushed slightly, and hesitated. “It was not written to read to
you,” he answered.

“No matter, it will be all the more interesting,” she persisted. “Read
it! You read mine.”

Carl hesitated yet a moment longer, then, casting his eyes up to the
ceiling, read, as if he saw it written, in the painting there, a
preposterous eulogy of Miss Clinton, with a minute account of her
cat’s health.

“I won’t have it!” she cried out. “Read what you have written there,
or give it to me, and Bird shall come and read it. If you were a
decent writer, I should have eyes enough left to read it myself.”

Carl dropped his laughing manner. “Miss Bird will write a letter for
you,” he said, and was about holding the one he had in the flame of a
taper, when she stopped him. “Oh! send it as it is, since you are so
stubborn; though I haven’t a doubt that you have written the most          18
dreadful things of me.”

The Yorkes were highly amused by this letter. “You see, Edith, she is
a dragon,” her uncle said. “You will have to carry yourself very

“I am not sure that is the best way to keep the peace with her,” Mrs.
Yorke remarked. “It would do with some, but she grows more overbearing
with indulgence. If she were touched by sweetness and submission, it
would be different. I have thought of late years that such persons are
benefited by a firm resistance.”

Clara also wrote: “Let mamma come with Edith, and stay at my house, of
course. It is really a shame that she has never visited me in the city
yet. Come right away, and we will all go back to Seaton together. You
should come for poor Carl’s sake, to cheer him up a little, if for
nothing else, for he must lead a miserable life with that awful old
woman. You would not have believed he could be so patient. Indeed, he
would have left long ago, if it had not been for the hope of bringing
you all back here again. If he were the only one in question, he would
not stay a day.”

Miss Mills also wrote in the same strain, and the result of it all was
that the invitations were accepted, with a difference. “I will stop at
Miss Clinton’s, since you think it better,” Edith said to her aunt.
“But I must see a good deal of the Rowans.”

“Certainly, dear,” Mrs. Yorke replied. “But say as little as possible
of the Rowans to Miss Clinton. It will only make her disagreeable.
Hester will be happy to see the young man and his mother, and since he
is a Catholic, I should think that Alice might be civil to him.”

Her invitation accepted, Miss Clinton began to look at the dark side.
“Are you sure that the girl is not very green, Carl,” she asked. “I
detest country manners.”

“Oh! she is very green--very!” was the reply.

Carl sat looking out into the garden, unconscious that his companion
was observing him curiously.

“Are you in love with that girl?” she asked after a moment.

Bold and hardened as she was, she started and shrank at the glance he
gave her. No words could have been more haughty and repelling.

“Well,” she said pettishly, “you need not look daggers at me, if the
question is not to your liking. You are not obliged to answer it.”

He looked out the window again, and said nothing. “She shall learn to
keep her claws off me,” he thought.

No one but himself knew what a price Carl Yorke was paying for his
expected inheritance. The ceaseless irritation and annoyance, the
enforced giving up of his studies, and those literary labors which now
seemed to him his vocation, and the constant confinement, were almost
more than he could bear. But one thought supported him, and that was
that he should some day be able to restore his family to their lost
home, and to pursue those plans of his own which their reverses had

He was also, not quite unconsciously, gaining something better than
gold. He was seeing all the deformity of selfishness, and the
unloveliness of that wit whose chief power is to wound. In asking the
bitter questions, What is this woman living for? what good does her
life do the world? echo had repeated the same questions in his own
soul--What are you living for? what good does the world derive from        19
your being in it? What in him and in others had been vices or faults,
veiled with a certain decorum so as to look almost like virtues, in
this woman’s character were stripped of the veil, and showed in all
their native hatefulness. Here, too, were free-thinking and atheism
_au naturel_, without the crown on their brows, the lustre he had
fancied their faces radiated, and without their airy grace. He saw a
scoffer, and it was as though he saw a devil. He had not the
consolation of thinking her really worse than himself, for he could
not shut his eyes to the fact that the difference between them had
been in manner, not in essence. He had shown more good taste and
delicacy, that was all.

“After all,” he thought, as he sat there that day, looking out the
window, “however it may be with men, women need religion. I would not
trust a woman without it. I will not retract my saying that religion
is a strait-jacket, and intended only for those who cannot stand
straight without it, but I begin to think that we are all of us
partial lunatics.”

“I have heard say that parlor means a place to parle in,” remarked
Miss Clinton presently.

“The orioles are building in this tree,” Carl said, quite as though
nothing unpleasant had happened.

She tossed her head. What did she care about orioles?

“How blood will show, both good blood and bad,” she said with the air
of one who has just discovered a great truth. “Wealth, associates,
travel, occupations, education, neither will efface the signature. The
original stamp remains in spite of circumstances.”

At the beginning, Carl scented battle, but he assumed an air of great
cheerfulness. “You are quite right,” he said. “That great _parvenu_,
Adam, and that still more frightfully new person, his wife, have left
an indelible stain upon their progeny. We can see it to this day,
faintly in some, more strongly marked in others. And, on the other
hand, that prince of the _ancien régime_, Lucifer--”

“Nonsense!” interrupted Miss Clinton. “I was going to say, if you can
stop your most disagreeable and disrespectful mocking--I was going to
say that you have some of the Bohemian lounging ways of your father,
though you never saw him, and though you have been under the training
of Charles Yorke since your babyhood.”

“Do you think I have my father’s ways?” Carl asked, with an air of
delight. “How glad I am! No one else ever told me so, and I was afraid
I might be all Arnold. My mother is, of course, an angelic lady; but
some of her family have had traits which--really--well, I should a
little rather not inherit. And so you think me like my father? Thank

“The Arnolds and the Clintons, sir, are families from whom you may be
proud to inherit anything!” the old lady cried, beating the table with
her fan. “They were among the _élite_ of Boston and New York when
this country was a British province. We had colonial governors and
judges, sir, when your father’s people were painting signs and
door-steps. It is rather late in the day, young man, for you to have
to be told what my descent is!”

She stopped, choking with anger.

The young man seemed to be much interested in this recital. “Indeed!”
he said, “this is very delightful to know, and it makes such a
difference! Though I had always understood that your descent had been

Miss Clinton glared at him, unable to utter a word, and seemed only        20
just able to restrain herself from throwing her snuff-box at him.

He rose wearily, and went out of the room, having half a mind to run
away altogether.

But ah! who met him at the door, bringing sunshine and peace in her
fair face, holding out two dear little hands, and scattering with a
word all his annoyance?

“Dear Carl,” Edith said, “are you really glad to see me--really glad?”

“How could you imagine such a thing?” he replied.

“Then I will go back to Seaton again. Good-by!”

She took a step toward the street-door, only a step, both her hands
being strongly held.

“You forget, then, silvern speech and golden silence,” the young man

“No,” she replied. “But solid silver is better than airy gold. If
people say kind things to you, then you are sure, and have something
to remember; but looks fade, and you can think that you mistake, or
mistook. Oh! I like silence, Carl, but it must be a silence that
follows after speech. That is the sole golden silence.”

“I am glad to see your face and hear your voice once more, Edith,” he
said seriously. “I have many a time longed for both.”

“Dear Carl!” she exclaimed. “But what is that I hear? Is it a parrot?”

Carl laughed. “Hush! It is Miss Clinton. She is calling out to know
who has come. We will go in and see her.”

Miss Clinton had one pleasant expression, and that was a smile, when
she was so delighted by something out of herself as to forget herself.
This smile brightened her face as she watched the young couple
approach her, hand in hand. She leaned back in her chair, and
contemplated Edith, without thinking of returning her greeting.

“I’m sure that is a golden silence,” Carl said, laughing. “But what do
you think of her, aunt? She likes to have people speak first, and look

“You are welcome, dear!” the old lady said softly, and extended her
hand, but without leaning forward. To take it, therefore, Edith had to
come very near, and was drawn gently down to the footstool by Miss
Clinton’s chair.

The old lady took off the girl’s hat, and dropped it on to the carpet,
then studied her face with delight. She loosened one of the braids of
hair wound around her head, and held it out to a sunbeam to see the
sparkle of it. She pushed it back from the face. “Did you ever see
such ears?” she said to Carl. “They are rose-leaves! There must be a
large pearl hung in each. She drew her finger along the smooth curve
of the brows. “A great artist and physiognomist once told me that such
brows show a fine nature. Broken brows, he said, indicate
eccentricities of character, brows bent toward the nose a tyrannical
disposition, heavy brows reserve and silence, but this long, smooth
brow versatility and grace. Read Lavater if you want to know all about
eyebrows.” She took the cheek, now glowing with blushes, in the hollow
of her hand, and held the eyelids down to admire the lashes. “They
make the eyes look three shades darker than they really are. But what
color are the eyes? They are no color. Did you ever see a shaded
forest spring, Carl? These eyes are as limpid.”

“Oh! please don’t!” the girl begged, trying to hide her face.              21

“My dear, I shall call you Eugénie, and shall adore you,” Miss Clinton
continued. “I hope they have not told you horrible stories about me,
or that, if they have, you will not believe them. People are fond of
saying that I am sharp, but I quote Victor Hugo to them, ‘_La rose
du Bengale, pour être sans épines, est aussi sans parfum._’ A
character without any sharpness would be like an ocean without salt.
Temper sweetens. When any person is recommended to me as of a very
mild and placid position, never getting angry, I always say, Keep that
person out of my sight! Yes, I shall call you Eugénie. I dislike the
Edith on account of old Mrs. Yorke. She and I always quarrelled, dear.
We were what some one has called ‘intimate enemies.’ But I don’t mean
to quarrel with her grand-daughter. You have your father’s eyes and
hair, Eugénie, but your mother’s features. I hope you have not her
disposition. She was too positive, and, besides, she ran away with
another woman’s beau.”

Edith drew back, and stood up, turning to Carl.

“There! she is angry the first thing,” the old lady cried. “No danger
of anybody’s thinking her _sans épines_. Take her down to get
some breakfast, Carl.”

“Dick Rowan is here,” Edith said, as the two went down-stairs; “and he
is a Catholic; and he has a new ship which he has named for me.”

There was no reply. They were going through the shady entry, and, if
the young man frowned at the news, the frown was not seen.

“Aunt Amy has gone to Hester’s,” Edith went on. “She got over the
journey nicely, and wants to see you very soon. She will send Hester
up to see me presently. I am too tired to go out to-day, would you
believe it? You see, travel was so new to me that I could not sleep. I
stayed on deck as long as I could, then I listened all night. It
seemed so strange to be on the water, out of sight of land.”

Later, while the young traveller was resting in the chamber assigned
her, a visitor entered gently, unannounced. “I thought I might come,
dear,” Miss Mills said.

Edith raised herself, and eagerly held out her arms. The lady embraced
her tenderly, then dropped, rather than sat down, in a chair by the
bed. She looked with a strange mingling of feelings on this child of
her lost lover. When she recognized the tint of his hair and eyes in
Edith’s, she bent toward her with yearning love; but then appeared
some trait of the mother--a turn of the head, a smile unconsciously
proud, an exquisitely fine outline of feature; and, at sight of it,
that wounded heart shrank back as from a deadly enemy. The interview
was friendly, and even tender, and engagements were made for future
meetings; but the lady was glad to get away. The sight of Robert
Yorke’s child had wakened all the sleeping past, and for a time the
years that had intervened since her parting with him faded like a
mist. Since that day, more than one power, at first pride, later
religion, had strengthened her, had raised up new hopes and new joys;
but they were not the sweet human hopes and joys that every man and
woman looks naturally for; they were those born of struggle and
self-denial. She had lived truly and nobly, but she was human; and
to-day her humanity rose, and swept over her like a flood.

Miss Mills locked herself into her room, and for once gave herself up      22
to regret. It was no ordinary affection which she mourned. It had
entered her heart silently, and been welcomed like an angel visitant;
it had been held sacred. She had watched it with awe and delight as it
grew, that strange, beautiful, terrible power! How complex it had
become, entering into every feeling, every interest! How it had
changed and given a new meaning to life, and a new idea and
comprehension of herself!

Then, when it had got to seem that she alone was not a complete being,
but only about to become perfect--then destruction came.

             “Jove strikes the Titans down,
       Not when they set about their mountain-piling,
       But when another rock would crown their work.”

If the foundation merely of an edifice be overthrown, there is hope
that it may be rebuilt; but destruction overtaking when the topmost
height is almost attained is destruction indeed.

In the evening a knock was heard at the chamber door, which she had
all day refused to open, a note was pushed under the door, and a
servant waited outside for her to read it. She rose wearily, lighted
the gas, and glanced over the lines. “I am sorry you have headache,
sorry for you and for me. Edith is talking with Mr. Rowan, and I am,
consequently, _de trop_. There is no one I care to see to-night
but you. Send me word if you are better.”

“Tell him to wait,” she ordered, and, hastily dressing for a walk,
went down. The front parlor was not lighted, but she saw him sitting
by a window there. “Come out!” she said. “I wanted to go to the
chapel, and you are just in time.”

Scarcely a word was spoken as they went through the streets together.
They entered the chapel, and turned aside into a shady corner. Carl
sat, and his companion, too exhausted to kneel, sat beside him. In a
room near by, a choir was singing that most beautiful of hymns--

     “Jesus, lover of my soul.”

“Alice,” Carl whispered, “that is enough to break one’s heart!”

Her tears broke forth afresh. “No, Carl, it is enough to heal a heart
already broken.” She listened, and looking toward the altar, repeated
over and over,

     “Other refuge have I none.”

The solitude and quiet were soothing to both--the sense of a divine
presence more than soothing to her who had faith in it.

They had not been there long when a gentleman came up the aisle with a
firm, but light step, passed by without noticing them, and knelt down
just before them. Carl sat and gazed at him in astonishment. That Dick
Rowan should outwardly and publicly conform to the church, for Edith’s
sake, was not surprising, but that he should come privately to the
chapel to pray was inexplicable. Could it be that a brave, manly
fellow like this could sincerely believe?

Utterly unconscious of observation, the sailor knelt there motionless,
with his face hidden in his hands, and when Carl’s companion whispered
to him, and they both went out, that figure had not stirred.

Edith Yorke’s friend began at once to show her what was notable in the
city; but, as often happens, what they considered worth seeing
disappointed the neophyte, and what they passed without notice she
would fain have paused to look at. Inexperienced persons who have read
much usually overestimate the magnitude of the wonders they have not
seen. What young traveller, entering for the first time a city, ever
found its houses as palatial, its streets as superb, its monuments as      23
grand, as fancy had pictured them?

“Everything looks so much smaller and more shabby,” Edith confessed
privately to Dick Rowan. “Trees and waters are finer than any pictures
of them that I have seen, and faces that speak and smile are more
beautiful than any painted ones. Only some pictures of Italian scenes
delight me. Now, Dick, please do not be shocked when I tell you that I
quite long to stop and look at the organ-grinders and their monkeys,
and to gaze in at the shop windows. But I can’t, you know, for that
would make Carl and Hester and Miss Mills ashamed of me.”

The result of this confidence was that, dressed to attract as little
attention as possible, these two friends set the others aside, and
went on long tramps together. They paid not much attention to the
finer sights, but dived into all sorts of byways. They looked in at
shop windows, at birds and shells and jewels, and more than one
shopkeeper was smilingly pleased to display his best wares at the
young lady’s shy request, though informed beforehand that she did not
mean to buy. They watched the organ-grinders and their monkeys to
their hearts’ content; they amused themselves with the _gamins_,
and held various conversations with them; they were bountiful to
street-beggars. Ragged urchins were astonished by showers of candy
that seemed to descend from heaven on their heads, poor little weeping
outcasts were asked to tell their griefs, and listened to with tender
sympathy, tears perhaps rising into one pair of eyes that looked at
them. Sometimes a wretched pauper, walking with downcast face through
the street, felt something touch his hand and leave a bit of money
there, and looked up to see a lady and gentleman just passing, and one
sweet face glance momentarily back with a smile at once arch and
pitying. “Shall I ruin you, Dick?” Edith asks gleefully. “I have
ruined myself; but that didn’t take long. My poor little money is all
gone. Are you very rich?”

“Oh! immensely!” Dick replies. “I have chests of gold. Give away as
much as you wish to.”

One blind man gone astray long remembered how a soft hand took one of
his, and a firm hand the other, and his two guides led him home,
inquiring into his misfortune by the way, and commiserating him more
tenderly than brother or sister ever had.

“It is so sad to have all the beautiful world shut out,” said the
sweet voice out of the dark. “But one might, I think, see heavenly
things the more plainly.”

The poor man never lost himself afterward, but he looked blindly, and
listened to hear once more those two voices, and to feel the clasp of
those two hands, one soft as charity, the other strong as faith. And
since they never came to him again, to his imprisoned soul it seemed
as though heavenly visitants had led him, and spoken sacred words for
him to remember. These two young creatures, out of the happy world of
the rich and prosperous, were not afraid of soiling their hands or
their clothes, and did not look on the poor as they did on the

“O Dick!” Edith said in one of those walks, “I do not wonder that the
Lord could not stay in heaven when he saw the misery of earth, and
knew that there was no comfort even in another world for it. What a
trial it must have been for him to sit above there, and hear all the
cries of pain that went up, and see all the weeping faces that were
raised. Why, Dick, it seems to me that if I could see and know at          24
once all the suffering there is to-day in this one city, it would kill
me. I wish we could do something besides play, as we do. Perhaps we
ought to work all our lives for the wretched, you and I; who can

“Yes!” the young man replied slowly, and was silent a moment,
thinking. “That idea comes into my mind sometimes,” he added. “I
always fancy that the poor and the wicked look at me in an asking way,
differently from what they do to others, as if they expected me to do
something for them. It may be only because they see how I look at
them. I never see one but I think, How should I feel if that were my
father or my mother? But I don’t know what great work I could do. My
life seems mapped out.”

Sometimes their expeditions were merrier. They went to the Back Bay
lands, then not filled in, and stood so close to the railroad tracks
that the passing trains blew in their faces. “I like strength and
force,” Edith said; “and I like the wind in my face. It would be
pleasant to ride in a car with an open front, and the engine on
behind. Does it not seem like that in a ship at sea, Dick?”

“Better than that,” he answered, his eyes brightening. “For at sea you
have a clear track, and can fly on without stopping or turning out for

“Now, let’s go and see that large building,” the girl said. “Isn’t it
fine to go about in this way? You are Haroun-al-Raschid, and I am
anybody, and we are exploring our capital. We are, perhaps, invisible.
Stop a minute. There are fishes in this ditch. I am going to catch one
with a crooked pin.”

They looked at the large building, Chickering’s piano-forte factory,
and Dick described foreign buildings to his companion, and described
so vividly and so simply that the structures seemed to rise before her.
He was remarkably gifted in this respect. His clear eyes took in the
general effect, and caught here and there a salient point to give it
character and sharpness, and his descriptions were never blurred by
superfluous words, or by imagination, which often destroys the
outlines of tangible things by its perceptions of their intangible

One morning they went to Mass to receive communion together. The
morning was lovely, the spring green all freshness, the birds singing,
the sun stealing goldenly through a faint mist. Edith rose happy, and
everything added to her happiness. It was delightful to have some one
to go to Mass with. It only now occurred to her that she had been
lonely in her religion.

“I hope that I shall make a good communion,” she said to herself, as
she began to dress. “What should I do? Let me think! If I had a house
of my own, rather a poor little place, and some one I loved and
honored were coming to visit me, I should first make my house clean.
Then I should adorn it all I could, and prepare a little feast. I have
no servant, I will say, and must do everything myself. I am rather
glad of that, for I can show my good-will so. I will not mind getting
on my knees to scrub out the darkest corners. But I must let in light
to see where to cleanse. Come, Holy Spirit! enlighten my soul, and let
no darkness remain where a sin can hide itself. Then comes my
confession; but what poor things confessions are! I wish I could say,
I accuse myself of having broken all the ten commandments of God, and
the six commandments of the church, and of having committed the seven
deadly sins, and every sin that could be committed, and each a             25
thousand times over. Then I should be sure to get them all in. But
Father Rasle says that, if our dispositions are good, the sins we
forget, or do not understand, are included and forgiven with those we
confess. As when a woman sweeps her room, she sweeps out, perhaps,
some things she does not see. Well, say that my house is clean, what
have I to adorn it with?” She paused with the brush half-drawn through
her hair, and the first sunbeams, shining in her face, shone on
gathering tears. She recollected herself, and went on with her
dressing. “Such a bare reception! Nothing to offer! How about faith,
hope, and charity? I believe everything, I could believe a thousand
times more; but even the devils believe, Father Rasle says. I don’t
know whether I hope in the right way. Hope is a hard virtue to manage.
Do I love him? Yes! Even though I do wrong, still I love him. It is no
sign that you do not love a person, even if you do things to vex him.
What good work can I do to-day? I will read Miss Clinton to sleep, and
let Bird go out. That will be something, because I would rather go out
myself. And I will ask Miss Clinton if I may read a paper to her. That
will be awfully hard, for she will stare at me, and then laugh in that
way that makes me want to run out of the room. And I will--yes--no--will
I? Yes, I will try to kiss her, if I possibly can. She would be
pleased; but I shouldn’t be. Those will be like little daisies at the
doorstep when he comes in. But my house is bare yet. If only I had
some pain to offer!”

Her eyes chanced to fall on a coil of picture-cord, and the sight of
it gave her a new and startling thought. She paused a moment, then,
rising, pulled her curtains close, opened the door to assure herself
that there was no one in the corridor outside, then shut the door and
locked it. This done, she looped and knotted the cord into a
discipline--ah! not in vain had she once asked Father Rasle what that
was. Her hands trembled with eagerness while she fastened the five
lashes together. Then, with one glowing upward glance, she knelt, and
brought the discipline, with the full force of her arm, round across
her shoulders. A faint cry followed the first blow, and the blood
rushed crimson over her face and neck. “O Lord! I did not mean to cry
out!” she whispered, and listened, and struck again, and yet again.
“One for each of the five wounds, one for each of the times he prayed
in the garden.” She paused, and dropped forward with her face on the
floor, writhing in silent pain. “Now, one for each station of the way
of the cross.” Tears ran down her cheeks, but her strong young arm and
heart did not falter. “Now, a decade of the rosary.”

Sobbing, half-fainting, she rose after a while, and hid the precious
pencil, with which she had painted a picture for the wall of her
little reception-room.

“I must put on something extra, so that the blood shall not show
through my dress,” she said; but, looking to wipe away the blood,
behold! not a drop was there, but only long welts of red and white
crossing her fair shoulders.

Edith hid her face, with a _feeling_ of utter humiliation and
grief. She had been agonizing under the blows which had produced only
a few marks, and yet fancying that she imitated him whose flesh had
been torn by the lash, and whose blood had flowed in streams. “I can
do nothing, nothing! I am silly and presumptuous,” were the thoughts
with which she finished her preparation to go out.                         26

But, trivial as her penance had been, it brought humility, and a
deeper sense of the sufferings of our Lord.

A servant who was washing the steps as Edith went out, smiled
gratefully to the pleasant greeting of the young lady, and looked
after her as she went down the street. The servants, all Catholics,
were very proud and fond of this young Catholic in their Protestant

“Since I cannot do anything,” Edith pursued, as she walked on toward
the church, “I will ask the Blessed Virgin and St. Joseph to come
first, and be in my house when the Lord shall enter. He will be
pleased to find them there. Then, when the time comes, I will go and
meet him at the door; but how dreadfully ashamed I shall be! I shall
not dare to look up, but I shall say, ‘Welcome, Lord!’ and kneel down,
and kiss his feet. Then, if there is anything more to be done, he will
do it, for I can do nothing. How odd it is that I should feel so
ashamed at having him come to me, and yet should want him to come! I
wouldn’t put it off for anything.”

Dick was waiting inside the chapel-door for her. He pointed her to a
confessional, then took his place near the altar. When it came time
for communion, they knelt side by side, but retired again to different

How long Edith knelt there she did not know. She had covered her face
with her hands, shutting out the sight of all about her, and her soul
had entered a new scene. There was a simple, small room, bare save for
two vague, luminous presences, one at either side, lighting the place.
There was an open door, with vines swinging about it, and a half-seen
picture of verdure, and deep blue heavens outside. Up through that
pure, intense color stretched two lines of motionless winged forms, as
if they bowed at either side of a path down which one had come. Within
the door, under the vines, stood the Lord, and she was prostrate on
the floor, with her arms clasped around, and her lips pressed to, his
feet. She did not look up, and he did not speak nor stir, but his
smile shone down through all her being. Let it last so for ever!

The tinkling of a bell awoke her as from a sound sleep--a flicker, as
of flames in the wind, moved those heavenly lines of receding faces,
and Edith lifted her head, and recollected where she was, seeming to
be suddenly transported back there from a distance. The priest was
carrying the host away from the altar of the chapel up to the church.
He held the sacred burden clasped closely to his breast, and bent his
head slightly toward it. He looked at it as he walked, yet chose his
steps with care. He wrapped around it the golden veil, of which the
fringe glistened like fire as he moved. No mother could carry a
sleeping infant more tenderly.

Edith stretched out her hands, with a momentary feeling of
bereavement, for the Lord was going away. “Oh! take my heart with
thee!” she prayed.

The lights disappeared, the sound of the bell grew fainter up the
stairs, and ceased. She sighed, then smiled again, and became aware of
Dick sitting at the furthest end of the bench, and waiting for her.
They went out by separate aisles, and met at the door.

“I would like to have followed up into the church, and waited till he
was at rest again, and seen where they lay him,” Edith said after a        27

Dick smiled quietly, and said nothing. He was looking quite pale, but
bright. She made no comment on his looks, thinking that the communion
was the cause of his emotion.

They went to the public gardens before going home. It was very lovely
there. The mists of the morning had slowly gathered themselves into
detached clouds, and they scarcely moved, the air was so still. The
trees and the many pink flowers about glistened with dew.

Edith began to love her quietude, and grow merry, but with an angelic
merriment. “Do you think that the Lord came down to the garden only at
evening?” she asked. “I think he came at early morning, unless he
stayed all night--morning is so beautiful! How alive everything is!
You can almost see eyes in the flowers. See the swans on the water.
They float like clouds in the sky. Fancy a pink swan in a large blue
lake, throwing up sprays as white as snow over his bosom! Do you think
that the earth was any more beautiful when it was first made? Is it
not lovely now?”

There was no answer in words, but the young man’s eyes, glancing
about, were eloquent, and his smile was one of peaceful delight.

“Come,” the girl said, “let’s play that this is really the Garden of
Eden, and that you and I are just taking our first walk in it,
wondering over everything. Let us look at ourselves in the water, and
see if we are as beautiful as all the rest.”

He smiled at the childish fancy, took the hand she offered him, and
went with her over the water. The swans passed by, and sent ripples
over their mirror, but it was clear enough to give back the image of a
sweet oval face with bright eyes and lips, and of another face more
richly tinted, peach-colored with sun and wind, with eyes that
sparkled, and white teeth that laughed through a chestnut beard.

“Adam,” said the woman, “thou art more stately than the palm, and
thine eyes have beams like the sun. Let us praise the Creator who hath
formed thee in his own image!”

Dick’s hand and voice trembled, his face grew red in the water, then
grew pale. “Eve,” he said, “thou art whiter and more graceful than the
swan, and, while thou art speaking, the birds listen. I praise him who
has given thee to me to be mine alone and for ever--my mate in this
world and in the next.”

Speaking, his light clasp grew tight on her hand.

The face and throat that had shown swan-white in the water grew
rose-red, then disappeared as Edith started back.

“How could I look forward to anything else, Edith?” the young man
exclaimed desperately. “I have never dreamed of any other life. I have
worked, and studied, and hoped for you. What! will you turn away from
me now, for the first time? God have mercy on me!”

She did not utter a word at first. She was too much confounded. It was
to her as though the friend she had so long known had been suddenly
snatched from her side, and a stranger like, and yet unlike, him put
in his place. This man with the pallid face and trembling voice was
not Dick Rowan. She wanted to get away from him. But after a step or
two she turned back again.

“Who would have thought it?” she said, looking at him anxiously, as
though half hoping that the whole was a jest.

“Who would have thought anything else?” he replied, taking courage.        28

She turned away again, but he walked on beside her. It was too late to
withdraw. Having spoken, he must say all.

“I think you were the only person who did not see what I lived for,”
he said.

“But it is nonsense!” she exclaimed.

“We have always known each other. We are like brother and sister. Is
it only strangers who marry?” he asked.

“Marry! Fie! I never thought of such a thing!” she said angrily.

“Won’t you please think of it now, Edith?” he asked, in a voice so
gentle and controlled that it recalled her own self-possession. “This
has been the great thought of my life. It made me ambitious, for your
sake. I am a Catholic, thank God! and a sincere one, but it was love
of you that led me to study and think on that subject. When my life
hangs in the balance, I am sure you will at least stop to think,

She looked at him, but he did not return her glance. His eyes were
fixed on the ground, and it really seemed as though his life did hang
in the balance.

“I’d like to stop and talk about it a little while, Dick,” she said.
“Sit here. Now, be reasonable, and I will not be cross again. Forgive
me! I was so surprised, you know; for I have been studying all my
life, and never thought about this. Now, it seems to me, Dick, that I
shall never want to be married to any one whatever. I shall live with
Aunt Amy, and, when she is dead, I will go into a convent, or, if I
should have money, will do something for the poor, perhaps. If you
want to have me with you, some time I can go on a voyage in your ship,
and you can always come to see me when you come home. Won’t that do?”

He smiled faintly.

“Oh! thank you!” she said, greatly relieved.

“Has any one else ever spoken to you in this way, Edith?” he asked,
looking at her searchingly.

“Oh! no,” she answered with decision. “I am not at all engaged, or
anything like it. No one ever cared anything about me. And I hope you
are satisfied now, Dick. It is very well for people to marry who are
afraid of losing each other; but we can live close by when we grow
old, or perhaps in the same house.”

“I have disturbed and troubled you, Edith,” the young man said after
awhile, “but I could not help it. There must be a beginning to
everything, and I had to make a beginning of this. I don’t expect you
to treat it seriously now, but I want you to think of it. It seemed
right that I should speak, or some one else might speak while I am
gone, and take you away from me.”

“But I should never think of having any one else, if you want me,” she
replied with perfect conviction. “I may not ever marry at all, but, if
I do, you will have the first chance.”

Dick Rowan’s whole face caught fire. “Why, darling!” he exclaimed
joyfully, “do you mean that?”

She was astonished and pleased at the effect of her words, “Truly,”
she answered. “You know very little of me if you do not know that I
have always considered myself to belong more to you than to any one

They had now reached Miss Clinton’s door, and there they parted
without more words.

But Edith’s indecision was of shorter duration than either she or her
friend had anticipated. The subject was so foreign to her thoughts         29
that at first she had comprehended nothing, and had received Dick
Rowan’s avowal in a most childish manner. But a few hours’
consideration had set the whole in a different light. She went down to
Hester’s as soon as dinner was over, and asked for her aunt. Mrs.
Yorke was in her own room, writing a letter, and she only glanced up
with a smile as her niece entered.

“All well at Miss Clinton’s?” she asked, folding the letter.

“Yes, very well.”

“Anything new?”

“Miss Clinton told me last night that her will is made, leaving
everything to Carl, and that, if I marry to suit her, I am to have her
jewels, shawls, and laces. I do not want them, though I would rather
have fresh new things for myself, if they are not so rich.”

“Whom does she wish you to marry?” Mrs. Yorke asked, directing her

“She did not say,” Edith replied in a constrained voice, looking down.

Mrs. Yorke glanced at her niece, then put her arm out and drew her
close. “You have something to tell me, dear,” she said.

Edith began to tremble. “Yes, Aunt Amy. Dick Rowan has been talking to
me this morning, and, if you and Uncle Charles are willing, and if I
should ever marry any one, I am going to marry him.”

Mrs. Yorke’s brows contracted slightly, rather with anxiety than
displeasure. “Dear child, are you sure of yourself?” she asked. “One
may have a very great affection for a person, and not be willing to
marry him. Don’t be hasty. Take time to think of it till he shall come
back again. If you promise, you may regret it. I must say, dear, I
think it selfish of him to speak so when you have seen nothing but
birds and books, and do not know your own mind.”

Edith raised her head from her aunt’s shoulder. “Oh! Dick isn’t
selfish, and he only asked me to think of it, and to know that he
wanted me.”

It was useless to oppose. After a little more talk, Mrs. Yorke
promised to consent if both were of the same mind after a year. “And
now, Edith, I have concluded to start for home to-morrow, and I want
to see Carl right away.”

She did not say that she had only come to this conclusion since Edith
had entered her room.

“And I also wish to see Mr. Rowan,” she added. “Did he not mean to
consult me?”

“Oh! yes,” Edith said eagerly. “He is coming up this evening; and,
Aunt Amy”--very hesitatingly--“don’t let me be married for a great
while, till I am twenty-five, at least. Of course,” looking up
quickly, as if some doubt had been expressed--“of course, I think the
world of him, and don’t wish to marry any one else; but I cannot,
_cannot_ hurry.”

Mrs. Yorke had a long conversation with her niece’s lover, that
evening, and laid down the law rather severely to him. No one but
Edith, herself, and Mr. Yorke were to know of his proposal. “I do not
wish her to be talked about, and assigned to any one, when nothing is
decided,” she said. “It is for that purpose that I am taking her away
so soon, to prevent talk. If, when you come home next year, she wishes
it, and nothing has happened to raise any new objection, I shall not
oppose you.”

He sat a moment silent. He asked nothing better than he had got; but
his proud spirit rebelled at the manner in which the promise was
given. He was tolerated because they could not help themselves.            30

“Do you agree to that?” she asked, after waiting a moment.

“Certainly!” he replied. “I forgot to say so, and to thank you,
because, excuse me! I was thinking how much poorer an offering is a
man’s whole heart and faithful allegiance than a full purse.”

“If you had millions, it would make no difference, Mr. Rowan,” Mrs.
Yorke said hastily, her color rising. “If I am not cordial in
welcoming you into this relation, my reasons are not mercenary, nor--”
her manner softened--“nor because I do not respect and like you.”

She held her hand out to him. He bent gallantly over it, murmured a
word of thanks, and took leave without saying any more.

He was willing, almost glad, that Edith should go home. He welcomed
any stir and progress in events which would seem to pass the time more
quickly along. Let him get over his year of probation, and, during it,
be separated from her, if they chose. Her doubt and trouble in their
new relations troubled him. When he should come again, all would be
settled. He was full of hope and triumph, and far removed from
jealousy. She had said that she should not think of marrying any one
but him; and what Edith said was as sure as sunrise.

                          TO BE CONTINUED.


                           (IN MEMORIAM.)

                             A CONVERT.


(These lines express the feelings of one, now at rest, who was loved
and honored by all who knew him--including, probably, those who cast
him off.)


                Ah me! my alienated friends,
                  Whose friendship, like a branch half-broke,
                With all its mildewed blossoms bends,
                  And piecemeal rots;--how kind the stroke
                That bond--your bondage--sent to sever!
                Yet, can I wish it? Never, never!


                I hear them tread your festal floors:
                  When now the lights no longer burn,
                Alone I haunt your darkened doors:
                  The guests are gone; yet I return:
                In dreamless sleep outstretched you lie:
                I dream of all the days gone by.

                                 III.                                      31

                Against myself your part I take:
                  “I was of those whose spring is fair;
                Whom men but love in hope, and wake
                  To find (youth flown) the worse for wear:
                ’Gainst the defaulter judgment goes:
                I lived on trust, and they foreclose.”


                And many times I say: “They feel
                  In me the faults they spare to name;
                Nor flies unjust the barbèd steel,
                  Though loosened with a random aim.”
                Officious zeal! for them I plead
                Who neither seek such aid, nor need.


                Give up thy summer wealth at last,
                  Sad tree; and praise the frost that bares
                Thy boughs, ere comes that wintry blast
                  Which fells the grove that autumn spares.
                There where thou lov’st thou liv’st! Bequeath,
                Except thy bones, no spoils to death!


                To others sovereign Faith exalts
                  Her voice from temple and from shrine:
                For me she rears from funeral vaults
                  A cross that bleeds with drops divine;
                And Hope--above a tombstone--lifts
                Her latest, yet her best of gifts.

                                                      AUBREY DE VERE.


          THE LIQUEFACTION OF THE BLOOD OF ST. JANUARIUS.                  32

                              NO. II.

When was this liquefaction of the blood of St. Januarius first seen by
men? It is not easy to answer the question. Some Neapolitan writers
have maintained that it occurred probably on the very day when the
remains of the sainted bishop were first solemnly transferred to
Naples. For then, naturally and as a matter of course, the vials of
the blood must have been brought into close proximity with the relics
of the head. And this proximity, now intentionally brought about at
each exposition, seems to be ordinarily the necessary and sufficient
condition for the occurrence of the liquefaction. Others, however,
prefer to be guided by positive historical evidence, and have come to
a different conclusion. There is in existence a life of the saint
written in or near Naples, about the year 920. It combines historical
accounts and later legends, and evidently omits nothing which the
writer thought would promote veneration toward the saint. It is
diffuse on the subject of miracles. There is also in existence a
panegyric of the saint, written perhaps half a century earlier still.
No mention whatever is made in either of them of this Liquefaction. We
may, therefore, conclude that in the year 920 it was not known. Four
hundred and fifty years later, it was known, and had been known so
long as to be reputed of ancient standing. About 1380, Lupus dello
Specchio wrote the life of St. Peregrine of Scotland, who came to
Naples about the year 1100, and died there probably about 1130. In
that life it is stated that St. Peregrine came to witness this
celebrated and continual miracle--_quotidianum et insigne miraculum_.
Now, it may well be that the author, writing about two hundred and
fifty years after the death of St. Peregrine, had access to documents
and evidences clearly establishing this fact, although such documents
do not now exist, five hundred years later, or, at least, have not as
yet been exhumed from some dusty library, where they may be lying
unnoticed. Or, on the contrary, it may possibly be that in 1380 Lupus
believed that the miracle, so regular in its occurrence at his day,
had regularly occurred since the year of the translation of the body,
and took it as a matter of course that St. Peregrine had witnessed it;
and so put that down among the facts of his life. But this, even
though a harsh criticism, and one we think unwarranted, if not
excluded, by the words of the life, would imply at least that, in
1380, the Liquefaction had occurred for so long a time that men had
ordinarily lost the memory of its commencement.

Maraldus the Carthusian, who accompanied his abbot Rudolph to the
coronation of Roger, King of Sicily, as historiographer, tells us in
his _Chronicon_--or perhaps his continuator--how, in 1140, Roger
visited Naples, and how there he venerated the relics of the head and
of the blood of St. Januarius. The Liquefaction is not mentioned in so
many words. But these relics would not have been singled out from all
others in the city, and made so prominent, without some special            33
reason--a reason, perhaps, so well known and so obvious that it did
not occur to the writer to state it explicitly, any more than to say
that the king venerated the relics in the daytime and not at night.

The learned and critical Bollandists, who have carefully weighed all
that can be said on this question, incline to hold that the
Liquefaction commenced somewhere between the years 900 and 1000. Prior
to the century between those years, St. Januarius had been ranked
among the minor patrons of the church of Naples. After that century,
he holds the most prominent place and rank in their calendar. This
change is unusual and important, and must have been based on some
sufficient reason. The most probable one under the circumstances--if
not the only one that can be assigned--is that during that century the
Liquefactions became known. The contemporary records of Naples for
that time were very few; for it was a period of incessant warrings,
devastations, and tumults. Those that did exist probably perished in
the not unfrequent destruction of the monastic libraries. Still, some
venerable manuscript may even yet come to light, telling us how on
some festival day, or day of supplication, the relics were all on the
altar, the vials of the blood near to the head; how some of the crowd
that prayed before the altar saw that the blood in the vial had become
liquid; how the wonderful thing was spoken of and seen by many; how,
on other occasions, it occurred again and again; until at last it came
to be regularly looked for, as a part, and the most wonderful part, of
the celebration.

After 1400, the notices of the Liquefaction are more frequent. Æneas
Sylvius Piccolomini (afterwards Pope Pius II.) gives an account of it.
Robert Gaguin, the old French historian, narrating the journey of
Charles VIII. into Italy, mentions his visiting Naples in 1495, and
his witnessing and examining this miracle of the Liquefaction.

In 1470, Angelo Catone, a physician of Salerno, who devoted the later
years of his life to literature and to travelling, has written a brief
but clear account of it. Picus de la Mirandola, the wonder of his age,
has also left his testimony as an eye-witness.

It is needless to say that, since the invention of printing and the
multiplication of books, we have numberless accounts of it from
travellers and authors, in Latin, Italian, German, Polish, English,
French, Spanish, and every language of Europe.

Ever since September, 1659--ten years after the opening of the new
_Tesoro_ chapel--an official diary has been kept in it, recording
day by day the expositions of the relics; in what state and condition
the blood was found when extracted from the _armoire_, or closet;
after the lapse of what length of time the change, if any, occurred;
what was its course and character; in what condition the blood was,
when safely replaced in its closet in the evening; and, generally, any
other facts of the day which the officers charged with this duty
deemed worthy of note.

There are also printed forms in blank to the same effect, which one of
them fills out and signs in the sacristy attached to the
_Tesoro_, and distributes each day of exposition to those who desire
them. We have several in our possession.

Another diary is kept in the archiepiscopal archives. It was commenced
long before that of the _Tesoro_. We had an opportunity of looking
over it. Down to the year 1526, it seems to be made up from previous
documents and extracts from various authors. In 1526, it assumes the       34
character of an original diary. Here and there come intervals during
which it appears not to have been regularly kept on. These omissions
would be supplied from other sources, when, after a time, the diary
would be resumed. From 1632 it is complete. We have before us a
manuscript abstract of it, from which we will quote hereafter.

The church of Naples celebrates three festivals of St. Januarius each
year; the feast proper of the saint, commemorating his martyrdom; the
feast of the translation, commemorating the transfer of his body from
Marcian to Naples; and the feast of the patronage, a votive one of
thanksgiving. We take them up in the order of time as they occur each

I. The first Sunday of May is the feast of the translation. On the
preceding Saturday--the vigil, as it is termed--a solemn procession,
during the forenoon, bears the bust containing the relics of the head
of the saint from the cathedral to the church of Santa Chiara, or St.
Clare. In the afternoon, another more imposing procession conveys the
reliquary of the blood to the same church, in which the liquefaction
is then looked for. About sunset, both relics are borne back in
procession to the cathedral and _Tesoro_ chapel, and at the proper
hour are duly locked up. On the next day, Sunday, they are brought
out, first to the altar of the _Tesoro_ chapel, and thence, after a
couple of hours, to the high altar of the cathedral. In the afternoon,
at the appointed hour, they are again brought back to the _Tesoro_
chapel, and are duly replaced in their closet, or _armoire_. The same
is repeated on Monday, and on each succeeding day of the octave up to
the following Sunday, inclusive. Thus, for this festival in May there
are _nine_ successive days of exposition. And, inasmuch as in the mind
of the church the vigil, the feast, and the octave are all united
together, as the celebration of one festival in a more solemn form, so
we naturally look on those nine expositions not as isolated and
distinct, one from the other, but as in some way connected together
and united to compose a single group.

The feast and its vigil are found in ancient calendars of the church
of Naples. The octave was added about the year 1646, on the occasion
of completing and consecrating the new _Tesoro_ chapel, the work and
the pride of the city. The processions on the vigil were at first
directed to such churches as the ecclesiastical authorities might from
time to time select, to meet the convenience or the wishes of the
faithful. In 1337, eight special churches were designated to which in
an established order of succession the processions would thereafter go
in turn each year. In 1526, it was stipulated between the city
authorities and the archbishop that they should instead go in turn to
six municipal halls, or _seggie_, as the Neapolitans styled them,
belonging to as many civic bodies or corporations, which united, in
some complex and ancient way, in the municipal government of the city:
that is, to the chapels or churches attached to these _seggie_. This
regulation was strictly followed until the year 1800. The old mediæval
usages and liberties had by that time become weakened or had died out
under the influence of modern centralization. The several old civic
corporations of Naples, if they existed at all, existed only in name.
The halls or _seggie_ had lost their original importance and standing.
A new regulation seemed necessary. From 1800 down, the procession of       35
the vigil has gone each year to the church of Santa Chiara.

II. On the 19th of September occurs the Feast of St. Januarius, the
chief or proper festival of the saint, commemorating his life of
virtue and his glorious death by martyrdom under Diocletian. It is
traced back to the earliest martyrologies and calendars of the church;
even those of the Greek schismatic church have preserved it. In
Naples, St. Januarius being the patron saint of the city, this
festival is, of course, one of high rank, and has an octave. Opening
on the nineteenth, and closing on the twenty-sixth of September, it
gives each year _eight_ days more, on each one of which the relics are
brought forth about 9 A.M., and are placed on the main altar of
the _Tesoro_ chapel, and, about 11 A.M., are carried thence out to
the high altar of the cathedral, whence again in the evening they are
regularly brought back to the _Tesoro_ chapel, to be replaced for the
night in their proper closets. On each day, the liquefaction is looked
for. The reason already given in the case of the May octave applies
here also. These eight days of exposition are not eight isolated or
distinct days, without any connection. They should rather be looked on
as forming a second group.

III. On the 16th of December is celebrated the feast of the Patronage
of St. Januarius. This is a single day festival in annual thanksgiving
for many favors received, and especially for the preservation of
Naples, two centuries and a half ago, from the fate of Herculaneum and

Naples lies almost under the shadow of Mount Vesuvius, that terrible
volcano which, after slumbering peacefully for an unknown number of
ages, renewed its fearful and destructive eruptions in A.D. 79,
203, 462, 512, and more than fifty times since. The burning gas or the
smoke from its crater has risen miles into the air, and has spread
like a dark cloud scores of miles on one side or the other. It has
thrown up stones, which fell in showers of lapilli ten miles away. Its
ashes have been borne to Tunis and Algiers in Africa, and to Tuscany,
to Illyria, and to Greece in other directions. Once they clouded the
sky and filled the air even in Constantinople. Streams of molten lava
have flowed down its sides, filling valleys that were broad and deep,
and sending in advance a sulphurous atmosphere and a glowing heat
which destroyed all animal and vegetable life, even before the fiery
stream itself touched plant, tree, or animal. They roll on slowly, but
so inflexible and irresistible that no work or art of man can stay the
movement or control its course. Everything in its path is doomed to
utter destruction. _Resina_, between Naples and the mountain, has been
destroyed and rebuilt, it is said, seven times; _Torre del Greco_,
near by, nine times. Other places have perished as did Herculaneum and
Pompeii. On every side of the mountain, so fair to look on when
peaceful, so terrible in its wrath, one may follow for miles on miles
these ancient currents, radiating from the centre. Here the hard, dark
rock rings, as iron would, under your horse’s hoof. There, what was
once a death-bearing stream of lava has been covered by time with a
rich soil, on which vines and olives flourish. By the shore, you may
see where they reached the water, and have added leagues of rough
volcanic rock to the land.

Naples has often been violently shaken, and sometimes seriously
injured; has often been in imminent peril, but never was utterly           36
destroyed. This brilliant capital, uniting in herself all that Italian
taste admires of beauty and luxury--“_Vedi Napoli, e muori_”--lives
with a sword of Damocles ever suspended over her. Each night as they
retire the Neapolitans may shudder if they cast a thought on the
possible horrors of the night they have entered on or what the morrow
may bring them.

But men become callous even to such dangers as these, when often
threatened and seldom felt. We can conceive how thoroughly all thought
of them had died out in 1631, when Vesuvius, in a long unbroken sleep
of one hundred and ninety-four years, had allowed six generations of
Neapolitans to grow up and pass to their graves without any experience
of its power. Earthquakes, explosions, flames, smoke, and streams of
fire were all forgotten. Towns and villages, and gardens and
vineyards, were dotting the base of the mountain or climbing its
pleasant and fertile slopes. And among the many charming scenes in the
neighborhood of Naples, there were then none more sweet and charming
than those of the narrow tract between the city and Mount Vesuvius.

So it was on the morning of Tuesday, the 16th of December, 1631. Yet
fair as was the scene on which the sun rose that day, it was to be
greatly changed ere night. Early in the morning, the citizens were
startled and somewhat alarmed by a very perceptible tremulousness of
the earth under their feet. It increased in violence as the hours
rolled on, and the atmosphere too, December though it was, became
sultry and close. The inhabitants of the beautiful villas and the
farmers and country laborers, who had felt the trembling of the earth
and the closeness of the atmosphere more sensibly than the citizens,
and who saw at once that it was caused by the mountain, commenced to
flee with their families for safety into the city. About 9
A.M. a cry of affright went up from the city and the country, as
suddenly the mountain shook and roared as if in agony. All eyes turned
to the summit of Vesuvius, only yesterday so fair and green. A huge
turbid column of smoke was seen swiftly springing upward from its cone
toward the sky. High up, it spread out like the top of a mighty pine
or palm. The lightning flashed through this rolling, surging,
ever-increasing mass as it rapidly expanded on every side. By 11
A.M., Naples lay under the dark and fearful cloud which shut out
the heavens and darkened the day. The incessant trembling of the earth
was perceptibly increasing in violence. Men felt that they were at the
beginning of they knew not what terrible tragedy, before which they
felt themselves utterly powerless.

The ever-open churches were soon crowded with fear-stricken
suppliants. The cardinal archbishop at once directed religious
services to be commenced in them all, and to be continued without
intermission. In the hours of the afternoon there would be a
procession through the streets near the cathedral, in which the relics
of St. Januarius would be borne. Men prayed to be spared from the
impending doom. The trembling earth might open to swallow them; the
tottering houses might fall and crush them; or the mountain, whose
sullen roar, like that of an angry monster, they heard amid and above
all other sounds, might destroy them in some other more fearful way.
They prayed and did penance, like the Ninivites of old. They sought to
prepare their souls for the death which might come to many of them.        37

To the gloom and horrors of the dark cloud of smoke, spread as a
funeral pall over the city, was added, later in the day, a pouring
rain. The water came down heated and charged with volcanic ashes.
Night arrived, more terrible than the day. The continuous trembling of
the earth had indeed ceased; but, instead, there came sharp, quick
shocks of earthquake, four or five of them every hour, vastly
increasing the danger of those who remained in their houses.
Out-of-doors was the pouring rain and the intense darkness, rendered
more fearful by the intermittent electric flashings of the cloud
overhead. The few oil-lamps in the streets gave little light; some had
not been lighted, others had been extinguished. The narrow streets
sounded with shrieks of alarm and prayers for mercy. They were filled
with those who chose rather the darkness, the rain, and the mud under
foot, than the danger within their own chambers. And all through the
city might be descried entire families grouped together, and, by the
light of torches or lanterns, making their way to some church--for,
all through the terrible hours of that long night, the churches still
remained open and thronged, and the services still continued. Day came
at length, if the dim, misty light could be called day. It brought no
relief beyond its saddening twilight. All hearts were depressed and
filled with gloomy forebodings. All felt that only by the mercy of God
could they be rescued.

At 10 A.M. there came two shocks of earthquake severer than any
that had preceded them. The waters of the bay twice receded, leaving a
portion of the harbor bare, and twice rolled back furiously, rushing
over the piers and quays, and passing into the lower streets of the
city. A hoarse and violent roar was heard from the mountain. It was
soon known that the sea of lava within its bowels had burst for itself
a channel-way out through the northern side, and was pouring down in a
rapid stream, widening its front as it spread into seven branches, and
advancing directly towards the city. _Portici_ and _Resina_, near the
mountain, or, rather, on its lower slope, were seen quickly to perish.
Portions of Torre del Greco and of Torre dell’Annunziata shared the
same fate. It seemed to the affrighted Neapolitans, as they looked on
the fiery streams pouring onward, resistless and inflexible, in their
course of destruction, that death was coming to them by fire, more
terrible far than death by water or by earthquake.

Meanwhile, the hour at last arrived fixed for this day’s procession.
The archbishop was to take part in it, and would himself bear the
reliquary of the blood of St. Januarius. The clergy of the city would
precede and accompany him, and the municipal authorities would walk in
procession behind. Thousands were in the cathedral and would follow
after, and tens of thousands crowded the streets through which its
route lay. A common feeling filled all hearts alike; they prayed
earnestly, if ever they did--for their lives, and their homes, their
all was at stake.

The rain had ceased, but the dark cloud still hung overhead, and the
ashes were still falling, and the air was close and sulphurous. As the
procession issued from the cathedral, and while the archbishop stood
yet in the square in front of it, a blaze of sunlight beamed around.
The sun itself they did not see, but his beams found some rift in the
mass of smoke surging overhead, and struggled through, throwing, for a
few moments, a glow of golden effulgence down on the cathedral and the     38
square, and the groups that stood or knelt within it. The effect was
electric. “It is a miracle! our prayers are heard!” was the cry that
burst from the multitude. In a few moments the light was gone; but,
with cheered and hopeful hearts, the procession moved on through the
crowded streets to the gate of the city, looking directly towards
Vesuvius and the advancing streams of lava. Here an altar had been
prepared in the open air, psalms were chanted, prayers and litanies
succeeded, and the archbishop, ascending the steps of the altar, stood
on the platform, and, holding aloft the reliquary of the blood, made
with it the sign of the cross towards the blazing mountain, and all
prayed that God, through the intercession of their great patron saint,
would avert the dreaded and dreadful calamity.

Ere the archbishop descended from the altar, all were aware that an
east wind had sprung up, and that the smoke and cinders and ashes were
being blown away over the sea. The mountain grew calmer, and at once
ceased to pour forth such immense supplies of molten lava. The dreaded
stream, no longer fed from the copious fount, soon slackened its
movement--ceased to advance towards them--and, before their eyes, was
seen to grow cold, and solid, and dark. When that procession, on its
return, reached the cathedral, the sun was shining brightly and
cheerfully. Well might they close with a solemn _Te Deum_, for Naples
was saved. Outside of the city, five thousand men, women, and children
had perished, and ruin was spread everywhere; within the city, not one
building had fallen, not one life had been lost.

The eruption continued for some months after, but in a moderated form.
The danger to the city was not renewed.

Therefore, in 1632, and in each year since, the sixteenth of December
has been a memorable and a sacred day for Naples. It became the
festival of the _Patrocinio_, or Patronage of St. Januarius. For a
century and a half, it was kept as a religious holy-day of strictest
obligation. But the sense of gratitude dies out equally with the sense
of dangers from which we escaped in the distant past. Whether this was
the cause, or whether it was deemed proper to yield to the so-called
industrial notions that have prevailed in more modern times, we cannot
say; but, for three-quarters of a century back, if we err not, this
festival in Naples ranks only as one of devotion. For a number of
years, its celebration was even transferred to the Sunday following.
In 1858, it was transferred back to the day itself, and is now
celebrated invariably on the sixteenth of December. On that day, the
relics are taken from their closet and borne to the altar of the
_Tesoro_, and thence to the high altar of the cathedral. After Mass,
and the recitation of a portion of the divine office, they are borne
in solemn procession through several streets in the vicinity of the
cathedral, and, on the return, are brought again to the high altar,
where there is the exposition of the relics with the usual prayers;
and the liquefaction is looked for for the _eighteenth_ regular time
each year.

If the weather be rainy, the procession goes merely through the aisles
and nave of the large cathedral and back to the high altar.

This feast has taken the place of another single-day festival,
formerly celebrated on the fourteenth of January, and now merged in        39
this votive feast a month earlier.

Beyond these ordinary and regularly established expositions, other
special or extraordinary ones have been occasionally allowed,
sometimes at the request of distinguished strangers, who visited
Naples mostly in winter, and could not wait for the recurrence of the
regular festival; sometimes to allow learned and scientific men,
earnest in the cause of religion, to examine the liquefaction more
closely and quietly than they could do amid the concourse of so many
thousands on the regular days; and, sometimes, for special and urgent
reasons of devotion or public need, as was that of December 16, 1631,
of which we have just given the account. These extraordinary
expositions were more frequent and more easily allowed two or three
centuries ago than in later years. In fact, the latest one of which we
can find any record occurred in 1702. Pope Pius IX. himself, during
his exile in Gaeta, near Naples, waited for a regular day--September
20, 1849--to witness the liquefaction.

On a number of religious festivals during the year, it is customary to
take out the bust of St. Januarius, containing the relics of his head,
and to place it, with other relics of the saints kept in the
cathedral, on the altar. To do this, it is, of course, necessary that
the city delegate with his keys should be in attendance, and should
co-operate with the canon or clergyman sent by the archbishop with his
keys. Together they open the closet in which, under two locks, is kept
the bust, and which, our readers will remember, is built in the
massive masonry wall of the _Tesoro_ chapel, immediately behind its
main altar, and adjoining the similar closet in which is preserved the
reliquary with the ampullæ, or vials, of the blood. As this reliquary
of the blood is not to be taken out on these occasions, its closet is
ordinarily left untouched. But, in some rare instances, it has been
opened, and due record made of the state in which the blood was then
seen to be. At some other times, also, the door has been opened by
special favor, that strangers might at least take a similar view, if
they could not be present at an exposition. We have the record of
nineteen times altogether since 1648, when the door was opened for one
or the other of these reasons, the last time being June 11, 1775, when
the blood was seen _hard_. However, as to the number of such minor
examinations, we apprehend that we should speak with some hesitation.
There may have been many more of which we have not just now at hand
sufficient information.

We have spoken of the official diary of the _Tesoro_ chapel,
commencing in 1659, and of the archiepiscopal diary, commencing as a
diary in 1526, and both continuing, the latter with some _lacunæ_ in
its earlier portions, down to the present time. Of course, different
hands have penned its pages as years rolled on; and it is curious and
amusing to note their differences of character as shown in their
styles. Even in so plain a matter as recording, day after day and year
after year, the state and condition of the blood when extracted from
its closet, the occurrence and character of the liquefaction, the
prominent or important facts of each day, and in what condition the
blood was when replaced at night in its closet--points which it was
the duty of all to record--personal traits are unwittingly manifested.
One writer evidently was fond of ecclesiastical ceremonies, and he is      40
exact in recording the character of the High Mass and of the
processions: who and how many walked in them, how many altars were
erected on the route through the streets, etc. Another was more of a
courtier, and he carefully mentions the presence of cardinals,
viceroys, ambassadors, princes, and eminent personages. A third was
devoted to prayer, and his entries breathe his spirit of devotion in
many a pious ejaculation. One tells you of a new musical _Te Deum_
that was sung. Another had a painter’s eye, and never fails to name,
with minute precision, the varying shades of color seen in the blood.
Another still, with more of a mathematical turn, is equally exact in
setting forth to the very minute the times of the liquefactions which
he records; while others, again, performed their duty in a more
perfunctory style.

On the whole, these diaries are to us most interesting and unique, as
well for the length of time they cover, and the evident sincerity and
earnestness of the writers in stating faithfully what they
saw--sometimes to their own astonishment or sorrow, sometimes with
joy--as also for the wonderful character of the facts themselves which
are recorded.

Of the archiepiscopal diary, we possess a manuscript abstract, kindly
written out for us. From its pages we have made a summary of all the
expositions of the blood of St. Januarius at Naples from the year 1648
to 1860, which we present to our readers in tabular form. We group
them together in octaves, for the reasons already given, and because
in that form several peculiarities are clearly seen which, perhaps,
otherwise would disappear.

We give, first, three tables for the vigil, feast, and octave in May.
The first one shows the state of the blood when taken out from its
closet, giving to each day a column, and recording in each column the
various conditions of the blood, distinguishing them as: 1. Very hard;
2. Hard; 3. Soft; 4. Liquid, with a hard lump in the liquid; 5. Hard
and full; 6. Full, when, on account of that fulness, it could not be
known whether the dark mass of blood within was solid or fluid; 7.
Liquid. A second table will set forth, under a similar arrangement,
the various lengths of time which elapsed from the taking out of the
reliquary of the _ampulla_ from its closet until the liquefaction
was seen to commence. After enumerating the instances in which the
time is clearly determinable, another line indicates the times when
the liquefaction is set down as gradual, sometimes because the time
was not clearly seen, sometimes, perhaps, because the recording was
perfunctory. We add another line, embracing the various occasions when
the diary either omits recording or indicating the time, or does so,
vaguely or in such terms as “_regular_, _very regular_,
_promptly_, _punctually_, _most punctually_, _without unusual delay_,
_without anything new_.” We subjoin to this table other lines, showing
on what days and how often the blood remained always fluid; or always
fluid with a hard floating lump; or always hard; or always full, and
so full that liquefaction was not detected. A third table, similarly
arranged, will show in what condition the blood was when locked up at
night in its closet. We also give three similar tables for the feast
and octave of September, and similar accounts for the December
festival and for the extraordinary expositions.

           _May, 1648, to May, 1860, inclusive--213 Years._                41

                              TABLE I.


         MAY.          |Satur.|Sun.|Mon.|Tues.|Wed.|Thur.|Fri.|Satur.|Sun.
  Very hard            |   2  | -- |  1 |   1 |  2 |  -- |  2 |    2 |   2
  Hard                 | 156  |119 |207 | 203 |168 | 139 |123 |  113 | 113
  Soft                 |   4  |  8 |  1 |   3 |  2 |   5 |  3 |    7 |   6
  Liquid, with hard lump|  40 | 74 | -- |  -- | -- |   1 | -- |   -- |  --
  Hard and full        |   3  | -- | -- |   1 |  6 |   9 | 13 |   15 |  17
  Full                 |  --  | -- | -- |   4 | 33 |  56 | 68 |   75 |  73
  Liquid               |   8  | 12 |  4 |   1 |  2 |   3 |  4 |    1 |  --

                              TABLE II.

                    TIMES OF THE LIQUEFACTIONS.

         MAY.        |Satur.|Sun.|Mon.|Tues.|Wed.|Thur.|Fri.|Satur.|Sun.
  Under 10 minutes   |   88 | 67 | 85 |  44 | 27 |  23 | 18 |   16 | 16
  Under 30   ”       |   49 | 28 | 63 |  73 | 46 |  46 | 44 |   35 | 37
  Under 60   ”       |   18 |  9 |  8 |  36 | 42 |  25 | 19 |   17 | 13
  Under 2 hours      |    5 |  4 |  2 |   1 |  5 |   6 |  5 |   11 |  7
  Under 5    ”       |    1 |  7 | -- |  -- |  2 |   2 |  2 |    3 |  3
  Over 5     ”       |    1 | -- |  1 |  -- | -- |  -- |  2 |    2 |  4
  Gradual            |    1 | 40 | -- |  -- | -- |   1 | -- |   -- | --
  Vague or omitted   |   26 | 45 | 54 |  55 | 54 |  52 | 51 |   53 | 56
  Always liquid,     |      |    |    |     |    |     |    |      |
      with hard lump |   17 |  1 | -- |  -- | -- |  -- | -- |   -- | --
  Always full        |   -- | -- | -- |   4 | 33 |  56 | 68 |   75 | 73
  Always hard        |    1 | -- | -- |  -- | -- |  -- | -- |   -- | --
  Always liquid      |    6 | 12 | -- |  -- |  4 |   3 |  3 |    1 |  2

                             TABLE III.


         MAY.          |Satur.|Sun.|Mon.|Tues.|Wed.|Thur.|Fri.|Satur.|Sun.
  Liquid                | 131 |203 |204 | 174 |145 | 130 |122 |  121 |130
  Liquid, with hard lump|  77 | 10 |  4 |  -- |--  | --  | -- |   -- | --
  Liquid and full       |  -- | -- |  5 |  35 | 33 |  25 | 21 |   14 |  8
  Full                  |  -- | -- | -- |   4 | 33 |  56 | 68 |   75 | 73
  Soft                  |   3 | -- | -- |  -- |  1 |  -- | -- |    1 | --
  Hard                  |   2 | -- | -- |  -- |  1 |   2 |  1 |    1 |  1
  Hard and full         |  -- | -- | -- |  -- | -- |  -- |  1 |    1 |  1

These tables present the course of the expositions for two hundred and
thirteen times each of the nine days, in all, 1,917 expositions. They
do not set forth the changes in color, in frothing and ebullition, in
minor increases or diminutions of volume, and in occasional
hardenings, of all which we shall treat further on.

        _From September, 1648, to September, 1860--212 Years._             42

                              TABLE I.


         SEPTEMBER.          | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26
  Hard                       | 117| 191| 190| 191| 187| 189| 191| 195
  Hard and full, (_probable_)|  24|  --|  --|  --|  --|  --|  --|  --
  Hard and full              |  58|  --|  --|  --|  --|   2|   1|   1
  Soft                       |   1|  --|   1|  --|  --|   1|   1|  --
  Full                       |  --|  --|   1|   1|   2|   2|   2|   2
  Liquid                     |  12|  21|  20|  20|  23|  18|  17|  14

                              TABLE II.

                    TIMES OF THE LIQUEFACTIONS.

     SEPTEMBER.   | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26
  Under 10 minutes| 35 | 32 | 62 | 59 | 59 | 51 | 51 | 55
  Under 30   ”    | 64 |101 | 78 | 76 | 78 | 83 | 79 | 84
  Under 60   ”    | 19 | 24 | 17 | 21 | 10 | 18 | 21 | 15
  Under 2 hours   | 19 |  4 |  5 |  4 |  8 |  4 |  8 |  7
  Under 5   ”     | 27 | -- | -- |  1 |  1 |  2 |  2 | --
  Over  5   ”     | 13 | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | --
  Vague or omitted| 23 | 30 | 28 | 30 | 32 | 35 | 33 | 35
  Always liquid   | 12 | 21 | 21 | 20 | 22 | 18 | 17 | 14
  Always full     | -- | -- |  1 |  1 |  2 |  1 |  1 |  2

                             TABLE III.


  SEPTEMBER.     | 19  | 20  | 21  | 22  | 23  | 24  | 25  | 26
  Liquid         | 212 | 211 | 211 | 210 | 206 | 208 | 209 | 202
  Liquid and full|  -- |   1 |  -- |   1 |   3 |   3 |   2 |   8
  Always full    |  -- |  -- |   1 |   1 |   2 |   1 |   1 |   2
  Hard           |  -- |  -- |  -- |  -- |   1 |  -- |  -- |  --

These tables give two hundred and twelve expositions for each day, and
thus for the whole group a second aggregate of 1,696 expositions. They
do not, any more than the preceding ones, give an account of the
changes to which the blood is subject, in color, frothing, or minor
increase or decrease of volume. These points will be considered in
their proper place.

The festival of the patronage on the 16th of December, established in
1632, has been celebrated 228 times down to 1860.

I. On opening the closet or safe the blood was found as follows:

     Very hard,          2
     Hard,             214
     Soft,               1
     Hard and full,     10
     Liquid,             1-228

II. The variations as to times of liquefaction were as follows:

     Immediately or under half-hour,    26
     Under 1 hour,                      29
       ”   2   ”                        41
       ”   5   ”                        42
     Over 5 hours,                      26
     Always hard,                       43
       ”    full,                        3
       ”    liquid,                      1
     Vague or omitted,                  17-228

III. The condition of the blood, when put up, was as follows:              43

     Liquid,            131
       ”    with lump,   46
     Soft,                5
     Hard as found,      43
     Full,                3-228

The extraordinary expositions were 43 in number. Of these 20 may be
grouped with the December exposition, having occurred in the months of
November, December, January, and February.

The blood was found: Very hard, 1; hard, 13; soft, 5; and liquid, 1.
The times of liquefaction were: Under 10 minutes, 15 times; under 30
minutes, 1; under 5 hours, 1; remaining liquid, 1. Of course, on all
the 20 days it was put up liquid.

Nineteen days may be in the same way connected with the May
celebration, as they are distributed through the months of March,
April, May, and June.

The blood was found: Very hard, 1; hard, 13; soft, 4; liquid, 1. The
times of the liquefaction were: Under 10 minutes, 10 times; under 30
minutes, 3; under 60 minutes, 1; under 2 hours, 1; under 5 hours, 1;
time not indicated in the diary, 2; and it remained liquid, 1. On
every occasion it was put up in a liquid condition.

Four other times there were extraordinary expositions in July and
September. Twice the blood was found hard and liquefied within half an
hour each time, and twice it was found liquid.

Nineteen instances are recorded in which for various reasons the
closet was opened and the reliquary seen in its place. Four times the
blood was found very hard; six times it was hard; twice it was soft;
four times it was liquid, and three times the condition is not

These tables present an aggregate of no less than 3,884 expositions
within a little more than two centuries, of which number no less than
3,331 were marked by a complete or partial liquefaction. The
exceptions are of various classes. The most numerous one comprises 320
cases, in which the ampulla, or vial, was found in the morning and
continued during the entire exposition of that day so completely full,
that it was impossible for an ordinary observer to say whether the
blood liquefied or not.

The writer of the diary says on this point, A.D. 1773: “When the
vial is full, some signs are at times observed indicative of a
liquefaction, chiefly a wave-like motion when the vial is moved. But
as this can only be seen from the rear (that is, as the light shines
on it or through it from the opposite side), and only on close
inspection and by practised eyes, and is not visible to ordinary
observers standing in front, it is not here noted down as a
liquefaction.” In the diary of the _Tesoro_ chapel, which we cannot
now consult, they are probably recorded as liquefactions.

The next largest class of exceptions consists of the 171 cases in
which the blood was found liquid in the morning, and was replaced in
the closet in the evening still in a liquid condition. We should
observe that not unfrequently in such cases the fluid mass became
congealed or even hard during the day and liquefied again. Even when
this does not happen, there are so many other and frequent changes as
to color, to frothing, or to ebullition, and to change of volume by
increase or decrease, that, even without the occurrence of
liquefaction, the fluid blood presents many wonderful characteristics.
Thus in our synopsis we have counted the octave of September, 1659, as
presenting seven days during which the blood was found and remained
liquid. The diary, taking up that octave day by day, states, that on       44
the 19th of September the blood was found liquid, and, the reliquary
being placed near the bust, there commenced an ebullition of the blood
marked with froth. This continued, off and on, during the day. On the
20th the blood was again found liquid, and the ebullition and the
frothing were repeatedly renewed as on the preceding day. On the 21st
the blood was a third time found liquid, and on this day the
ebullition was more continuous and violent. The 22d and the 23d and
the 24th were marked by the same phases. The blood was always found
liquid, and each day the ebullition was repeatedly resumed and
sometimes was violent. On the 26th the blood was found in a soft or
jelly-like state. It soon liquefied entirely, and during the day
became covered with froth. The 26th--the eighth and last day--was like
the first. The blood was again found liquid, and the ebullition was
resumed, yet more moderately.

The two remaining classes, which our tables present as exceptions,
will also suffer diminution if accurately examined. There are 44
instances in which the blood was found _hard_, and continued hard to
the end of the exposition. Yet the diary records on several occasions
the presence of one or more fluid drops, sometimes of yellowish serum,
sometimes of reddish blood, which could be made to run to and fro on
the surface of the hardened mass, and continued to be seen for hours,
or sometimes even until the close of the day.

As for the 18 other instances in which the blood was found partly
liquid and partly solid, the solid part floating as a globe in the
fluid portion, and in which the same state of things was seen during
the day and lasted until the closing, it must be observed that
generally, if not always, this floating solid mass gradually
diminishes by a partial liquefaction or increases in bulk by a partial
hardening. Sometimes both these changes succeed each other during the
day. In view of these facts, it would seem that these 18 cases, so far
from being looked on as exceptions, should on the contrary be rather
set down as special forms of the liquefaction.

No mere tabular summaries, like those presented above, can give the
salience which they demand to certain unusual facts and to many
ordinary but striking characteristics which should not be overlooked.
For this it is necessary to go back to the diaries themselves, and to
trustworthy historical notices of the miracle.

On Saturday, May 5, 1526, the vigil of the feast of the translation,
the liquefaction is recorded to have taken place as usual in the
_Seggia Capuana_, to which the processions were directed that day. On
the next day, the feast, the blood was found hard, and it continued
hard during the entire exposition. The octave had not yet been
established. It continued hard all through the octave of the
succeeding September, as also in January, May, and September of 1527,
and again in January, May, and September of 1528, and in January,
1529. The liquefactions were resumed on Saturday, May 1, and continued
on the next day, the feast, and regularly during the September
celebration. Thus, for nearly three years the blood remained hard and
solid, without liquefying at any time.

The Neapolitans connect this unusual fact with the anger of God and
his judgments, as manifested in the terrible pestilence which broke
out in their city in 1526, and came to an end only in the early months
of 1529, after causing 60,000 deaths in the single year 1527, and,         45
together with the war then raging, as many more in the ensuing year

Again, in 1551, in 1558, and in 1569, there was no liquefaction. On
the contrary, for the two years 1556 and 1557, and again for the two
years 1599 and 1600, and a third time for the single year 1631, the
blood was always found liquid when brought forth for exposition, and
never at any time was seen to become solid. Since the last-named year,
it has occurred, in ten different years, that the blood was found and
continued liquid during the whole of a single octave in a year; but
never in both octaves. It never continued hard for an entire octave at
any time, although at some few times the liquefaction occurred only on
the second, the third, or the fourth day of the celebration; or, on
the contrary, it was found and continued liquid for one, two, or three
days at the commencement, and was found hard only on the second,
third, or fourth morning. At the votive festival of December 16, it
has repeatedly remained hard. The table numbers 44 such cases. Of
these only 5 occurred in the first 150 years after the institution of
the feast; the remaining 39 all occur in the last 78 years. This the
Neapolitans explain by the special character of the festival. The
other festivals have been instituted in honor of the saint; this one,
to show their gratitude as a city for favors received repeatedly
through his intercession. Hence, when vice is rife in the city, and
especially when sins against religion abound, their professions of
gratitude are wanting in the most necessary quality to make them
acceptable; and the displeasure of heaven is marked by the withholding
of the miraculous liquefaction.

Departures like these from the ordinary course, or any extraordinary
delay in the liquefaction, or certain appearances of color in the
blood, which they traditionally dread, fill the people with alarm and
sorrow. From the many instances in the diary we give two, as showing
this practical connection between the liquefaction and the religious
feelings of the Neapolitans.

“1732, Dec. 16.--The blood was taken out, hard. Hard it continued
until after compline (the afternoon service). The people were waiting
for the miracle with great anxiety. Wherefore, instead of taking back
the relics (to the _Tesoro_ chapel) at the usual hour, they remained
on the high altar (of the cathedral) until after 21 o’clock (2.30 P.M.);
and the church being crowded with people, they recited the litanies
several times. Rosaries were said, and sermons were preached. But the
saint did not yield, which caused great terror; and everybody was
weeping. So things were up to 24 o’clock (5.30 P.M.) At that hour, a
Capuchin father in the church again stirred up the people to sincere
contrition for their sins, and to acts of penance. While they were
doing this, all saw that the blood was of a sudden entirely
liquefied--a great consolation to all. The _Te Deum_ was sung; and
then, only at half-past one of the night (7 P.M.), the relics were
taken to the _Tesoro_ chapel.”

“1748, May 7, Tuesday.--The blood was brought out hard. After 16
minutes, it liquefied. During the day it rose so high as to fill the
vial completely. From the 8th to the 12th, the vial was always full,
and the blood was seen to be one-half black, the other half
ash-colored, for which reasons his majesty came a second time to see
it, on Sunday afternoon (12th). When the king had left the
_Tesoro_, his eminence returned to pray to the saint to vouchsafe some
sign of the miracle before the closing up (it was the last day of          46
the octave). In the meantime the vast crowd strove to melt him by
their cries and their tears. His eminence, having made his way out of
the chapel with great difficulty, sent for a noble Capuchin, called
Father Gregorio of Naples, who, in a most fervent sermon, exhorted the
people to acts of faith and of sorrow for their sins. He then
commenced reciting with them the Litany of the Blessed Virgin. During
the recitation thereof, the blood was seen to sink half a finger, and
to commence to move. Who can describe the weeping and the fervor? The
_Te Deum_ was sung; and the blood was put up, being at nearly its
normal level, of its natural color, and with some froth.”

No wonder the Neapolitans love St. Januarius as _their_ patron saint
when he thus yields to their fervent entreaties and prayers what was
not granted to the pious curiosity of the king; nor, for this occasion
at least, to the prayers of his eminence the cardinal archbishop.

The following briefer entries of our diary breathe the same spirit:

“1714, May 5, Saturday.--The miracle took place at once. On Sunday,
after an hour and a half. During this octave, the blood showed a
thousand changes, liquefying, hardening, and increasing in volume many
times a day, in an unusual manner. God knows what will happen!”

“1718, Sept. 19.--The blood was taken out hard. After a quarter of an
hour, it completely liquefied. During all this octave the miracle
never delayed as much as an hour. This was truly a happy octave. There
were no great changes; only a slight increase in volume.”

It is tantalizing to pore over the diary. At times you almost fancy
that you have seized the very process of liquefaction. Thus on one day
you read: “The blood was brought out, being hard and at its ordinary
level. After fifteen minutes, a drop of serous humor, of a
light-yellow color, was seen to move about on the hard mass. At the
expiration of an hour and fifty-six minutes, the blood became liquid,
with a large spherical lump floating in it. There was the usual
procession through the streets, his eminence joining in. At 21½
o’clock (about 3 P.M.) the lump liquefied. The blood was put up,
entirely liquid and at its ordinary level.” (Dec., 1771.) You think
you see the steps of the process. First the drop of yellowish serum;
then a partial liquefaction, leaving a lump of solid matter; this
gradually decreasing for three hours and a half, until it entirely
disappears, and the whole mass is fluid. If you read the following,
you may feel surer that you are on the right track: “The blood came
out hard and at its ordinary level. At the end of half an hour, there
was seen to run about on the hard mass a particle of serous matter,
inclining to a yellowish color. So it stood during the procession,
which was outside, through the streets, his eminence the cardinal
archbishop taking his place in it. So it was when the reliquary was
brought back to the _Tesoro_. At 23½ o’clock (about 5 P.M.) this
serous matter changed into blood. But the mass still remained hard.
Words cannot tell with what earnestness and fervor the ecclesiastics
and the people continued at prayer. Finally, at 24¼ o’clock (5.45 P.M.)
the mass loosened in the vial; and half an hour later, that is, after
eight hours and fifty minutes of waiting, the liquefaction took place,
a small lump remaining solid and floating. So it was put up.” (Dec.,       47
1768.) Notwithstanding the change of the character of the yellowish
serous drop in the last cited instance into red blood, and the great
difference of the times when the liquefaction took place, there is a
certain degree of correspondence between the two cases--enough perhaps
to arrest the attention and excite expectations. But all to no
purpose. Such a drop was seen on seven or eight other days, lasting a
couple of hours or for the entire day, without any liquefaction
following. And in three thousand three hundred and odd cases of
liquefaction, we have failed to find a third one in which such a drop
is noted to have preceded the liquefaction.

In fact, the modes of liquefaction are as various as we can imagine,
and as remarkable as the fact itself. Sometimes the liquefaction
occurs or commences at once, with little or no delay. At other times,
it is delayed for a quarter or for half an hour, for one, two, or
three hours or more. Sometimes, though very rarely, it has been
delayed nine or ten hours. All this is clearly seen in the tables.

Not unfrequently the change from solidity to fluidity, whether
occurring early or late, has been instantaneous, and for the whole
mass at once--_in un colpo d’occhio_. Sometimes it is gradual, lasting
before its completion over many hours; nay, sometimes the ampulla is
replaced in the closet for the night before its entire completion, a
greater or a smaller portion still remaining solid.

Sometimes the entire mass liquefies; at other times, only a portion.
When this is the case, the unliquefied portion generally floats as a
solid lump or globe in the liquid part. Sometimes, however, one side
of the mass was liquefied; while the other remained solid, and firmly
attached to the glass. Sometimes again, as in May, 1710, the portion
next to the glass all around remained solid, thus forming, as it were,
an inner cup, inside of which the other portion moved about in quite a
fluid condition. Sometimes, during the process of gradual
liquefaction, the upper part is quite liquid, while the lower part
remains for a time hard and immovable in the bottom of the vial; or,
again, the lower part liquefies first, and the upper portion,
remaining hard, is seen either as a floating globe or as a lump
attached for a time to the sides of the ampulla. And once, at least,
the upper portion and the lower portion both remained solid and
attached to the vial, while the middle portion was quite fluid.

We have already said something of the various degrees of liquefaction.
Sometimes the blood is as fluid as water, flowing readily and leaving
no coating after it on the glass. And, at other times, it may be
somewhat viscous; and, if the reliquary be inclined from side to side,
may leave behind a dark or a vermilion film on the inner sides of the

There are likewise degrees of hardness. Sometimes the blood is only
very viscous and grumous, or jelly-like. In the tables we call it
_soft_. At other times, the diary notes it as hard, _duro_; very hard,
_durissimo_; or even hard as iron, _duro come ferro_. When hard, it is
attached firmly to the glass ampulla. Yet on two occasions, at least,
the hard lump could move within, showing that it was then detached.

After having become liquid, or even when the blood was found liquid in
the morning, it has often hardened during the ceremonial of the day,
and then liquefied anew. One of the extracts we have quoted above
refers to the frequent occurrence of this variation in 1714. But           48
throughout the diary we find similar instances, where it hardened and
remained hard for a few moments only or for one or two hours, during
the public ceremony. This was sometimes repeated two or three times in
a single day.

There is a special case, in which the mass hardens so frequently, and
with such regularity, that it must not be omitted. We refer to the
custom of suspending the ceremony for a few hours during the middle of
the day. The Italians are very fond of a _siesta_ in the early
afternoon of a hot and oppressive summer day. Accordingly, unless
there be something unusual to excite them, they are accustomed, on the
later days of the octave in May, and sometimes of September, to yield
to their beloved habit. The church grows very thin soon after mid-day.
A few dozen pious souls may perhaps remain for their private
devotions--about the number one would almost always find in the
ever-open churches of an Italian city. Under these circumstances, the
exposition is suspended. The reliquary, if on the high altar of the
cathedral, is carried back to the _Tesoro_ chapel, and is placed on an
ornamental stand or tabernacle on the altar; and a silk veil is thrown
over the whole. The door in the metal-work railing under the arch
leading out into the cathedral is locked; and the clergy may retire,
one or two remaining on watch. The reliquary continues on the stand,
unapproached, but still visible, through the railing, to those in the
cathedral. At 3½ or 4 P.M. the clergy return to resume the exposition;
and the church is again full. The blood is very frequently found hard
at that hour, and liquefies anew, as in the morning. This intermission
and the attendant hardening and liquefaction seem to the Neapolitans
so much a matter of course that we find no mention whatever of it in
the diary, save the single notice that, on one day, although the veil
had been omitted, the hardening nevertheless took place. The
scientific men from Italy and from France and Belgium who have studied
the liquefaction at various dates, all unite in commenting on this
fact of the hardening of the blood during these mid-day intermissions,
and in considering it, under a physical point of view, as a fact of
the highest importance in deciding the character of the liquefaction.

There are other special circumstances under which the blood has not
liquefied, or, having liquefied, has suddenly hardened again. The
presence of open scoffers, or of declared enemies of the church, has
sometimes seemed to have this effect. In 1719, Count Ulric Daun was
viceroy in Naples. On Saturday, May 6, he came with many German
officers lately arrived in Naples to witness the liquefaction, in one
of the churches to which the procession went, as we have already
explained, and in which the liquefaction was first expected. The
viceroy with his personal staff was of course in his official
_loggia_ or gallery. The foreign officers were clustered together
within the sanctuary. Some of them were Catholics, some Protestants.
The blood was hard when brought to the altar, and remained hard and
unliquefied for a long time. The viceroy at length sent an aid, with a
command to all the officers to withdraw and stand outside the
sanctuary. They obeyed, of course. “Scarcely was this done--the
heretic officers thus withdrawing--when, in an instant, the entire
mass became perfectly liquid, to the great joy of all. It was a
miracle of miracles!” Some of the Protestants became Catholics             49

_Putignani_ and _Celano_ mention another fact. We quote from the
former, who was a canon of the cathedral and present at the time on
service. “While the relics were out at the high altar of the
cathedral, there came many nobles from beyond the Alps, who wished to
do homage to the saint and to witness the liquefaction. The blood was
extremely fluid just then, and the reliquary was being presented to
those around, in turn, to be kissed. In an instant the blood became
hard and dry in the hands of the canon. Those near by, stupefied by
this new prodigy, stood, as it were, nailed to the floor. Then the
canon, moved by an interior impulse, raised his voice, and said aloud:
‘Gentlemen, if there be any heretic among you, let him retire.’
Immediately, one of the strangers quietly withdrew. Scarcely had he
withdrawn, when the blood was liquid again, and was bubbling.”
Putignani adds: “The same thing is said to have happened on other

                          TO BE CONTINUED.


                           LUCAS GARCIA.



Seven years passed in this manner. Lucia was fifteen, and had
blossomed into one of those exquisite and fragile creatures that, in
hot climates, appear so rarely and vanish so soon. Lucas, who was
twenty, had developed admirably. He was a youth of manly appearance,
and so judicious and industrious that farmers and managers of
haciendas employed him in preference to others. Both inherited their
mother’s type--the oval face, fine aquiline nose, large and expressive
black eyes, small mouth, adorned with perfect teeth, broad high
forehead, and the bearing of mingled grace and nobility that
distinguish the Andalusian.

Their father had yielded completely to the influence of _La Leona_,
who absorbed his living, and had made him a drunkard in order to rule
him the more effectually. Too enervated and lazy to enter upon a new
path, he went on selling his possessions to satisfy the woman’s
exactions, as an exhausted stream continues to flow in the channel it
made when it was full and strong, without either the will or the force
to open another. From the time that Lucas was able to work, he had
maintained the house alone, with that mysterious day’s wages of the
laborer which God seems to bless, as he did the loaves and fishes
destined to feed so many poor people. Else, how the _peseta_,
sometimes two reals[2] a day can support husband, wife, generally half
a dozen robust children; an old father or mother, or widowed
mother-in-law, clothe them all and the head of the family in a very
expensive manner,[3] pay house-rent and the costs of child-birth,          50
sickness, and unemployed days; and still yield the copper they never
refuse to _God’s-namers_,[4] is a thing past comprehension, and
belongs to the list of those in which, if we see not the finger of God
or his immediate intervention, is because we are very thoughtless or
voluntarily blind.

Lucas, who loved his sister above all things, seeing her entirely
neglected by her father, had assumed over her the sort of tutelage,
recognized and incontestable among the people, which belongs to the
eldest brother--a tutelage which is annexed to the obligation of
maintaining younger brothers and sisters if they are fatherless. This
obligation and right instinctive do not constitute a law, nor are they
laid down in any code, but are impressed by tradition on the heart,
and have, no doubt, given rise to the institution of entails.[5] Lucas
presented, also, the uncultivated type of those chivalrous and
poetical brothers that Calderon, Lope, and other contemporary writers
have given us in their delightful pictures of Spanish manners as
models of nobility, delicacy, and punctilious honor.

As for Lucia, she was, as her mother had been, loving, impressible,
and yielding. She regarded her brother with the deepest affection, in
which respect mingled, without lessening its tenderness.

One evening, when several neighbors, who tenanted Juan Garcia’s house,
were met together in the yard, one of them--it was the kinswoman of
the departed Ana--said:

“Have you heard the news? It is reported that _La Leona’s_ husband is
dead. What do you say to it?”

“That _La Leona_ is just now singing:

     ‘My spouse is dead, and to heaven has flown,
      Wearing the thorns of a martyr’s crown,’”

replied one of the neighbors.

“There will be talk enough, woman, if it is true,” replied the first

“Well, what do you want me to say? I feel it for one.”

“I feel it for _two_,” added a third, laughing.

“That is what I feel most,” continued the kinswoman. “It is reported
already that Juan Garcia is going to marry with the rag of a widow.”

Woman! will you hold your tongue?”

“No; and I say more: I say that I don’t doubt it; for the wretch has
him down, and holds him from beneath, so that she can put him to the
torture with “thou must swallow this, or I will lay on thee with

“True enough,” observed the other, “she has made a fool of him with
drink; and, not satisfied with giving him wine, which is natural and       51
the legitimate child of the soil, she poisons him with bad brandy.”

“The kite will get everything away from him by degrees, till she
leaves him stuck, like a star lizard, to the bare wall,” added
another; “for she is more covetous than greediness, that ‘walks one
hand along the ground, and the other in the sky, and, with its mouth
wide open, that nothing may go by.’”

“She’ll be Juan’s third wife, and may die like the other two, and the
four children he has under the sod. He must have some deadly
exhalation about him, like a snake.”

“Kill _La Leona_! As if that would be possible! It’s my opinion that
Death himself couldn’t do it, with a century to help him. There was
the cholera, that carried off so many good people; it never approached
her door.”

“The she-rake has no end of luck.”

At this moment Lucas entered. It was Saturday evening, and he had come
to spend the Sunday at home.

“Lucas,” asked his kinswoman, “do you know that _La Leona_ is a widow,
and they say that your father is going to marry her?”

A thunder-bolt could not have hurt Lucas more suddenly than did these
words; nevertheless, he maintained his composure while he answered:

“Either you are dreaming awake, Aunt Manuela, or age is getting the
better of your understanding.”

“Don’t fling my age into my face, _Luquecillo_,”[6] said the good
woman, who was jocose. “I would rather you called me sly fox; it is
permitted to say _old_ only in the company of wines and parchments.”

“Well, then, why were you born so long ago? But don’t come to me with
your troubles.”

“Publish your decrees in time, my son, for this one is in everybody’s

“They may say what they please behind my back. Regiments can’t capture
tongues and thoughts, but no one is going to speak against my father
when I am present.”

“I’ll lay you something, Lucas, that he’ll marry!”

“That will do, Aunt Manuela; you know the saying, ‘Stop jesting while
jesting is pleasant.’”

Like all men of stem nature, Lucas, when in earnest, had in him a
something that imposed respect: the women were silent, and he went
into his own dwelling.

He did not speak to his sister of the matter that occupied his
thoughts so painfully, but, after giving her the money he had brought,
remained a while talking cheerfully and affectionately with her, and
then went in search of his neighbor, Uncle Bartolo.

He knew that the guerilla, on account of his age and good judgment,
and because he had been his grandfather’s friend, exercised great
influence over his father, and could think of no one so suitable to
confide in, and implore to interfere in the matter, and dissuade Juan
Garcia, if, indeed, he entertained it, from such an outrageous

“Hola! What brings _Luquillo_ with the step of a Catalan and face of a
blacksmith?” exclaimed the old man, as Lucas entered.

The youth told his errand.

Uncle Bartolo, having heard him to the end, shook his head, as he
remarked: “Lucas, the proverb says, ‘Between two millstones one had
best not put his thumbs;’ but--well, for your sake and Lucia’s, the
pretty dove! I will do what you ask, even if I lose--and I shall, for
certain--your father’s friendship. I tell you though, beforehand           52
that interference will do no good.”

“But, uncle, that which is never attempted is never done.”

“Have I not told you I would try? You shall never say that you sought
me and did not find me. I only want to remind you that counsels are
thrown away upon the foolhardy, and perfumes upon swine. And to tell
the truth, I would rather tackle one of those highwaymen of last year
than your father; notwithstanding that the she-bandit has taken and
done for him as easily as a spider would vanquish a fly.”

Our old warrior went, the next day, to see Juan Garcia, whom he found

“Hola! Juan,” he cried, as he entered, how are you?”

“Not so well as I might be, uncle,” responded the invalid. “And you?”

“As well as can be, since I am a man of the old times, and not sorry
for it: better suited beneath white hairs than white sheets. But,”
continued the guerilla, who in his long career had never studied
diplomacy nor learned the art of preambling, “let us come to the
point; for one needn’t go by the bush where there’s a high-road; they
tell me, though I don’t want to believe it, that you are going to

Juan contracted his brows, and replied:

“And if I have never told any one so, how could they tell it to you?”

“Answer one question with another, to avoid committing thyself,” is a
rule of rustic grammar that the people have at their fingers’ ends.
Uncle Bartolo proceeded:

“It’s easy to see how; you are thinking of it; and people nowadays are
so sharp that they divine the thoughts. So that we may as well be
plain--it is what you mean to do. Tell the truth, now.”

“The truth!” responded Juan, availing himself of another subterfuge.
“Then, though--because I was not prepared to tell it--I have not
complied with the church this year, I am to tell it to you! No, sir!
‘He that reveals his secret, remains without it.’”

“It is plain enough from your crafty answer that your mind is made up.
So you needn’t deny it, nor put me off with palaver.”

“The thing is yet in the blade, and to be nibbled at,” replied Juan.

“Do you know, Christian, what you are about? For the beginning of a
cure is a knowledge of the sickness.”

“Yes, sir, I have my five senses counted.”

“Yes, Juan, four of them useless, and one empty. But, my son, you know
me well, is it not so?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are sure that I am your friend?”

“I don’t say no to that, Uncle Bartolo.”

“And you know the proverb says, ‘An old ox draws a straight furrow’?”

“Agreed, Uncle Bartolo; we know that kind of wisdom years give, for we
are told that the devil is knowing not because of his devilship, but
because he is the _old one_.”

“Well, that being so, you will heed what I say.”

“That remains to be seen.”

“And you will consider my advice?”

“What is the meaning of all this advanced guard, Uncle Bartolo? Why do
you sift and sift without falling through the sieve?”

“To fall with all my weight in saying this, and no more: ‘Don’t you
marry, Juan Garcia!’”

“Why not? if you would please tell me.”                                    53

“Don’t marry, Juan Garcia!”

“Uncle Bartolo, don’t leave your counsels like foundlings in the
hospital, without father or mother. I must not marry-the reason?”

“Juan, ‘where there has been familiarity, let there be no contract.’”

“If it were as you intimate, I ought to marry; for, if this woman has
lost respect through me--”

“Stop, Juan; that’ll do! Don’t come to me with your ‘_mea culpas_.’
There is always a pretext for wrong-doing. But you know very well that
the woman has not lost respect through you. Nobody loses what he never

“Uncle Bartolo, by what I shave off, but that you comb gray hairs, and
were my father’s friend--_Vive Dios!_--”

“Tut, tut, man! Don’t get excited, and talk nonsense! I did not come
here to poke you up, nor to pick a quarrel, but with a very good
intention; and, as the friend I am to you, to prevent your making an
atrocious fool of yourself. Have you considered your children, and the
kind of step-mother you are going to give them?”

“If she will be a wife good enough for their father, it appears to me
that she will be a good enough step-mother for them; especially as,
where they are concerned, what I do is right.”

“Right! Now you are like the Englishman, Don ‘Turo, that killed an
urraca for a partridge, and then said ‘all right.’ Take notice, Juan,
that they are not likely to be willing to live under that woman’s
flag. You are going to alienate them from you, and, ‘withdraw thyself
from thine own, God will leave thee alone.’”

“They will not be willing to live under her! What are you saying, sir?
We shall see, however. ‘Where the sea goes, the waves go.’”

“Well, Juan, we shall see that Lucas, who is high-minded, will not
consent to let his sister live with a woman of evil note.”

“The note I have put upon her, I will take from her. Do you
comprehend? And Lucas will be very careful not to set himself up to
crow while I live. There cannot be two heads, and, ‘in sight of the
public stocks, street-criers keep their mouths shut.’”

“Think, Juan, that your son should be the staff of your old age. You
may provoke him so far that he will leave you some day without

“Let him go; I have the means to maintain myself, and my wife and

“Ah! Juan, what have you left? Juice don’t run out of a sucked orange.
As if that woman had not swallowed your slice of field and olive-yard,
leaving you nothing but the house; and that will go the same way the
field and orchard went. As for making a living--you have thrown
yourself away; your back is getting stiff already, and ‘to old age
comes no fairy godmother.’ Where, then, are those ‘means’ to come
from? What you are going to do is get entangled in debts; and, let a
man be as honest as he will, ‘if he owes and doesn’t pay, all his
credit flies away.’”

“_La Leona_ has a gossip at the port that is a contrabandist; he is
going to take me for a partner.”

“_Only this was wanting!_” exclaimed the old man indignantly. “_You!
you take to the path!_[7] Does Barabbas tempt you, Juan Garcia? Have
you lost your senses entirely, or are you fooling me? Sure enough,         54
‘he that goes with wolves will learn to howl.’ Don’t you know that the
devil takes honest gains and dishonest, and the gainer with them? But
let us keep to the matter in hand. Juan, the woman has a bad name that
neither you nor the king, if he tried, could take from her. She is bad
of herself; and neither you nor the bishop, if he set his heart on
doing it, could make her good. Moreover, ‘a rotten apple spoils its

“Go on with the bad! ‘Against evil-speaking there’s nothing strong’;
but, if she appears good to me, we are all paid.”

“Juan, ‘look before you leap.’ You have not the excuse of youth for
your indiscretion; you are more than forty years old.”

“And have more than forty _arrobas_[8] of patience, Uncle Bartolo.
_Candela!_ I have long sought and never found a friend that would
offer me a sixpence, and have found, without seeking, one that gives
me advice.”

“Well, my son, your soul is in your palm,” said Uncle Bartolo, rising.
“Remember that there was not wanting a friend to give you good
advice--a man of ripe brain, who warned you of the future--for this
marriage is going to be the perdition of your house. And, remember
what I tell you now, a day is coming when you will have eyes left you
only that you may weep.” With these words, Uncle Bartolo went his way.

“Son,” said he to Lucas, who had waited for him in his house, “it was
lost labor, as I foretold. But go, now, and mind what I say. Submit to
what can’t be helped, and don’t be stiff-necked, for you’ll surely
come out loser. The rope breaks where it is slenderest. You are his
son, and the authority belongs to him. You will only be kicking
against the goad.”

Lucas went back to the country and to work with a heavy heart. When he
returned home on the following Saturday, he learned that the bans of
his father’s marriage were to be published the next morning for the
first time. Grief made him desperate, and he resolved, as a last
recourse, to speak himself.

We have already hinted at the cool and formal relation that existed
between these two--thanks to the neglect the abandoned man had shown
his children. For some time past, the excellent character of Lucas and
the good name it had gained him had inspired Juan Garcia with that
bitter sentiment which rises in the heart of a man who possesses the
legal and material superiority, against the subordinate to whom he
feels himself morally inferior--a sentiment of hostility that is apt
to manifest itself in despotism.

“Sir,” said the son, speaking with firm moderation, “they have been
telling me that you are going to marry.”

“They have been telling you what is quite true.”

“I hoped that it was not true.”

“And why? if I might ask.”

“On account of the woman they say you are going to have.”

“She is not, then, to your taste; and you think, perhaps, that I ought
to have advised with you?”

“No, sir, not with me--I am of small account; but with some one that
has more knowledge and judgment than I.”

“So, then, it appears to you,” said Juan, with repressed ire, “that
your father needs counsel?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Lucas calmly, “when he has a young daughter, and
is going to give her a step-mother.”

“For fear he might give her one that would eat her up, like the            55

“No, sir, no; we understand now that people are not swallowed like
sugared anises.”

“Or make her work, being herself industrious, and not willing to sit
hand upon hand like a notary’s wife?”

“It is not that, sir; Lucia is not afraid of work. She knows that work
is the honor of the poor.”

“Or, perhaps, keep her at home like a chained dog?”

“No, sir; I am not thinking of that; for my sister, though brought up
without a mother, is modest, and not a girl to be seen at the street
door or with a hole in her stocking. She is used to the shade, but--”

“But what? Have done!”

“That which this woman will give her is evil, and may be her ruin.”

Juan Garcia, who had with difficulty restrained himself, rushed upon
his son, as the latter uttered these words, with his hand uplifted to
strike. Lucas, perceiving the action, quickly inclined his head, and
received upon it the blow that had been aimed at his face.

“God help me, father! what have I done to be chastised? Have I said
anything wrong? Have I been wanting in respect to you? Father, just
before my mother--heaven rest her!--died, she said to me, ‘Lucas,
watch over your sister.’ I promised her that I would, and have kept my

“She meant,” replied Juan, somewhat softened by the memory of the
mother evoked by her son, “she meant in case Lucia should be left
without me. But, while I live, which is it that has the authority over
my daughter?”

“Father, for the love of the Blessed Virgin, leave her to me! I will
support her.”

“Are you in your senses?”

“For God’s sake, don’t separate us! I will work with all my might to
maintain us both.”

“Separate you! Nobody has thought of doing it. You will come with her
to my house.”

“No, sir.”

“How is that? What do you mean by ‘no, sir’? Do you think you have a
right to call your father to account? Is it not enough for you to know
what his hands decide? Perhaps you would like to have another proof of
what they are able to do?”

“My father may kill me, and I shall neither open my lips nor forget my
duty; but--make me live with that woman--never!”

“We shall see about that, insolent upstart!”

“Yes, we shall see,” said Lucas, as he went sorrowfully out.

Lucas was gifted with one of those noble and delicate natures that
humble themselves in victory and grow firm in defeat; that is alike
incapable of noisy elation in triumph, or pusillanimous abjection when
prostrate. But the determination of his character was degenerating
into stubbornness, as it always happens when will forsakes the
guidance of reason to follow the promptings of pride. Therefore,
though he had not, in the slightest degree, failed in the strict
respect that morality enforces, neither the threats of his father nor
love for his sister could shake the resolution he had taken in that
decisive interview. On leaving his father’s presence, he went in
search of Lucia, whom he found weeping. For a long while neither
spoke: brother and sister mutually comprehending the cause of the
profound depression of the one and the tears of the other.                 56

“If mother could open her eyes!” at last exclaimed Lucia.

“They whose eyes God has closed have no wish to open them again in the
world,” replied Lucas; “but remember, that from heaven she always has
hers fixed upon her daughter. I cannot help you; for, though I have
tried my best to keep you under my flag, I have not succeeded:
because, heart’s dearest, there is no power in the world that can
oppose a father’s.”

“But I am to do only what you tell me, Lucas, for my mother left me to
you,” sobbed the girl.

“Well, then, pay attention to what I am going to say.

“Bear your cross with patience; for that is the only way to make it
lighter. Be a reed to all storms, but an oak to temptation. Never turn
from the right path, though it be steep and sown with thorns. Always
look straight before you, for he that does not do this never knows
where he will stop. As for this woman who is going to be your father’s
wife, give her the wall; but remember that she is bad, and neither
join yourself to her nor talk with her, except with reserve and when
you must.”

“Shall you do the same, Lucas?”

“I--I shall act as God gives me understanding.”

Nothing was seen of Lucas on the day of Juan’s marriage, and it was in
vain that they looked for him: he had disappeared. Juan, who left no
means untried to ascertain his son’s whereabouts, learned some days
later, from a muleteer who come from Tevilla, that he had enlisted.
The father felt indignant at the contempt thus shown for his
authority, and sorry to lose an assistant in his son: but found
consolation in freedom from the immediate presence of an interested
witness whose censure like the fog, without form, voice, or action,
penetrated him with an uncomfortableness from which there was no

Lucia went to live with her stepmother, and it is hardly necessary to
relate what she had to endure; in particular from the daughters of the
latter, who, being both foolish and ugly, naturally disliked one who
was beautiful and wise; for she had commenced by playing with
sweetness the role of Cinderella that her brother had recommended.
But, little by little, the continual friction was wasting her
patience, and indignation, repressed discontent, and rancor were
beginning to find place in her heart. She wished, sometimes, to
humiliate, by her advantages, those who were continually humiliating
her, and grew presuming and fond of admiration. So it is that evil
seeds spread and multiply with prodigious rapidity: one suffices to
open the way and prepare the ground for the rest.

While these things were passing, a regiment of cavalry, commanded by
one Colonel Gallardo, came, and took up its quarters in Arcos.

Gallardo was rich, well-born, had been good-looking, and a great
coxcomb. He was still the latter; with the kind of conceit that is
often the result of living in the atmosphere of adulation that
surrounds the possessors of money and command--an atmosphere that
intoxicates many, making them overbearing and insolent, and apt to do,
with great impertinence, things that would not be tolerated in others.
While authority is thus misunderstood, it is hardly to be wondered at
that it has lost its ancient prestige, and is hated and set at naught.
Authority should be consecrated to its mission, and, with its
advantages, accept its responsibilities, the first of which is to give     57
good example. Do those in place really think they owe the masses
nothing?--that these are, at once, mothers to nourish, and incensories
to deify them? Shall we ever go back, morally, to those remote times
when men were both worthy and self-respecting, and neither admitted
flattery nor refused to rule its reverence; for the latter was never
so despised as it is at present; the former never so cringing.

But to return to Colonel Gallardo, who has given margin to those

This admirable person added to his other pretensions that of youth in
its flower. His own having already gone to seed, the result was that,
instead of appearing the young cock, he suggested the idea of a very
old chicken. By grace of the peruke-maker, which, as everybody knows,
consists in creating ringlets where there is no hair, he wore curled
locks. He encased himself in a French corset, which gave him a
slenderness a sylph might have envied. It was an article of his belief
that amorous conquests were as creditable to a soldier as military
ones; and he considered a little hare-brainedness in a man and a spice
of coquetry in a woman the proper seasoning, for each respectively.
These things, united with vanity enough to fill the space left vacant
in his heart and brain by the absence of other qualities, made of
Colonel Gallardo one of those characters that are detestable, without
being malevolent and ridiculous, though they do not provoke mirth.

This cavalier, a bachelor, of course, like all of his stamp, had
lodgings opposite the house of _La Leona_, whose daughters were
not long in becoming acquainted with his attendants.

The preludes to acquaintanceship were couplets worded and sung with
the evident intention of opening a flirtation. The soldiers took the
initiative, singing to the music of their _guitarillos_:[10]

    “If your person can be won
       By valor in the field,
     Here’s a man with sword in hand
       Will sooner die than yield.”

Another followed:

    “If for a rustic’s love
       You slight a soldier bold,
     Base metal you will have
       Instead of shining gold.”

To which the girls replied in a similar strain, declaring that they
found it difficult to have patience with “these men of the fields,”
whom they describe as “persecutors of the ground” and “sepulchres of

Neither was the colonel behindhand in becoming enamored of the beauty
of Lucia; nor was he the man to dissimulate his sentiments. And, alas!
Lucia herself had ceased to be the discreet and modest maiden, who
would once have shrunk offended from demonstrations that could not
fail to give occasion for scandal.

The hopes of our decorated aspirant, who soon learned the interior
circumstances of this family, rose high in view of the antecedents of
the step-mother and the unhappy lot of the young girl. But he deceived
himself. For, though vanity had led Lucia beyond the limits of
prudence, she receded from corruption with all the energy of the
honorable blood she had inherited from her mother. This resistance
exasperated the step-sisters, who, wishing both to be rid of Lucia and
to see her undone, hoped that the colonel would take her away with
him, and laid a plan to accomplish the result they desired. Having         58
previously concerted with the lover, they carried out their project in
the following manner: One night, when Lucia had gone to her room, and
sat combing down her beautiful hair, the door opened suddenly, and
admitted the colonel, hidden to the eyes in cloak and slouched hat,
and accompanied by the daughters of _La Leona_ in giggling triumph.
They had hardly introduced him into the chamber, when, with jests and
bursts of laughter, they turned and ran out, closing the door behind
them and drawing the bolt.

Too much overwhelmed with indignation, terror, and shame to think of
any means of escape, the unfortunate girl covered her face with her
hands and remained silent. The colonel, also, who had been led by
_La Leona_ to think that it would not be difficult to propitiate Lucia
by tender and gallant speeches, found himself without words in the
presence of grief so real and so mute. For, unless a man is totally
base, no amount of daring will enable him wholly to overcome the
respect that innocence inspires.

“Am I, then, so disagreeable to you,” said Gallardo at last, drawing
nearer to Lucia--“I who have no wish but to please you?”

“Lucas! Lucas! O my brother!” cried the girl, bursting into sobs.

“I will go! I am going!” said the colonel, half-offended,
half-compassionate; and he approached the door, but it was locked.

“You see that I cannot get out,” said he, turning again toward Lucia.

“I know it,” she exclaimed. “They wanted to ruin me, and they have
done it! Have locked me in here alone with you! How can I ever bear to
have any one look me in the face again! What will Lucas say? Ah, my
heart’s brother!”

“You are not ruined, child!” said the colonel, irritated. “I am no
friend to tragedies; heroic Lucretias frighten me. Believe me, I
desire to go, and, to prove it, since I cannot leave by the door, I
will get out by this window.” With these words, the colonel wrapped
himself again in his cloak, and, mounting the window-seat, sprang into
the yard, which was enclosed only by a low paling.

Hardly had his feet touched the ground when he felt himself attacked
by an infuriated man, who apostrophized him with the most violent
insults. At the same moment, _La Leona_ and her daughters ran
shrieking from the house, while the unhappy Lucia called from the
window in a voice of anguish: “Don’t hurt him! It is my father!”

The man had drawn a knife but Gallardo, who was vigorous and wished to
escape from the adventure without hurting Lucia’s father and without
being recognized, pushed the assailant from him with such force as to
throw him upon his back; ran to the paling, leaped it, and

Juan Garcia rose from the ground in that state of blind rage in which
men of his uncultivated nature stop at no obstacle and hesitate at no
crime. Violently repulsing his wife and step-daughters, who, alarmed
at the result of their work, would have detained him, he hastened to
the house, and was making directly for Lucia’s room.

“Lucia! Lucia! jump from the window!” screamed _La Leona_,
foreseeing a catastrophe. “Your father is going to kill you!”

Wild with terror, Lucia, who heard the enraged and drunken voice of
her father approaching her chamber, precipitated herself into the

“Run to the colonel’s!” urged the step-mother, with no intention then
but that of saving her life. “He is the last one your father will          59
suspect. It is the nearest house, and you can be hidden there better
than anywhere else.”

Lucia obeyed mechanically, guided by the instinct of
self-preservation, the only motive that rules weak natures in moments
of supreme peril.

Gallardo was excitedly pacing his room when she rushed in, pale as
death, covered with her long black hair, cold and helpless with fear
and desperation, and, sinking upon a chair, exclaimed:

“You have been my ruin! At least save my life!”

It is to be supposed that even the dry and sterile heart of this man
would find, in such circumstances, sentiments and words to soothe the
wretched creature thus forced to seek his protection. It is certain
that, at the vision of her youthful and innocent beauty, seen through
the prism of her tears, he became more enamored than ever, and took
advantage of the distress, of which he was the cause, to advance his

And the poor child, bereft of affection and support, having nowhere to
lay her head, lacking firmness to resist and energy to act,
unsustained by principle duly and constantly inculcated, which would
have made her prefer misery to shame, allowed herself to be persuaded
and retained, drawn by a love that began with the promise and
conviction that it was to be unchanging and eternal.

The colonel soon left, taking with him, secretly, Lucia, who had
already begun to feel contented in the atmosphere of tenderness and
luxury that surrounded her.

The fit of passion that Juan Garcia had experienced, united with
grief, shame, and remorse, so affected his constitution, already spent
and worn by the life he had been leading, that he fell into an
inflammatory fever, from which he never recovered. A little while
before he died, he said to his old friend: “Uncle Bartolo, you hit the
mark when you told me that the day would come when I should have eyes
left only to weep. It has come, and--well, better to close them for

                      *     *     *     *     *

Two years had passed since the events last narrated, and five since
Lucas left home. His regiment was in Cordova, where a general recently
arrived from Madrid was going to review the troops of the garrison.

The evening before the parade, Lucas was in the quarters with several
other soldiers from Arcos, one of whom, with the careless and constant
gayety which characterizes the Spanish soldier, and proves, to the
extreme scandal and disgust of the votaries of utility, the
non-material genius of the nation, was alternately touching his
guitar, and singing:

    “Oh! ‘tis gay to be a soldier.
       Standing guard with tired feet,
     And head erect, in stiff cravat,
       And nothing at all to eat.

    “And, for the bread of munition,
       He gets from the King of Spain,
     To be ‘Alert there, sentinel!’
       All night, and never complain.

    “This is the life of a soldier.
       To march wherever he’s led,
     To sleep under alien shelter,
       And die in a hospital bed.”

At this moment the picket-guard, which had just been relieved from
duty at the general’s quarters, came up.

“Oh!” said one of the newly-arrived, “if the general’s wife isn’t a
fine one! In all my travels I have never seen her equal.”

“She is not his wife,” replied another, “so drop the ‘fine.’”

“And why should I drop it? Good words neither add to beauty nor take
from it; but what do you know?”

“What they tell me; and, besides, if she was his wife, he wouldn’t         60
keep her so grand; for that is the way with the _You-Sirs_, they spend
more money upon their dears than they do upon their wives.”

“Because they are afraid their mistresses will leave them for other
lovers. What do you say, Lucas?”

“That it’s like keeping a lead knife in a golden sheath,” answered

“The soul of this one may be of lead, or something cheaper, but her
person--by the Moors of Barbary!”

“We hear enough,” replied Lucas; “dress up a block, and it will look
like a shopman. I tell you, these good-for-nothing she vagabonds
appear to me more like bedraggled rags than women.”

“Get away! If this Lucas hasn’t always the rod of justice lifted! He
has entered the uniform, but the uniform hasn’t entered him. If you
had been born king, they would have called you the _Justiciero_.”[11]

The next morning the troops were drawn up in splendid array, the bands
were playing, and the general, magnificently mounted, came galloping
upon the field, followed, at a little distance, by an elegant open
carriage, in which was seated a beautiful and richly dressed woman.

The carriage stopped near where Lucas and his townsmen were formed at
the end of a line.

“That is the general’s mistress,” said the man at Lucas’s right in a
low tone. “Did I not tell you she was a sun?”

Lucas raised his eyes, and fixed them upon the woman, at the same
instant starting so perceptibly as to attract the notice of his

“What ails you, Lucas?”

“Nothing,” he answered calmly.

But the glances of the occupant of the carriage had fallen upon the
gallant-looking soldier who stood so near her, and a cry of delighted
surprise burst from her lips.

“Lucas,” said his other neighbor in line, “that lady is looking this
way, and making signs to you.”

Lucas, pale but perfectly composed, neither looked up nor replied.

“Lucas, who can it be? She knows you; she is waving her handkerchief,
and seems as if she would spring out of the carriage. Look at her!
Say! who is she?”

“I do not know her,” answered Lucas.

“By the very cats!” exclaimed the first who had spoken, in an ecstasy,
“may my end be a bad one if it isn’t your sister Lucia! Look at her,
man! it is she!”

“I have looked at her, and I tell you that I do not know her,”
responded Lucas.

“Look, now, look! the poor little thing is crying. She is not much
changed, only handsomer. You must be blind not to see that it is your

“I do not know her,” repeated the young man, with the same composure.

There are men who feel profoundly, but exercise such self-control that
they succeed in covering with a mantle of indifference the most
violent and agonizing emotions--moral Scævolas, who astonish without
attracting us. We like neither the motive nor the effects of a
stoicism that parades itself so disdainfully. For, if in order to
judge of all things human, it is necessary to compare them with the
example of the ideal of humanity--the God-Man--we cannot fail to be
repelled by such arrogance when we reflect that the most holy passion
would have lacked its tender and sublime sanctity, if in it bravado
had taken the place of meekness.

The voice of the commanding officer was now heard prescribing the          61
evolutions. When these were concluded, the troops marched to their
quarters, where, gathered in groups, they made their comments upon the
beautiful lady of the carriage, some of the soldiers from Arcos
declaring that it was Lucia, others, who had not seen her so near,
maintaining the contrary.

“Her brother will know,” they exclaimed, running to find him.

“Lucas, is that grand, fine _You-Madam_ your sister Lucia?”

“I don’t know the woman. And now, comrades, no more questions; for I
am not a repeating-clock, and am tired of answering.”

Before half an hour had passed, an orderly arrived from the general in
search of a soldier named Lucas Garcia.

Interiorly shaken by the indignation which he would not allow his face
to betray, Lucas followed the messenger to a house of good appearance,
and was shown into an elegant and luxuriously furnished cabinet. As he
entered, a fair young girl robed in silk rose from a sofa, and ran
towards him with open arms.

“I do not know you, my lady,” said Lucas, quickly repulsing her with
his right hand.

“Lucas, my brother!” she exclaimed, bursting into tears.

“I have no sister,” he replied, in the same tone as before.

“Lucas, my own brother, listen, and I will tell you what happened!”

At this moment, the colonel--that had been, and was now

“Ah! Lucia,” said he, with ostentatious condescension, “so, then, you
have already seen your brother.”

“He will not know me,” sobbed the girl.

“How is that?” asked the general, turning toward the soldier. “And

“Because it would be a deceit, my general,” answered Lucas, lifting
his open hand to his temple. “I am the only one left of my house, and
have no sister.”

“I sent for you,” proceeded the general, “to make you one of my
orderlies, to keep you near me, have you taught to write, and fit you
for a career. You will mount rapidly. I know already that you are
intelligent and brave.”

“I do not wish to learn to write, my general.”

“And why?” asked the general, repressing his ill-humor, “since without
knowing how to write, you cannot rise?”

“I do not want to rise, my general.”

“The reason is evident,” said the general, with a mocking laugh. “It
is not strange that the heir of such a house should disdain the
service of the king.”

“He that sees not the king is king to himself,” answered Lucas.

“What is there that you want, brother?” asked Lucia.

“I desire nothing but to serve my time out and return home.”

“But who calls you there, if, as you say, you have no one?” questioned

“Love for my native place,” he answered. “God give me rest in the soil
that gave me birth!”

“Valiant goose!” exclaimed the general.

Lucas neither opened his lips nor moved an eyelid.

“Dearest brother! by our mother’s memory, don’t make as if you did not
know me! You break my heart! Stay here.”

“It would not suit me to be a stranger anywhere, madam.”

“Enough!” said the general. “Let the clown go, he will think better        62
of it.”

“I do not think twice of things,” replied Lucas, saluting as he went

Lucia ran after him into the anteroom, caught his arm, and, pressing
it against her bosom, cried in a voice of passionate and tender

“Lucas! my brother! for God’s sake stay! The general has promised me
that he will do all he can for you; and he can do a great deal.”

“The sack is not big enough to hold both honor and profit,” responded
Lucas, hurling his sister from him with all the loftiness of a proud
nature and the brute force of an angry churl.

Lucia fell overwhelmed upon the nearest chair, and her brother went
his way to the quarters with clinched fists and lips compressed--pale
with lividness that ire stamps upon the faces of children of the
south. Ire was suffocating him; for he could neither express it nor
follow its vengeful impulses, which would not have been satisfied
short of the commission of a crime; and of this he was incapable.

But, oh! for a war. The private soldier would have given in it a
hundred lives if he had had them for a pair of epaulets that would
lift him to the rank required, in order to enable him to demand
satisfaction of the villain who, after having seduced his sister, had
insulted him so impudently--epaulets that he would have thrown away
the next hour, like flattened orange skins; for Lucas was not
aspiring; neither fortune nor show attracted him. He clung to his
condition, loved the labors of the field; was attached to his town and
its customs, and would not have renounced the things that suited his
taste, and in which he excelled, for the sake of hoisting himself upon
a platform where he must always have been an unwelcome stranger and
intruder. The very words were antipathetic to his innate devotion, to
his country, his province, the place where he was born, his lares, and
his class.--And the effort of the age is to destroy this beautiful
instinct of the heart, by continually saying to the poor, “Rise, rise!
the summit is your goal: the heights are common to all,” thus infusing
a vain arrogance into the wholesome minds of those who are so worthy
and respectable in the place they occupy.

                       CONCLUDED IN OUR NEXT.

     [2] From 10_d._ to 10½_d._ sterling.

     [3] We have thought it worth while to give the exact
     cost of the simplest dress--such a one as the poorest laborer
     is never without--of an Andalusian peasant:
          Cloak,                    260 reals.
          Cloth jacket,              60   ”
          Cloth breeches,            60   ”
          Set of buttons (silver),   60   ”
          Idem for jacket,           36   ”
          Woollen sash,              50   ”
          Vest,                      30   ”
          Linen shirt,               20   ”
          Linen drawers,             15   ”
          Calf-skin shoes,           22   ”
          Gaiters,                   40   ”
          Stockings,                 14   ”
          Handkerchief,               4   ”
          Hat,                        3   ”
            Total,                  606   ”
     --without the making, which is done by the men of the household.

     What will be said to this by those who are all for utility,
     economy, and savings-banks, when the Andalusian rustic might,
     without inconvenience, go clad in a frieze sack, a pair of
     hempen sandals, and a rush hat?--_Authoress._

     [4] _Pordioseros_, those who ask in God’s name--that is to
     say, beggars. For this and other delicate and tender
     epithets that the Spanish poor apply to the unfortunate, our
     stern language has no equivalents.

     [5] The actual organization of the family
     throughout the kingdom of Aragon, the Basque provinces, and
     the mountains of Santander. It is this that makes the mania
     for codification that at present exists in Spain so much to
     be dreaded.--_Spanish Ed._

     [6] Big Lucas.

     [7] _Tomar la vereda_--Take another than the high
     or legalized way. Said of contrabandists.

     [8] An arroba is twenty-five pounds.

     [9] A monster they frighten children with.

     [10] Small guitars.

     [11] The doer of justice.



                      FROM THE CORRESPONDANT.


                       THE SACERDOTAL CLASS.

Egyptian civilization had its source in the priesthood. There is
reason to believe that at first they exercised sovereign authority.
“After the reign of the demigods and the Manes,” says Manethon, “came
the first dynasty, consisting of eight kings, who reigned for the
space of two hundred and fifty-two years. Menes was the first of these
kings. He carried war into foreign lands, and made himself renowned.”

Menes, the chief of the military forces, effected a revolution which
substituted a civil government for a theocracy. He was the first to
assume the title of king, and he founded the hereditary monarchy of

The separation of the sovereign power from the priesthood was
maintained for a long time, for it is not till the twenty-second
dynasty that we meet Pahôr-Amonsé, high-priest of Amon-Ra, whose name
is still to be seen in the inscriptions at Thebes on a royal
cartouche. Pihmé, another high-priest, also figures in the royal
_legendes_ among the historical representations with which the pronaos
of the temple of Khons at Thebes is decorated. This sacerdotal
revolution doubtless took place at the end of the seven generations of
sluggish kings of whom Diodorus speaks. The twenty-second dynasty in
fact left no traces in history. It is only known by its downfall.
“And this leads us to remark,” says Champollion-Figeac, “that there
was perhaps some admirable conception, or profound combination, or
happy inspiration in the monarchical establishment of a powerful
nation in which the loss of the crown was the inevitable effect of the
incapacity or the negligence of the family that had received it by the
will of the nation. A Theban family preserved it for thirteen
consecutive centuries, and furnished six dynasties of more than fifty
kings. The first suffered from foreign invasion, and achieved the
arduous labor of sustaining the government, finally restoring all the
branches of public administration, and re-establishing the temples and
the public works. They rebuilt Thebes, Memphis, and the principal
cities, Lake Moeris, and the canals of Lower Egypt. They and their
successors bore their victorious arms over distant lands and seas. The
arts developed under the wing of victory. Public prosperity seemed to
keep pace with these heroic achievements, and the reigning family to
become more powerful and more firmly established by such great
undertakings. Inaction succeeded to so much zeal. Ten inglorious kings
ascended the throne, the last of whom were deposed by the priests.
The constitution of the country, favored by the state of affairs,          64
provided for this disorder. A new family was called to reign.”

Modern historians have represented the ancient monarchy of Egypt as
subjected to the despotism of the sacerdotal caste. This assertion
seems difficult to reconcile with the numerous inscriptions attesting
that the principal functions of the priesthood were constantly assumed
by the sons of the Pharaohs. An inscription in relief on the façade of
the tomb of Koufou Schaf, whom M. Mariette believes to be the oldest
son of Cheops, the builder of the great pyramid, depicts that prince
wearing a panther’s skin--a distinctive sign of high sacerdotal
functions--and among his titles is found that of priest of Apis.
According to a papyrus published by Baron Denon, the sons of the two
Pharaohs must have filled the office of the high-priest of Ammon.

It is true these last-named princes belonged to the twenty-second
dynasty, and at that epoch they had not had time to forget the
usurpation by the high-priests Pahôr-Amonsé and Pihmé. It is probable
that the king in causing this high function to be assumed by his
nearest relatives wished to take precautions against the reaction of
the sacerdotal class, always so powerful. But the monuments almost
always show the priesthood living in strict and intimate alliance with
the royal authority. Thus, while the younger sons of the Pharaohs
performed the priestly functions, the children of the high-priests
attended the royal children, and were employed in the highest offices
in the king’s palace. The office of high-priest of Ammon at Thebes,
the sacerdotal city, was hereditary, as Herodotus attests in the
following passage: “As Hecatæus, the historian, gave his genealogy at
Thebes, and made himself to be a descendant of a god, through sixteen
generations, the priests of Jupiter (Ammon) treated him as they did
me, except that I did not give my genealogy. After conducting me into
a vast interior apartment, they counted, as they showed them to me,
the large wooden statues of the high-priests, each of whom, while
alive, placed his image there. Commencing with that of the last
deceased and going back, the priests made me remark that each of the
high-priests was the son of his predecessor.... Each one of these
statues represented, they said, a piromis, the son of a piromis. They
showed me three hundred and forty-five, and invariably a piromis was
the son of a piromis.”

It is not necessary to remark to what degree the priests of Ammon took
advantage of the credulity of Herodotus. Doubtless, the office of
high-priest in Egypt was hereditary as well as the throne, but it was
no less subject to the influence of dynastic revolutions. We have just
seen, for example, the two sons of the king filling the office of the
high-priest of Amon-Ra, king of the gods.

The sacerdotal class was truly the soul of the Egyptian nation. It so
completely embodied the genius, character, and traditions of the
people that they may be said to have lived by their priests. They
formed the most powerful body of men that ever existed in the world
before the Catholic clergy.

As we have seen in a preceding chapter, the independence of this
corporation was ensured by a large territorial endowment. According to
Diodorus, “the largest part of the land belonged to the college of
priests.... They transmit their profession to their descendants and        65
are exempt from taxation.”[12]

“Thus secure in the possession of their lands,” says
Champollion-Figeac, “the entire sacerdotal class was like a family
with a vast heritage transmissible, according to known conditions,
from generation to generation. It was this right of inheriting the
lands that necessarily rendered their office hereditary, because the
nature of their functions determined the part of the land inherited by
each member of the family, and on this fundamental principle the whole
constitution of the sacerdotal caste of Egypt depended.”

The hereditary transmission of each sacerdotal function, and the part
of the landed property attached to this function, could only take
effect in favor of one of the children, and probably the oldest, as in
the royal family. The other children remained to be supported by the
head of the family, or easily found a means of subsistence in the
perquisites of the numerous sacred or civil employments. The number of
the temples, their rich endowments and rents, spoken of in the Rosetta
inscription, explains how so large a number of priests could live at
their ease. To this income must be added the subsidies from the royal
treasury, and the fees of the numerous salaried functions which
embraced every part of the public administration, apart from the
military sphere. But in Egypt, as elsewhere, families sometimes became
extinct for want of descendants, and thus a new path was opened for
capacity without employment.

To form an exact idea of the influence exercised by the priesthood
over Egyptian society, it is necessary to enter into some details upon
their manners and kind of life, the duties which occupied them, and
the extent of their knowledge of all kinds which they made use of to
promote the civilization of their country.

Plutarch relates that the Egyptian priests abstained from mutton and
pork, and on days of purification they ordered their meat to be served
without salt, because, among other reasons, it whetted the appetite,
inciting them to eat and drink more. He says: “They have a well apart,
where they water their bull Apis, and carefully abstain from drinking
the Nile water, not that they regard it as unclean, on account of the
crocodiles, as some suppose--on the contrary, there is nothing the
Egyptians reverence so much as the Nile--but they think its effect is
to render them more corpulent. They are unwilling for Apis to become
too fat, or to become so themselves, but wish their souls to be
sustained by slight, active, nimble bodies, and that the divine part
within may not be oppressed and weighed down by the burden of what is

“In the city of Heliopolis, or the City of the Sun, those who worship
the divinity never carry any wine into the temple, because it is not
suitable to drink in the presence of their lord and king. The priests
take it in small quantities, but they have several days of
purification and sanctification, during which they abstain entirely
from wine, and do nothing but study and teach holy things.”

Who would have expected to find among the priests of a pagan nation
the rules of abstinence now practised by the Catholic Church?--“that       66
the soul may be sustained by slight, active, nimble bodies, that the
divine part within may not be oppressed and weighed down by the burden
of what is mortal.” Was it not in these temperate habits, so in
accordance with their spiritualistic doctrines, that lay, to a great
degree, the secret of the moral influence of the priests, the real
aristocracy of the country?

The prestige of the sacerdotal class was partly due to their costume
and appearance. “In other places,” says Herodotus, “the priests of the
gods wear their hair long; in Egypt they shave.... Every three days
the priests shave the whole body, that no vermin may defile them while
ministering to the gods. They wear only garments of linen and slippers
of the papyrus. They are not allowed to wear other kinds. They wash
themselves in fresh water twice a day and twice by night. Their rites
are almost innumerable.” On the Egyptian monuments of every age the
priests of various ranks are easily recognized by their heads entirely
shaven. They could only wear linen garments; woollen were forbidden.
Besides the religious motives that induced them to adopt linen
tissues, this preference was justified by its advantages. From linen
could be made light robes of dazzling whiteness, which would reflect
the sun’s rays and engender nothing unclean.

All the ancient authors testify to the effect produced upon the
popular mind by the imposing exterior of the Egyptian priests; their
gleaming white robes, the habitual gravity of their deportment, their
exquisite neatness, and the images of the gods worn on rich
collars--all conspired to excite respect and veneration.

The most important duty of the priests, next to the functions of their
office, was that of giving advice to the king. “The priests,” says
Diodorus, in a passage already cited, “are the chief counsellors of
the king. They aid him by their labors, advice, and knowledge.” In
alluding to the regulations for the education of the king, and
facilitating the accomplishment of their duties, we have shown how
their application, so important to the happiness of the people, was
confided to the wisdom and patriotism of the chief priests. But did
they not render this task impossible by allowing the kings to receive
divine honors, exalting their pride by the ceremonies of actual
worship, as attested by all the monuments, and officially recognized,
as we shall presently see, by the sacerdotal body itself, in the
Rosetta inscription?

In subjecting the Egyptians to the humiliation of this worship, and to
superstitions still more shameful, did not the priests degrade them,
and facilitate the despotism of the king? The more enlightened and
powerful the sacerdotal class, the more responsible before history for
the destiny of a nation which was the first-born of civilization.

“In Greece,” says Champollion-Figeac, “the service of the temple was
the sole occupation of the priests; in Egypt, they were statesmen
governing, so to speak, kings and people in the name of the gods, and
monopolizing the administration of justice, the culture of the
sciences and their diffusion. We, therefore, find members of this
caste everywhere, in all ranks of Egyptian society, and we see by the
grants to the lowest grades that they were attached by their titles or
office to religion and its ministrants. We find in ancient writings
the proper qualifications for the different classes of the priesthood.     67
The monuments show that this class, with its infinite ramifications,
was of every grade, the lowest of which was not despised. It was
everywhere present by means of a vast hierarchy, which had every
gradation from the all-powerful chief pontiff down to the humble
porter of the temple and palace, and, perhaps, even their servant.[13]

In addition to their religious duties, the learned priests taught in
the schools of the temples the arts and sciences, writing, drawing,
music, literature, cosmogony, natural and moral philosophy, natural
history, and the requirements of religion. The priest had charge of
the finances, the assessment and collection of the taxes; priests
administered justice, interpreted the laws, and in the king’s name
decided all civil and criminal cases. Another sacerdotal division
practised medicine and surgery. It is known that the Egyptians were
the first to make medicine an art founded on the data of experience
and observation.[14]

One of the most numerous and most important of the sacerdotal
divisions was the scribes, who transcribed the sacred books, the
national annals, the documents of all kinds relating to the civil
condition of families, property, justice, the administration, and,
finally, the ritual of the dead, more or less extended, which piety
deposited in the coffins of deceased relatives. Writing in Egypt dates
from extreme antiquity. There are inscriptions still to be seen,
perfectly legible, in the sepulchral chambers of the great pyramid,
constructed by one of the first kings of the fourth dynasty.

Champollion-Figeac says the three kinds of writing, hieroglyphic,
hieratic, and demotic, were in general use. He adds that “the
hieroglyphic alone was used on the public monuments. The humblest
workman could make use of it for the most common purposes, as may be
seen by the utensils and instruments of the most common kinds, which,
it may be observed, contradicts the incorrect assertions respecting
the pretended mystery of this writing, which the Egyptian priests,
according to them, made use of as a means of oppressing the common
people and keeping them in ignorance.”

No learned body ever understood the wants of its country as well as
the Egyptian priesthood. And never was a public administration more
solicitous of availing themselves of this knowledge for the general
benefit. It is true, the annual uniformity of physical phenomena
singularly facilitated the study and application of the laws necessary
for the well-being of the people. The great and wonderful inundation
of the Nile, occurring every year at the same time, covering the land
with water for the same length of time, then subsiding to give a new
face to the country and a fresh stimulus to the activity of the
inhabitants, naturally imprinted on the nation habits of order and
foresight which made it easy to govern.

The members of the sacerdotal class, then, were most intimately
connected with the individual interests of the nation; they were the
necessary intermediaries between the gods and man, and between the
king and his subjects. Their concurrence in all public business was
not less constant or less necessary. The religious nature of the
inhabitants led them to offer invocations to the gods amid all their
occupations, in peace and war, in public and private duties, at the
ebb of inundating waters, the preparation of the land for the seed,
and the harvesting of the fruits of the earth. The gods, manifesting       68
themselves through the priests, directed the most important decisions,
and sanctified by the expression of their satisfaction the possession
of the harvest, the first-fruits of which were received as

But that which gives a more just idea of the sublime _rôle_
played by the Egyptian priests is the Rosetta inscription.[16] It is
well known that this famous inscription is the reproduction of a
decree made in 196 B.C. by the representatives of the sacerdotal
body gathered at Memphis for the coronation and enthronement of
Ptolemy Epiphanes. On account of its importance, we think ourselves
justified in giving it almost entirely: “In the year IX.,[17] the
tenth of the month of Mechir, the pontiffs and prophets, those who
enter the sanctuary to clothe the gods, the pterophores, the
hierogrammatists, and all the other priests, who from all the temples
in the country have assembled before the king at Memphis for the
solemnity of taking possession of that crown which Ptolemy, still
living, the well-beloved of Pthah, the divine Epiphanes, a most
gracious prince, has inherited from his father, being assembled in the
temple of Memphis, have pronounced this same day the following decree:

“Considering that King Ptolemy, still living, the well-beloved of
Pthah, the divine Epiphanes, son of King Ptolemy and Queen Arsinoë,
gods philopatores, has conferred all kinds of benefits on the temples
as well as those who dwell in them, and in general on all those who
are under his dominion: that being a god, the offspring of a god and
goddess, like Horus the son of Isis and Osiris, the avenger of Osiris,
his father, and, eager to manifest his zeal for the things that
pertain to the gods, he has consecrated great revenues to the service
of the temple, in money as well as grain, and expended large sums in
restoring tranquillity to Egypt, and constructing temples therein:

“That he has neglected no means in his power of performing humane
deeds; that in order that in his kingdom the people and all the
citizens generally might possess an abundance, he has repealed some of
the tributes and taxes established in Egypt, and diminished the weight
of the remainder; that he has, besides, remitted all that was due him
from the rents of the crown, either from his subjects, the people of
Egypt, or those of his other kingdoms, though these rents were of
considerable amount; that he has released all those who were
imprisoned and condemned for a long time;

“That he has ordered that the revenues of the temples, and the rents
paid them annually in grain, as well as in money, together with the
portions reserved for the gods from the vineyards, the orchards, and
all other places to which they had a right from the time of his
father, should continue to be collected in the country;

“That he has dispensed those who belong to the sacerdotal tribes from
making an annual journey to Alexandria (the seat of royalty after the      69
accession of the Lagides);

“That he has bestowed many gifts on Apis, Mnevis, and other sacred
animals of Egypt;...

“It has, therefore, pleased the priests of all the temples of the land
to decree that all the honors due King Ptolemy, still living, the
well-beloved of Pthah, the divine Epiphanes, most gracious, as well as
those which are due to his father and mother, gods, philopatores, and
those which are due to his ancestors, should be considerably
augmented; that the statue of King Ptolemy, still living, be erected
in every temple and placed in the most conspicuous spot, which shall
be called the statue of Ptolemy, the avenger of Egypt. This statue
shall be placed near the principal god of the temple, who shall
present him with the arms of victory, and all things shall be arranged
in the most appropriate manner; that the priests shall perform three
times a day religious service before these statues; that they adorn
them with sacred ornaments; and that they have care to render them, in
the great solemnities, all the honors which, according to usage,
should be paid the other gods....

“And in order that it may be known why in Egypt we glorify and honor,
as is just, the god Epiphanes, most gracious monarch, the present
decree shall be engraved on a stela of hard stone, in sacred
characters and in Greek characters, and this stela shall be placed in
every temple of the first, second, and third classes existing in all
the kingdom.”[18]

When we remember that the rule of the Greek conquerors had already
been established in Egypt one hundred and thirty-six years, we judge,
from the manner the Egyptian priests expressed themselves, of the
persistent strength of this social organization imposed on the
successors of Alexander in spite of all their power.

Therefore, says Champollion-Figeac, “the monuments of the times of the
Ptolemies may be considered a key to the times of the Pharaohs, and
the account of the ceremonies celebrated at the coronation of these
Greek kings may very suitably be applied, by changing the names, to
the kings of the ancient dynasties.”


                        THE MILITARY CLASS.

As we have already seen (Book I., chap. ii.), the profession of arms,
as well as all other pursuits, was hereditary in Egypt, and those who
followed it formed a distinct body still more numerous than that of
the priests. They owned a part of the land, but were forbidden to
cultivate it or to pursue any industrial labor. The fertile land
assigned to every head of a family in the division which, according to
Herodotus, was made under the first kings, was tilled by the laborers.
It is easy to perceive the evils of this system, which for ever
withheld from agriculture a multitude of young and vigorous arms.
Herodotus estimates the number of the calasiries and hermotybies (the
names of the warriors) at 410,000. We should doubtless modify the
information given Herodotus by the priests, who had motives for
exaggerating before a stranger the military forces of the country. But
it is no less true that the number of able men withheld from
agriculture by the Egyptian system must have been considerable. On the
other hand, notwithstanding the numerous gymnastic exercises to which
they were subjected, these exercises could not have been as                70
efficacious as agricultural pursuits in developing strength.

Wishing to elevate the noble profession of arms, they disparaged
manual labor, and gradually left to slaves not only the trades, but
even the agricultural pursuits so necessary to the existence and
prosperity of a nation. Thanks to the salutary rule of hereditary
professions, agriculture and other labor could not be entirely left to
slaves, but labor alone attaches man to the soil; and there came a day
when the military class was rooted out and transplanted beyond Egypt,
which was left defenceless to its enemies. This is an important point
in the history of the country which has not been sufficiently

Psammetichus, the head of the Saïte dynasty, was, it is said, the
first king of Egypt who dared shake off the yoke of the laws imposed
from time immemorial on royalty.[19] Relying on an army of foreign
mercenaries, Arabians, Carians, and Ionian Greeks, he was not afraid
of violating the privileges of the military class, and thus a
revolution was effected in Egypt which became fatal to the country.
“Two hundred and forty thousand Egyptian warriors revolted.... They
therefore conferred together, and with one accord abandoned
Psammetichus to go among the Ethiopians. Psammetichus, hearing of it,
pursued them. When he overtook them, he implored them for a long time
not to abandon their gods, their wives, and their children. Then one
of them replied that everywhere ... they could find wives and

There are such bold colors in the picture of Herodotus that modesty
requires us to efface them, but we may say that he depicts to the life
the brutal cynicism into which idleness had caused the military class
to fall. Whatever their wrongs on the part of the king, it is
difficult to allow they were right in carrying their resentment so far
as to abandon their religion, their families, and their country. When,
less than a century after, the Persians, led by Cambyses, invaded the
land, the unarmed nation could offer no resistance, and Egypt was
devastated. It had not recovered from this disaster when it fell into
the power of Alexander.

The military system of ancient Egypt possessed, nevertheless, several
advantages which should be noticed.

First: Exemption from military service ensured the tillers of the soil
complete stability to their occupation, so that war did not, as among
modern nations, hinder the cultivation of the land by enrolling the
ablest part of the population and endangering the subsistence of the

On the other hand, the possession of landed property guaranteed the
patriotism of the soldiers, who, as Diodorus justly remarks, defended
their country with all the more ardor that they were at the same time
the safeguards of their own property. Finally, the perpetuity of the
military service in the same families must have singularly favored         71
the development of the art of war, respect for discipline, and the
maintenance of an _esprit de corps_ in the army. After the
expulsion of the Hyksos, the Egyptians, inured to war by their long
struggles against these foreign invaders, obtained great victories in
Asia, under their kings, Ahmes (Amosis), Thothmes III., and Rameses
II., called the great Sesostris by the Greeks. The military
pre-eminence of Egypt is attested by the Holy Scriptures in the
prophecies of Isaiah respecting her downfall.

It was by war and the public works that the Pharaohs shed so brilliant
a glory over Egypt, but we know how dearly this glory cost the nation,
whose traditional characteristic was eminently pacific. Nevertheless,
it would be unjust to make the king solely responsible for the ruinous
wars that ended in the conquest of Egypt. The defect we have referred
to in the constitution of the military class must have greatly
contributed to this fatal result. The forced inactivity of its
families made them a ready instrument for the ambition of the kings,
who found a benefit in turning their attention from internal affairs
and directing the activity of so powerful a body to distant

Under the eighteenth dynasty, and particularly under the reign of
Thothmes III., Egypt extended the power of its arms to a great
distance. We see this prince, according to a contemporary inscription,
“establishing his frontiers where he pleased.” The pictures graven on
the walls of two chambers recently discovered in the temple of
Deir-el-Bahari, at Thebes, a monument erected by the regent Hatasou,
sister of Thothmes III. (the eighteenth dynasty), show the conquered
people putting on board the Egyptian fleet the booty taken after
battle. Here are giraffes, monkeys, leopards, arms, ingots of copper,
rings of gold. There are entire trees, probably of a rare species, the
roots of which are enclosed in large boxes filled with earth. The
vessels themselves merit our attention. They are large, solidly built,
and impelled either by sails or oars. A numerous crew covers the deck.
Thanks to the care which the Egyptian artist took to indicate the
disposition of the masts, sails, and even the knots of the complicated
cordage which bound together the different parts of the vessel, we
have a clear idea what a vessel belonging to the Egyptian navy was
four thousand years ago.

“In another chamber of the same temple are scenes of as great an
interest. The Egyptian regiments are advancing with gymnastic steps
and entering Thebes triumphantly. Each soldier has a palm in his left
hand; in his right is a spear or battle-axe. Before them sound the
trumpets. Officers are bearing the standards, surmounted by the name
of the victorious regiment.”[21]

It was from the military class, according to Manethon, that sprang the
first dynasty, which commences with Menes, the leader of the armies.
From this king to Psammetichus, the founder of the twenty-sixth
dynasty--that is, for more than two thousand years--a strict alliance
existed between the army and the throne. This makes the following
passage from Herodotus worthy of attention: “They (the warriors) enjoy
by turns the following advantages: Every year a thousand calasiries
and as many hermotybies form the king’s guard. They daily receive,
besides their lands, five mines of baked bread, two mines of beef, and
four cups of wine. This is what the guards receive.”                       72

By this truly monarchical system, to which we venture to call the
attention of the sovereigns who wish to retain their crowns, the whole
army corps, and all the members of the military class, were
successively admitted to the honor of guarding the sacred person of
the king, which must have singularly augmented their devotedness and
fidelity. This system had the great advantage of dissipating all
feelings of envy with which privileged corps are regarded.

The Egyptian monarch doubtless found a solid support in this intimate
union with the military class from which it sprang. King Psammetichus,
the founder of the Saïte dynasty, was guilty of the capital fault of
employing foreign troops, and violating the civil rights of the native
soldiers. He thus caused the emigration of the entire national forces
which we have already signalized as one of the principal causes of the
downfall of Egypt.

From the time of the Persian conquest, the glorious _rôle_ of the
great Egyptian army was ended. History only mentions after this the
exploits of the navy. Herodotus relates that Egypt furnished two
hundred vessels for the fleet assembled by Xerxes for the subjugation
of Greece. “The Egyptians,” says he, “had barred helmets, convex
bucklers with a wide bordure, spears for naval combats, and great
battle-axes. Most of them wore cuirasses and long swords. Such was
their equipment.”

This fleet valiantly sustained the national honor, for the same
historian adds a little further on: “In this combat (that of
Artemisium, which preceded the great naval battle of Salamis) the
Egyptians made themselves conspicuous among the troops of Xerxes; they
did great things, and took five Greek vessels with their equipages.”



The wisdom of the Egyptian laws was everywhere admired in ancient
times. “I would remind the reader, accustomed, perhaps, to regard the
early history of Egypt as fabulous or somewhat uncertain, that
obscurity rests on some points of its chronology, and the name and
succession of some of the kings, but not on its legislation, the
wisdom of which was admired by antiquity; and its effect on the power
and genius of the Egyptian nation is attested by the monuments still
in existence.[22] Holy Scripture itself seems to ratify this eulogium
in saying that “Moses was instructed in all the wisdom of the
Egyptians, and he was powerful in his words and in his deeds.”[23]

Unfortunately, all the Egyptian laws have not come down to us, and we
have to resort to the incomplete testimony of Herodotus and Diodorus.
But, as M. de Bonald states, it is easy to recognize the general
spirit of this legislation, which constantly contributed to stability
by the maintenance of ancient customs, evidently borrowed from
patriarchal traditions, and by the widest application of the
hereditary principle extending to every grade of society. The details
we have given concerning the constitution of the family and about
property, the distinction between the sacerdotal, military,
agricultural, and working classes, as well as concerning royalty,
appear sufficient to give the reader an approximate idea of the            73
civil and political laws of the ancient Egyptian monarchy.

No trace has yet been found of the municipal rights in ancient Egypt,
but there is reason to believe that cities as powerful as Thebes,
Memphis, Elephantine, Tanis, etc., had institutions suited to the
genius of their inhabitants.

Each dynasty took for its capital the city from which it sprang. Thus
the two first dynasties established the seat of government at Thinis
and Memphis; the fifth at Elephantine; and the sixth at Memphis.
Thebes only became the capital from the time of the eleventh
dynasty.[24] Owing to this excellent custom, no city, under the
ancient monarchy, could preserve its ascendency and attract all the
sources of power in the country. Thinis, Memphis, Elephantine, Thebes,
Tanis, Saïs, etc., were by turns the capitals of the kingdom, the
centres of national activity, and the seats of sovereign power.

As to the financial laws, history has transmitted several the wisdom
of which makes us regret the more those that have not come down to us.
The object of the first was to proscribe idleness, which the Egyptians
rightly regarded as a social evil. “Amasis,” says Herodotus, “is the
author of the law which obliges every Egyptian to show annually to the
governor of his _nome_ (province) his means of subsistence, and
they who did not obey, or did not appear to live on legitimate
resources, were punished with death. Solon, the Athenian, having
borrowed this law from the Egyptians, imposed it on his
fellow-citizens, who still observe it and think it faultless.”

The Egyptians, then, recognized this fundamental law--that man should
live by the fruit of his labor, and we see with what rigor they
enforced it.[25] In a well-regulated nation, where there is work for
every one, no one, indeed, should be allowed to live at the expense of
the community. The protection afforded human life in Egypt allows us
to suppose that capital punishment was reserved for those who
obstinately refused to gain their livelihood by labor or other honest
means. We know from Herodotus that woman, as well as man, was
subjected to the great law of labor. “The women go to market and
traffic, the men remain at home and weave. Everywhere else the woof is
brought up, the Egyptians carry it under. The men carry burdens on
their heads, the women on their shoulders.”[26]

The weaker sex was better protected from the violence of human
passions than among other nations. “The laws concerning women were
very severe. Those who violated a free woman were mutilated, for this
crime was considered inclusive of three great evils, insult,
corruption of morals, and confusion of children. For adultery without
violence, the man was condemned to receive a thousand stripes, and the
woman to have her nose cut off--the lawgiver wishing her to be
deprived of the attractions she had availed herself of to allure.”[27]

We see the powerful protection assured to the family by the Egyptian
laws in making woman respected and obliging her to respect herself.

Human life was equally protected. “He who saw on the way a man
struggling with an assassin, or enduring violent treatment, and did
not aid him when in his power, was condemned to death.” “He who had        74
wilfully murdered a free man or a slave was punished with death, for
the laws wished to punish not according to the degree of rank, but the
intention of the evil-doer. At the same time, their care in the
management of the slaves kept them from ever offending a free man.[28]

The law respecting loans was no less remarkable. It was forbidden
those who lent by contract to allow the principal to more than double
by the accumulation of the interest. Creditors who demanded pay could
only seize the goods of the debtor. Bodily restraint was never
allowed. For the legislator considered goods as belonging to those who
acquired them by labor, by transmission, or by gift, but the
individual belonged to the state, which, at any moment, might claim
his services in war or in peace. It would, indeed, be absurd if a
warrior, at the moment of battle, could be carried off by his
creditor, and the safety of all endangered by the cupidity of one. It
appears that Solon introduced this law at Athens, giving it the name
of _seisactheia_,[29] and remitted all debts contracted under
restraint. Most of the Greek legislators are blamed, and not without
reason, for forbidding the seizure of arms, ploughs, and other
necessary utensils, as pledges of debts, and for permitting, on the
other hand, the privation of the liberty of those who made use of
these instruments.

It is evident that civilized nations, from the earliest times, sought
to oppose and repress the dangerous evil of usury, which inevitably
leads to the oppression of the laborer and the degradation of labor.
But the Egyptians had an efficacious means of ensuring the
payment of debts--in depriving those of sepulture who died without
satisfying their creditors. In such a case the body, after being
embalmed, was simply deposited in the house of the deceased and left
to the children. “It sometimes happens,” says Diodorus, “that, owing
to the prevailing respect for the memory of parents, the
grandchildren, becoming wealthier, paid the debts of their ancestor,
had the decree of condemnation revoked, and gave him a magnificent
funeral.” The same author adds, “It is common to give the body of a
deceased parent as the guarantee of a debt. The greatest infamy and
privation of sepulture awaited those who did not redeem such a

“Under the reign of Asychis,” says Herodotus, “the Egyptians made a
law allowing a person to borrow by giving in pledge the body of his
father. An additional clause allowed the lender to dispose of the
sepulchral chamber of the borrower, and, in case of refusal to pay the
debt, he who had given such a pledge incurred the following
punishment: in case of death, the impossibility of obtaining burial
either in the paternal sepulchre or in any other, and the interdiction
of burying any one belonging to him.”

This singular custom of pledging a dead body could only exist in
Egypt, where it was a religious obligation to preserve the body, and
an infamy not to give funeral honors to deceased parents.

The administration of justice in Egypt excited the admiration of the
philosophers and legislators of antiquity. Diodorus, who studied their
system, found it superior to that of other countries. To enable the
reader to judge for himself, we shall give the essential details
concerning it. “The Egyptians,” says he, “have carefully considered        75
the judicial power, persuaded that the acts of a tribunal have a
twofold influence upon social life. It is evident that the punishment
of the guilty and the protection of the injured are the best means of
repressing crime. They knew, if the fear of justice could be done away
with by bribes and corruption, it would lead to the ruin of society.
They therefore chose judges from the chief inhabitants of the most
celebrated cities, Heliopolis, Thebes, and Memphis. Each of these
cities furnished ten, who composed the tribunal, which might be
compared to the Areopagus of Athens or the Senate of Lacedæmon. These
thirty judges chose a president from their number, and the city to
which he belonged sent another judge to replace him. These judges were
supported at the expense of the king, and their salary was very

The plaintiff in person stated his grievances, and the accused
defended himself. There were no counsellors, “the Egyptians being of
the opinion that they only obscure a cause by their pleadings.... In
fact, it is not rare,” adds Diodorus, “to see the most experienced
magistrates swayed by the power of a deceitful tongue, aiming at
effect, and seeking only to excite compassion.”

This organization seems adapted to secure the equity and impartiality
desirable in the administration of justice. The selection of the
judges from the principal citizens of the country, and their large
salaries, guaranteed their ability and independence. At the same time,
the restricted number of judges shows how rare lawsuits were in Egypt.
It must have been so in a nation so wisely governed, in which order
and peace reigned among all classes and in all families, and where
the interests of every one were guaranteed and protected.

The study of the inscriptions shows that the civil offices were filled
by citizens belonging to the sacerdotal and military classes.[30] Were
these functions hereditary? The stability of the Egyptian institutions
allows us to believe the transmission of the public duties must have
been generally by inheritance.

A monument in the museum of Leyden shows us a family of the beginning
of the twelfth dynasty, which for many successive generations was
employed in the distribution of water in the district of Abydos.[31]
But more important duties, requiring greater personal capacity or a
special commission from public authority, must have been at the
nomination of the kings or the governors of the nomes.

“A great number of administrative reports and fragments of registers
of the public accounts are found in the papyri still preserved.

“The services employing the greatest number, and the most able men,
were those of the public works, the army, and the administration of
the revenues of the kingdom. Coined money was unknown,[32] all the
taxes were collected in kind. There were three divisions on the land
according to the nature of the rents: the canal (maou) paid its
tribute in fish, the arable land (ouou) in cereals, and the marshes
(pehou) in heads of cattle. A register was carefully kept, with an
account of the changes, a statement of all the kinds of land in each
district, and the names of the owners.

“... Many contracts of sales and rents of land and houses, drawn up        76
on papyrus, have been found among the family papers of the dead. They
show with what guarantees and careful formalities property was
protected in ancient Egypt.”[33]

By this sketch, however incomplete, of the laws and institutions of
ancient Egypt, we see they were, as Bossuet says,[34] “simple, full of
justice, and of a kind to unite the nation. The best thing among all
these excellent laws was--that every one was trained to observe them.
A new custom was a wonder in Egypt. Everything was done in the same
manner, and their exactness in little things made them exact in great
ones. Therefore, there never was a people that preserved its laws and
customs a longer time.”



We shall now give a brief review of the social and political
institutions of ancient Egypt.

The priesthood, the guardian of religion and the laws, and the
promoter of morality, was rendered perpetual by hereditary
transmission in the sacerdotal families.

The army, the guardian of civil and political life, and the maintainer
of order, was rendered perpetual by hereditary transmission in the
military families.

Labor, the source of national and individual vigor, was rendered
perpetual by the hereditary transmission of the agricultural or
industrial pursuits in the families of the agriculturists and artisans.

Authority, the organ of the national will, was maintained in its unity
and perpetuity, by hereditary transmission in the royal family.

And all these classes, all these families, were guaranteed in their
independence by the unchangeableness of their members, and the
proprietorship of the soil and the trades.

Such were the foundations of the social constitution of Egypt.

With such fine order, to borrow the language of Bossuet, there was no
place for anarchy or oppression. In fact, society was preserved from
the abuse of power by the fundamental law of hereditary professions,
which, ensuring to each family a fixed employment and an independent
existence, prevented the arbitrary changes of men and property, so
that opposition was not, as M. de Bonald happily says, in men, but in
the institutions.[35]

It was by this combined action of the different social grades, that
is, of royalty, the priesthood, the army, and the corporations devoted
to manual labor, that Egypt attained such a degree of civilization,
which left so great an impress on the ancient world, and the vestiges
of which still appear so worthy of attention.

In consequence of this wise and powerful organization, peace and
harmony seemed to have a long and unbroken reign in Egypt. The first
symptoms of disorder and tyranny only appear under the kings of the
fourth dynasty. When the knowledge of the true God was almost effaced
from the memory of man, the kings, regarded with religious veneration,
set themselves up for gods, and pride, the source of despotism,            77
entered their hearts. After overthrowing, or at least changing, the
nature of the national religion, they favored with all their might the
introduction of polytheism, which placed them on the altars, and gave
a divine authority to their power. “The priests informed me,” says
Herodotus, “that, until Rhamsinite, equity prevailed in Egypt, and the
prosperity of the country was great. But after him Cheops (Khoufou,
the builder of the great pyramid) reigned, and the people suffered all
kinds of miseries. First, he closed the temples and forbade the
offering of sacrifices; then he forced the Egyptians to labor for
him.” This tradition of the impiety of the first designer of the
pyramids is found in the extracts from Manethon, but with an important
addition: “Suphis, who built the largest pyramid, attributed by
Herodotus to Cheops, was at first a despiser of the gods, but he
afterward repented and wrote a sacred book, greatly esteemed by the

This assertion of the national historian is confirmed by the
discoveries of modern science. A stone found near the great pyramids
contains a valuable inscription respecting the ancient history of
Egypt. “It appears from this inscription,” says Mariette, “that Cheops
restored a temple already standing (dedicated to Isis), assigning
revenues to it in sacred offerings, and replaced the statues of gold,
silver, bronze, and wood, which adorned the sanctuary....

“We see by this,” adds the learned archæologist, “that, even at that
extremely remote period, Egyptian civilization shone forth with the
greatest brilliancy.”[37]

We also see that the royal despotism could not long prevail against
the powerful social organization of which we have given a sketch, for,
in re-establishing the worship of Isis, Cheops doubtless restored at
the same time the national institutions, the violation of which has
left so marked a trace in the historic traditions of Egypt.

To show our impartiality, we ought to state that many modern
historians have judged Egyptian royalty much more severely than we.
Among them, M. François Lenormant may be particularly mentioned.

“From the time of the oldest dynasties,” says he, “we see existing
this boundless respect for royalty, which became a genuine worship,
and made Pharaoh the visible god of his subjects. The Egyptian
monarchs were more than sovereign pontiffs, they were real
divinities.... They identified themselves with the great divinity
Horus because, as an inscription says: ‘The king is the image of Ra
(the sun-god) among the living.’

“It is easily understood what a prestige was given to the sovereign
power in Egypt by such an explanation of royalty. This power, already
so great among the Asiatic nations adjoining that country, assumed the
character of genuine idolatry. The Egyptians were, with respect to
their king, only trembling slaves, obliged by religion even to blindly
execute his orders. The highest and most powerful functionaries were
only the humble servants of Pharaoh.... For this _régime_ to last so
many ages with no notable modification, the Egyptians must have been
profoundly convinced that the government they were under emanated from
the divine will.[38]

Egyptian society stood on so firm a basis that it could be oppressed,      78
but not overthrown, by the despotism of its kings. Property was so
well secured by the general law of inheritance, the sacerdotal and
military aristocracy was so firmly established in its independence,
that the first excess of power only affected the laboring classes.
Unable to dispose of the property of their subjects, the kings
appropriated, as J. J. Rousseau justly remarks, “rather men’s arms
than their purse.” It was thus they effected the gigantic work of
erecting the pyramids by the enforced labors of a whole nation.
Property was spared, but humanity was oppressed.

                          TO BE CONTINUED.

     [12] Diodorus. History thus confirms the Scriptures:
     “From that time unto this day, in the whole land of Egypt,
     the fifth part is paid to the king, and it is become as a
     law, except the land of the priests, which was free from
     this covenant” (Gen. xlvii. 26). This privilege was not
     always preserved. The Rosetta inscription informs us that
     the sacred lands paid annually into the royal treasury an
     _artabe_ for each _aroure_ of land, and an amphora
     of wine for every aroure of vineyard.

     [13] _Egypte ancienne_, p. 111.

     [14] Chemistry comes from Chemi--which means

     [15] We have borrowed from Champollion most of this
     account of the services rendered by the priesthood to the
     Egyptian nation. It is true, it only gives the favorable
     side of that class, but, in speaking of the religion of the
     country, we shall endeavor to complete the picture and
     present it in its true light.

     [16] The Rosetta Stone was among the valuable antiquities
     collected by the French expedition into Egypt, and given up
     to the English at the surrender at Alexandria. It was of
     black basalt, about three feet by two. The inscription on it
     was in three kinds of writing: the hieroglyphic, the demotic
     or enchorial, and the Greek. The upper and lower portions of
     the stone were broken and injured, but the demotic
     inscription was perfect. The Greek inscription was a key to
     the others, from which a complete hieroglyphic alphabet was

     [17] Of the reign of Ptolemy.--TR.

     [18] From Champollion-Figeac’s translation.

     [19] “The priests represented Psammetichus as the first
     Egyptian king to violate the sacerdotal rule limiting
     the king’s ration of wine.”--Strabo, _Geogr._ xvii.

     [20] _Herodotus_, ii. Diodorus confirms this account, but
     its authenticity has been disputed by declaring that “the
     garrison of Elephantine, comprising only some hundreds or
     thousands of warriors, was the only one that could escape
     into Ethiopia.” It was doubtless easier for this garrison to
     cross the frontier which it was appointed to guard; but,
     supposing the Egyptian soldiers, dissatisfied with the
     violation of their privileges, had concerted among
     themselves, as Herodotus declares, we do not see how King
     Psammetichus could have hindered the departure of so
     formidable an army. Besides, Herodotus adds that he saw in
     Ethiopia a people known under the name of _Automoles_
     (deserters), descendants of these Egyptian warriors. This
     testimony is the more credible because Herodotus made the
     journey not more than 150 or 160 years after the death of

     [21] Mariette.

     [22] De Bonald, _Théorie du Pouvoir_, i. 170.

     [23] Acts of the Apostles, vii. 22.

     [24] Mariette: _Aperçu de l’Histoire d’Egypte_, pp. 10 and 19.

     [25] St. Paul says: “_Qui non laborat non manducet_.”

     [26] _Herodotus_, lib. ii.

     [27] _Diodorus_, lib. i.

     [28] _Diodorus_, lib. i.

     [29] From σείω, _I shake off_, and ἄχθος, _burden_. See
     Plutarch, _Life of Solon_, xiv.

     [30] Ampère, _Des Castes, etc., dans l’ancienne

     [31] Letter from M. de Rougé à M. Leemans, _Revue
     Archéol._, vol. xii.

     [32] We have seen by the law respecting loans, attributed
     to King Bocchoris, that coined money was known to the
     Egyptians at least eight centuries B.C.

     [33] F. Lenormant, _Manuel d’Hist. ancienne_.

     [34] _Discours sur l’Hist. univ._: “The Egyptians observe
     the customs of their fathers, and adopt no new ones,” says

     [35] _Théorie du Pouvoir_, vol. i. book 1. From this work,
     now consulted so little, but nevertheless full of remarkable
     views respecting the different systems of social
     organization, we have taken the plan of this _étude_ of the
     political institutions of ancient Egypt.

     [36] Eusebius, _apud Sync._ vol.

     [37] _Notice du Musée de Boulaq_, p. 185.

     [38] F. Lenormant, _Manuel d’Hist. anc._, vol. i. p. 334.


                       A WEEK AT LAKE GEORGE.

Most of our merchant readers will be able to recall a thousand
pleasant reminiscences or anecdotes of the firm of Hawkins & Smith,
wholesale cloth dealers, of our great metropolis. Mr. Hawkins is the
dapper, fluent, old English gentleman, who meets all callers upon the
house. He appears to be the very life of the firm, and sells the
counters and shelves as clean as his own smoothly shaved, fair little
face. He is fond of boasting that he never kept a piece of goods
through two whole seasons. He is the only member of the firm with whom
our agents and correspondents are acquainted. Rarely, indeed, does it
enter anybody’s head to inquire for Mr. Smith. But a silent,
squarely-built, gray-eyed man, never to be seen in the salesroom, and
only in the office at the earliest hours, looks as if he might be
called Smith, or any other practically-sounding name; and on closer
inspection this same individual appears to possess those qualities
which would fit one to do and endure the grinding, screwing, and
pounding, the stern refusing and energetic demanding, connected with
the business of such a distinguished firm. Smith never boasts. He has
a disagreeable way of chuckling, when he observes, before dismissing
an idle employee, that _he_ (Smith) came here (to New York) in his own
schooner from home (Rhode Island) and, in six months, bought his share
in the present business. Mr. Hawkins never alludes to him in
conversation, but always greets him with marked respect, and, when
late to business, with a nervous flush quite unpleasant to witness. It
has been said by enemies of the firm that Hawkins is a first-class
salesman because Smith does all the buying; and many quaint
expressions have arisen regarding the fate of the American eagle
whenever a certain coin passes between old Smith’s thumb and

Any one who has so far penetrated the nether gloom of our first story
salesroom as to peep behind the little railing on the high desk, has
seen a tall, pale, blue-eyed young man, with closely-trimmed whiskers,
bending over the gas-lit figures and folios, the mysteries of Hawkins
& Smith. Five years in this Hades, wearing and puzzling over the           79
perpetual riddle before him, have worked a slight wrinkle just between
his brows, and bent his thin figure, and even blanched his delicate
hands and hollow cheeks; but he is no more a demon or ghost than you
or I, or even Mr. Hawkins himself, but the jolliest and best of jolly
good fellows. If you have long known Jack Peters, and acknowledged
this, be civil to me, dear reader, henceforth, for his sake, for I am
this book-keeper’s first cousin, George Peters.

Ask the boys in the first floor whom old Smith watches most. They will
tell you, with a laugh, the new clerk at the first counter. Ask Mr.
Hawkins whom he put at the first counter because he likes Jack Peters.
He will answer, George Peters, his cousin. Ask Mr. Smith who the clerk
at the first counter is. He will answer, “An infernal fool that
Hawkins picked up, because he always wants a good-looking

This last remark is historical, and I quote it to illustrate many
subjects which vanity, modesty, and respect for my employers alike
render delicate to me, George Peters.

On a certain Monday evening in July last, Jack and I stood in the
dread presence of Hawkins and Smith, in the inner circle of the gloom.

“Mr. Peters,” said Hawkins, looking at both of us as blandly as man
could look in such a place, “we have both concluded that we can better
spare you this week than next. Nothing will be going on, and so you
had better be going off. Ah! ha! And you, my young friend, although it
is not customary to grant vacation to such recent employees, had
better go off, too, on account of your cousin--entirely on his
account!” added the little gentleman, dexterously, glancing the last
part of his speech from me to his partner.

Jack nodded his thanks, and I endeavored to thaw the cold stare of the
junior partner by a warm burst of gratitude, not altogether feigned.
His glance, indeed, altered, but only to a sneer, and the labials of
the word “puppy” were so distinctly formed that I could scarcely keep
from disarranging them by a hearty slap.

Feeling checked and snubbed, I walked with Jack out of the store, but
soon these feelings gave place to the excitement of our vacation.

“Jack, are the ‘traps’ all packed?”

“Everything is ready; all we have to do is to get aboard the boat.
Hawkins told me on Saturday that I might get ready, but that it was
necessary to stay over Monday in order to get you off with me. So I
left word at home to have everything sent down by the boy.”

We turned the corner, and, in a few minutes, were wandering through
the cabins and gangways of the Albany boat. The “boy” on whom Jack had
relied so confidently did not make his appearance until the last
moment, and then professed utter ignorance of any lunch-basket. Jack
was certain that he had put it with the trunk and satchels, and was
but partially convinced when he found it, on our return, in the
wardrobe of his bedroom. But we were on board of the _St. John_, and
it only made a difference of two dollars in the cost of our supper.

Yes, dear reader, we were on board of the _St. John_, and moving up
the Hudson; and, if you are pleased at finding us on our way at last,
judge with what feelings we turned from the brick and stone of the
great Babylon behind us to the towering palisades, the groves, and
hills, and happy rural sights about us. Jack and I were unable to          80
get a state-room; all had been secured before the boat left the wharf.
This, however, afforded little matter for regret, as we sailed through
moonlight and a warm breeze beneath the gloomy Highlands, and watched
the lights of the barges and tow-boats, like floating cities on the
inky river. Scraps of history and romance were suggested at almost
every turn of the winding channel, and as we passed old Cro’ Nest, the
opening lines of the _Culprit Fay_ were forcibly recalled:

    “’Tis the middle watch of a summer night,
     Earth is dark, but the heavens are bright,
     And naught is seen in the vault on high
     But the moon and stars, and the cloudless sky,
     And the flood which rolls its milky hue,
     As a river of light, o’er the welkin blue.
     The moon looks down on old Cro’ Nest;
     She mellows the shades on his shaggy breast;
     And seems his huge gray form to throw
     In a silver cone on the wave below.”

The white schooners went through their ghostly parts in a way that
would have shamed Wallack himself. We thought the performance of the
sturgeons fully equal, from an artistic point of view, and, certainly,
less objectionable from every point of view, when compared with
anything we ever saw at the ballet; and, yet, we remembered that men
and women were sitting wide awake through these late hours in the hot
and crowded theatres of the city. Thus we were consoled for the loss
of a state-room. But even in this peaceful enjoyment of nature we were
not without drawbacks, and in the chapter of accidents must be
recorded how and why we lost our places on the forward deck.

Scarcely had the steamer left her dock, when we were startled by a
voice inquiring “if there would be any intrusion in case a party of
ladies and gentlemen desired to while away time by singing a few

Jack and I turned in our seats. The inquiry had proceeded
from an elderly individual, of general clerical appearance, and
certain marks strongly indicating the specific character of the
“Evangelical” school. A pair of “sisters” hung upon either arm, and
all three settled into chairs in the middle of the deck. His question
had been addressed to about two hundred ladies and gentlemen who
crowded the forward deck. There were evident marks of dissatisfaction,
but, as nobody spoke, our “Evangelical” friend thought proper to
conclude that nobody was offended, and the hymn-singing commenced.
Gradually congenial spirits, drawn by the sound, were to be seen
approaching from various parts of the boat, and when Jack and I
returned from supper, we found about twenty or thirty in various
stages of excitement, and our clerical friend wrought up to a high
pitch. Another minister, with a strong but wheezy bass voice,
announced and intoned the hymns. At intervals in the singing, our
friend arose and addressed the spectators. At one time he informed
them that the feeling which animated the present assembly was love to
the Saviour. At another, he thought that perhaps there might be some
present who knew nothing about the Saviour; to such he would apply the
words of the apostle, “Be ye followers of me, as I am of Christ.” He
said that he had been a child of God for thirty years, and knew by a
certain assurance that he was a saved man. Hallelujah!

“Evangelical” blood was up, and our friend turned from the
contemplation of his own happy lot to worry something or somebody.
Jack’s cigar caught his eye. It was the red rag to the bull.

“Young man! there ain’t no smokin’-car in heaven. There ain’t no           81
for’ard deck where you can puff that stinkin’ weed of your’n!”

Jack expressed a forcible denial in an undertone, and, before I could
nudge him, broke out with:

“I’d like to know what the Bible says against smoking?”

“You would, young man, would ye? Well, I’m glad you would. I’m glad
you have asked that question. Well, sir, the Bible says, ‘Let no
filthy communication proceed out of thy mouth’; and if that ar smoke
ain’t a ‘filthy communication,’ I’d like to know what is.”

There was a general roar. “Come along, Jack,” said I, “you are a
Papist, and can’t argue against a ‘free Bible.’” So, retiring to the
after-deck, which was covered, and concealed much of the landscape, we
left our Methodist friends triumphantly shouting and keeping folks
awake up to a late hour.

As the night passed, and our fellow-travellers dropped off one by one
to doze in their state-rooms or on the sofas of the cabins, we were
left alone. Gradually we retired within ourselves, and shut the doors
of our senses.

“Wake up, old fellow, we are nearly in!”

I opened my eyes, and saw Jack’s pale face smiling over my shoulders.

We landed at Albany, and after breakfast found ourselves settled in
the Rensselaer and Saratoga cars, and, changing trains at Fort Edward,
arrived at Glenn’s Falls in about three hours.

Jack, who had often made the trip before, had set me reading _The
Leather Stocking Series_, and I positively refused to budge from
the town of Glenn’s Falls until we had visited the rapids and
descended into the cave which Cooper has immortalized in the first
chapters of his most interesting romance, _The Last of the Mohicans_.
The falling in of the rock at different periods, and the low stage of
the water in the summer season, prevented us from recognizing the old
shelter of Hawkeye and his party.

But there is the cave, and there are the rapids--both are shrines of
American legend; and we felt better pleased with ourselves for our
pilgrimage. Of course we had missed the stage which takes passengers
from the station to Caldwell at the head of Lake George. We wandered a
short time about town, found out that there were a number of Catholics
in it, and that its president, Mr. Keenan, was a well-known Irish
Catholic. We also visited a beautiful church, the finest in the town,
recently completed by Father McDermott, the pastor of the
English-speaking Catholic congregation, there being also a
French-Canadian parish in the place.

As may be easily imagined, we had no mind to walk over to the lake, or
to pay ten dollars for a vehicle to carry us as many miles, and Jack
was beginning to grumble at my curiosity when we met a farmer’s
wagon--with a farmer in it, of course. The latter offered to take us
over for fifty cents a head, as he was going in the same direction.
Never was there a better piece of good luck. There are several Scotch
families settled on French Mountain, at the head of the lake; our
driver was one of their patriarchs. He literally poured out funny
stories of the “kirk” and “dominie”; and although some of the jokes
were very nearly as broad as they were long, Jack and I were forced to
hold our sides while the “gudeman” sparkled and foamed, like a certain
brown export from his native country.

During a momentary lull in the conversation, I took occasion to
inquire with respect to a black woolly-coated dog, who followed the        82
wagon, if he were a good hunter. “Yes,” said Jack, with a contemptuous
smile at the subject of my inquiry. “He is what is called a

“Hoot, mon,” said his owner, “that dog would tree a grasshopper up a

It was in no sad or poetical mood that we passed by “Williams’s
Monument” and the scene of Hendrick’s death and Dieskau’s defeat, or
saw at “Bloody Pond” the lilies bending over the sedge and ooze which
served of old as the last resting-place of many a brave young son of
France. We did not think of the fierce struggle which had here
confirmed our Anglo-Saxon forefathers in possession of this soil. All
this comes up now as I write; for, certainly no sober thought entered
our brains until, as we turned round a mountain-side, I saw Jack take
off his hat. I looked in the direction of his respectful nod, and--oh!
what a vision!--the deep blue lake sank from view in the embrace of
the distant mountains. Its winding shores and secret bays, curtained
with veils of mist hanging in festoons from boughs of cedar, birch,
maple, and chestnut, were like enchantment in their endless variety of
form and shade. No less the work of magic were the islands. These,
owing to the reflection of the water, appeared to hang over its
surface as the clouds seemed to hang over the peaks above. To stand
suddenly in view of such a sight might have startled and awed even
lighter souls than ours. Here, indeed, our hearts were lifted up and
thrilled as we thought of the gray-haired apostle and martyr, the
first European who sailed upon the water before us--the Jesuit Father
Jogues, who also gave it on the eve of Corpus Christi its original
name--Lac du Saint-Sacrament. Our Protestant tradition, following the
courtier taste of Sir William Johnson, has handed down the name of
Lake George, but we trust that the hope of every lover of American
antiquity who has visited its shores may not prove vain, and that
time, in doing justice to all, will restore to the lake its first true
and lovely title.

A few small sails on the water, and the smoke from the village at our
feet, broke the spell and reminded us that we were still among the
haunts of man.

Caldwell is made up of a courthouse, several churches, stores, hotels,
and shops, a saw-mill, and a few streets of separated dwelling-houses.
The grand hotel is near the site once occupied by Fort William Henry,
and is called by that name, and looks towards Ticonderoga, although
the view is cut off midway by the windings of the lake. Old Fort
George is overgrown with cedars and shrubs, and only a few feet of
ruined bastion remain. The scene of the massacre of Fort William Henry
is now, as nearly as we could reckon from Mr. Cooper’s description, a
swamp. Time, however, is said to have greatly altered the topography
of the shore at this point, and certainly it is hard to locate
Montcalm’s old camping-ground during the siege described in _The
Last of the Mohicans_.

Leaving such questions to the antiquarian, perhaps, dear reader, you
will ask one with a practical regard for the present and future,
namely, How do they provide for their guests at the Fort William
Henry? Alas! that were indeed an ill-timed question for us. Perhaps,
if I had asked the proprietor to allow me to report upon his fare in
the pages of THE CATHOLIC WORLD, he would have done so in a manner
satisfactory to all parties; but, as no such brilliant idea occurred
at that time, I am forced to confess that I was afraid that it was         83
too good. Be it said to our shame, we did not promenade upon the
magnificent piazza, nor did we stop to taste the alluring fare of the
Fort William Henry. What else did we come for? Why, to see Lake
George, of course, and to have a good time; and we did both, although
we went without lunch for some hours that day.

Scarcely had I claimed our baggage at the stage-office, when Jack came
up from the beach with a radiant countenance. “It’s all right!” said
he, “I’ve got just the boat we want. Five dollars for the rest of the
week. Take hold of that trunk, and we’ll get under way as soon as

Perhaps, dear reader, in your wanderings through life it has never
been your happy lot to be absolute master of the craft on which you
are sailing. Do you think that you have fathomed the mystery of such
lives as those of Captain Kidd and Admiral Semmes?

Do you imagine that life on the ocean wave means sleeping in a berth
and pacing a quarter-deck? Ah! that was truly independence day to us.
The wind blew fresh and strong. We hoisted our india-rubber blanket on
an oar. Coats and collars were packed away in the satchel, our “worst”
straw hats were pulled down over our eyes, and, as we sat with
loosened flannel in the bottom of our heavy skiff, and listened to the
rippling water, we quite forgot that it was past lunch-time. The warm
south breeze, and that peculiar fragrance which popular fancy has
associated with the name of cavendish, brought us in full sympathy
with the naval adventurers of other days, and we blessed the memory of
Sir Walter Raleigh, “as we sailed.”

The upper portion of the lake, through which we are now passing, though
surrounded by hills, has enough farming land and farm-houses on their
slopes to give it that placid, tranquil beauty which is always
associated with views on the English waters. As it widened from
three-quarters to as many full miles, we passed several beautiful
residences, two of them belonging to Messrs. Price and Hayden of New
York City. Opposite these, on the eastern shore, is a handsome
property belonging to Charles O’Conor, Esq., one of the most
distinguished members of the New York bar, and well known throughout
the United States. Just abreast Diamond Island is the residence of Mr.
Cramer, president of the Rensselaer and Saratoga Railroad, and while
sailing past the lovely group of islands known as the “Three Sisters,”
the property of Judge Edmonds, we saw beyond them the white walls of
his cottage peeping out from the green foliage of the western shore,
about three miles and a half from Caldwell.

As the sun sank below Mount Cathead, back of the pretty little village
of Bolton, we landed on a little islet in the Narrows near Fourteen
Mile Island.

I was quite curious to find out what preparations Jack had made, and
lent a willing hand at the long narrow trunk. In the tray was a small
cotton tent, made according to Jack’s own order, and slightly larger
than the soldier’s “dog-house.” A keen little axe in Jack’s quick hand
soon provided a pair of forked uprights and four little pins, an oar
served for a ridge-pole, and our shelter was up before the sun was
fairly below the real horizon. Out of the same tray came a quilt and
two pairs of blankets, which I was ordered to spread on the
india-rubber. My task accomplished, the smell of something very much       84
like ham and eggs recalled me to the beach. We supped, that night, by
the light of our camp-fire, and it was only after a night’s heavy
sleep that I was able to examine the rest of Jack’s outfit. A small
mess-chest, which bore marks of his own clever fingers, occupied one
division of the bottom of the trunk. The rest of it was shared by
apartments for clothing, provisions, and a humble assortment of
fishing-tackle and shooting material. The gun lay strapped to one side
of the trunk, and a couple of rods on the other.

“Very neat, Jack,” said I.

“You are right; I built it myself, all except the walls and roof,
seven years ago.”

I am sorry to confess that I did not get up that morning until
breakfast was ready. Jack did not complain, but I saw by his quiet
smile that some kind of an apology was necessary.

“Jack, I’m as stiff as a clotheshorse, and sore from head to foot.”

“Why,” he asked, “didn’t you dig holes for your hips and shoulders, as
the Indians do?”

“The holes were all made, only they were in the wrong places.”

After breakfast, we broke up our camp and rowed over to Fourteen Mile
Island. On the way we had another view of Bolton, behind us, and the
countless islands in the Narrows, through which we were shortly to
sail. The little village of Bolton lies on the western shore opposite
Fourteen Mile Island. It contains a hotel, several boarding-houses, a
pretty little P. E. church, and a forest of flags, every house seeming
to have its own staff. One of the islands, near Bolton, was shown us
as the point of view from which Kensett’s picture of the Narrows was
painted. At Fourteen Mile Island we found a quiet little hotel, which
serves as a dining-place for excursionists from Caldwell. A few
regular boarders seemed to be enjoying themselves, and I noticed an
artist’s easel and umbrella on the porch.

We soon left with a good supply of butter, eggs, milk, and fresh
bread. After rowing a few miles through the maze of islands in the
Narrows, one of which is occupied by a hermit artist named Hill, a
“transcendentalist,” the wind arose, and we sailed under the shadow of
Black Mountain through the wildest portion of the lake. On the western
shore, savage cliffs were piled in utter confusion, now rising, like
the Hudson River Palisades, in solid walls above a mass of
_débris_, now hanging in gigantic masses over the crystal abyss below.
On the eastern shore, Black Mountain rises above any other height on
the lake, and the view which we beheld as we passed from Fourteen Mile
Island down the Narrows is one of the finest in the world. Now we were
drifting under the cliffs at the base of the mountain, and, looking up
its abrupt sides--a series of rocky spurs covered principally with
hemlocks and cedar--we saw two eagles soaring above the thin clouds
which floated half-way up. Throughout this portion the lake varies
from one to two miles in width.

Oh! what a cozy little nest in the hills at the northern end of Black
Mountain! A few farms, and a sleepy old mill that looks as if it never
was made to run, lie on the sunny slope retiring into the hills which
forms a pass over to Whitehall. No wonder they call it the “Bosom!”

Here, in a little graveyard, we saw the tombstone of a Revolutionary
soldier, and the old farm-house, at which we stopped for dinner, with
its loom and spindle and bustling old housewife, formed a good
specimen of that phase of American life which is rapidly passing           85
away for ever.

While our meal was being cooked, Jack disappeared with his rod. I had
a long talk with the mistress of the house. She was a “Free-will
Baptist” and very much opposed to the Irish and Catholics generally.
Her objections to the former were thus curtly summed up, “The critters
get rich off a rock, and have sich litters of children.”

During the ensuing conversation she remarked, “I have four sons, and
every one of them professors.”

“Ah!” said I, in all simplicity, “they must be doing very well; but
what do they teach?”

“Teach?--they don’t teach nothing. I said they were professors.”

“Well, then,” I asked, “what do they profess?”

“Why, professors of religion, of course,” answered the good
dame--“every one of ‘em baptized in yon lake. Oh! it was a glor’ous

The good old lady--for she was past eighty--showed me her dairy, and
apartments of the house which she said were usually occupied by
boarders at this time of the year. She had woven all the carpets,
quilts, towels, napkins, and table-cloths of the whole establishment,
and everything looked very neat and old-fashioned.

“I’m mighty sorry you have to hurry off,” said she, “I could make you
the nicest chowder you ever tasted. My man knows just where to get the
fish. A few years ago we sent off, at once, one hundred and fifty
pounds of clean lake trout.”

I, too, was sorry that we were obliged to hasten on our journey, as I
thought, for the first time since we started, of Hawkins & Smith and a
long year in the gloomy salesroom.

Jack came late for dinner with five small brook-trout in his hand.

“Hulloa, old fellow, where did you get those?”

“Oh! there’s a little pool on the hillside up yonder,” answered Jack,
pointing as he spoke, “I always find two or three there.”

After paying for our dinner, visiting an Indian family who claim to be
the genuine “Last of the Mohicans,” we bade farewell to our hostess
and one of the “professors,” who had appeared in the meanwhile, and
were again afloat. We passed Sabbath Day Point, about two miles above
“The Bosom” on the opposite shore. The former derived its name from
having served as a resting-place to Abercrombie’s expedition; it was
the scene of several bloody skirmishes during the French and Indian
war and also during the Revolution.

The lake now widens somewhat, and the mountains decrease in height.
Two points of land overlapping from opposite sides close up the
northern view and form a large circular basin opposite the little
village of Hague, situated on the western shore about six or seven
miles from the lower end of the lake. One of the points alluded to is
a craggy spur which seems to spring directly out of the depths of the
water; it is on the eastern shore, and is called Anthony’s Nose. The
western point is a well-shaded lawn of about one hundred and fifty
acres, with a winding irregular shore, and containing a number of
large hickory and chestnut trees.

The robins were hopping about the lawn as we landed; the thrush,
singing his vesper, made a special commemoration of the faithful newly
arrived; the greedy cat-bird, a sleek-coated sharper, approached to
see what was to be made off the strangers; while the politic
red-squirrels, scampering off at sight of our tent to discuss the
object and intent of this invasion, remained at a respectful distance
while Jack’s trout were frying over the little camp-fire now gleaming      86
in the twilight.

Supper having been despatched, I heard Jack approaching, while engaged
in washing the dishes on the beach--an occupation which time and place
can often rob of all its offensiveness, wherefore, most delicate of
readers, I am bold enough to mention it.

I looked at Jack from my towel and tin plates, and great was my
astonishment to behold him in complete hunting-dress, gun in hand, and
all accoutred for the chase.

“Why, Jack! what’s afoot?”

“No game yet,” he answered, smiling; “but I’m to leave you to-night.”

“What! to sleep here all by myself?”

“Why, yes--you are not afraid, are you?”

“No, not afraid exactly.”

“The fact is,” said Jack, “a fellow over at Hague promised me a
deer-hunt last year, and if I can find him to-night I shall go out
with him to-morrow. You can’t shoot, have no gun, and are not much of
a walker, so I am sure you would be bored to death.” (I nodded.) Jack
continued, “I will walk over to-night, and if I do not meet the hunter
will be back bright and early to-morrow morning. If I do not come
then, please row over for me to-morrow evening.”

“All right, _mon capitaine_.” And, with a wave of the hand, Jack
departed, and I was alone.

The embers of the camp-fire began to brighten as the darkness fell.
The birds and squirrels disappeared. The trunk was stowed safely
together with its mess-chest and provisions, and the blankets were
spread in the little tent; the milk-jug and butter-bowl were secured
by stones in the water, in order to keep them cool. I began my rosary
for night prayers, and roamed through the grove over to the northern
side of the point, in full view of the steep promontory on the
opposite shore. Beyond our own smooth camping-ground the western shore
surged up again in all its former wildness. The beads passed slowly
through my fingers, and it seemed as if the beauty and loneliness of
the scene were absorbing all my faculties, and withdrawing me from
instead of raising my thoughts to God and heaven.

Finally the moon arose. A thousand scattered beams shot through the
dark foliage, and lit up patches of the lawn over which I had just
passed. The wind had died away, and the light fell in unbroken
splendor upon the broad mirror before me. The few thin clouds, veiling
small groups of stars, the frowning cliffs and sombre woods--all were
reduplicated in the unruffled water. Far to the south, Black Mountain
closed up the view, which sank in the east behind the low ranges of
hills, all dark below the rising moon. The last bead fell from my
fingers, and praying God to forgive anything inordinate in my
enjoyment of his creatures, I gave up to the intoxication of the
scene. The hours passed rapidly while I dreamed of the days of
Montcalm and Abercrombie, and saw in fancy the fleets of canoes and
batteaux passing and repassing in victory and defeat the rocks upon
which I was sitting. Had my mind ever reverted to the possibility of
being obliged to give a public account of itself, I might have
composed some lines, had some “thoughts,” or done something worth
recording. Alas, dear reader, do not consider me rude if I confess
that I did not think of you at that time. For, indeed, I did not think
of anything, but left my fancy to be sported with by impressions past      87
and present of the lovely region in which I found myself a happy
visitor. The cool night air brought the blood to my sunburnt cheeks.
The landscape swam before me, the past mingled with the present;
finally, the mist seemed to shroud everything. My watch was run down
past midnght when I awoke, finding myself stretched at full length on
the rock. I started--where was I? what had disturbed my slumber? Was
it the war-whoop of the Mingoes, or the friendly greeting of Uncas and
Chingacgook; but if so, where were the canoes? I raised myself slowly
on my elbow, all wet with dew, dazed by sleep and the strange scene
about me--when suddenly, under the shadow of the trees, and not one
hundred feet distant, there rose from the water a shrill, fierce,
devilish laugh, so wild and startling that I bounded to my feet and
fairly screamed with fright. The next instant, a large bird appeared
fluttering on the moonlit water beyond. “Pshaw!” said I, “didn’t you
ever hear a loon before?” Thus addressing myself, I returned to the
tent, and, stripping off my wet clothes, fell asleep in the blankets.

I do not know exactly what time of the day it was when I awoke the
next morning. The sun was high, and my clothes and the tent perfectly
dry; but I saw through its open door the steamer which leaves Caldwell
at eight o’clock, and hence concluded that it was now between ten and
eleven. I was glad enough that Jack did not appear to rebuke my
laziness until I came to try my hand at cooking breakfast. The fire
would smoke, and I could not hinder it; the ham would not broil, and I
could not force it. The eggs, of course, were scorched, and so was my
tongue when I tasted the coffee, which resembled a decoction of
shavings and bitter almonds. Quietly emptying the coffee-pot on the
grass, I contented myself with a cup of milk, which, however, showed
strong premonitory symptoms of sourness; and after bolting a huge
stock of raw ham and scorched eggs, made up my mind that this was to
be the last meal without Jack.

It was very warm in the tent, so, taking the quilt and a certain small
pouch of buckskin decked with wampum, I sought the shelter of the
grove. Chestnut-burrs did not prevent me from choosing the shadiest
spot, for my quilt afforded ample protection.

Here, with my back to the tree, I fell into a state which might easily
have proved a continuation of my already protracted nap. It was not
so, however. The bag of the medicine-man contains an antidote for
prosiness after meals. Blue clouds of the inspiring fragrance curled
in the still air, and the brain which might have succumbed to the
vulgar humors of digesting pork maintained itself in a gentle,
subdued, intellectual state. Had I some favorite author in my hand,
some volume of pithy sentences furnishing themes for my morning
meditation, or somebody’s “confessions”? Alas, dear reader, I am
forced to make a confession myself, to wit, that there was not a line
of printed matter in all our luggage.

Day-dreams and night-dreams are pretty much alike with me unless there
be a trifle of brilliant imagination in favor of the latter. Still, if
any stray thoughts wandered through my brain at this time, they must
have been something like these: Why was it that the law of rest had to
be superadded to the law of labor, if not because man has turned his
wholesome penance into a debauchery? Avarice and ambition have
gradually mastered the human race, and he who would eat or hold his        88
own must sweat and fight, or others will snatch it from him. By
degrees, the struggle has grown and deepened. First, we were shepherds
and tillers of the soil. Childhood passed in plenty and obedience.
Ploughing and reaping came only in their seasons, and, while kings and
princes tended flocks, labor was worship and life was not all
drudgery--there was some time for happiness and God. Then came the
curse of cunning and trade and cities. Here began a fiercer strife,
and, instead of the accidental miseries of drought and famine, men
learned to fear beggary. And, now that craft and commerce are supreme,
slavery is universal. No more days of festival, no more years of
jubilee! You, George Peters, wretch that you are, are the bond-slave
of Hawkins & Smith. What! will you rebel? Well, it is only a choice of
masters--serve you must. This pitiful vacation is only a device of old
Smith to make you feel your real bondage. If, dear reader, you should
perceive any other explanation of the facts which I so loosely jumbled
together, remember that this was the reverie of a lazy youth, escaped
from the thraldom of his counter, and basking in the fresh air and
beauty of Lake George. If, branching off from the great labor
question, I thought of anything else, it was to compare that beauty
with what I had seen in pictures or read in books of other lakes. I
have before alluded to the placid and tranquil English character of
the scenery between Caldwell and Fourteen Mile Island. The farms and
villas, and the town of Bolton, although lying on the western shore,
add much to this effect, and serve to rob the eastern bank almost
entirely of its natural air of uninhabited wildness. The sail-boats
and skiffs and three little steamers continually plying about this
portion of the lake, complete the impression that it is a place of
pleasure, ease, and holiday. The Narrows, completely filled with
islands, where every stroke of the oar reveals new vistas and endless
changes of scene, I can compare with nothing, and, indeed, it would
seem as if they were a unique creation. These extend for two or three
miles to where Black Mountain begins. And as for the rest, my
ignorance is also at a loss for a comparison, and I can only think of
what Lake Como might have been if adorned with islands, if its peaks
were lower and covered with foliage, and if the hand of man had never
wrought upon its native beauty.

That evening I rowed over for Jack. He had not yet arrived, although
the sun had set when I arrived, as agreed, at the little hotel at
Hague. Something unusual was going on, and I made various guesses as
to the reason why so many well-dressed maids and shaven yeomen were
gathered on the porch. Seven o’clock came, and yet no Jack. I eagerly
inquired after supper, resolved not to risk the chance of being
obliged to depend upon myself for a cook. The dining-room had been
cleared of every table save the one which I occupied, and shortly
after I had come out from supper I saw the young people crowding into
it. I had now begun to suspect what was the matter, when an
honest-looking young gentleman, fresh and fragrant from a process to
which he shortly afterwards urged and invited me, approached and said:
“Stranger, you’re camping on the p’int?” To this piece of information
I nodded a genial assent.

“Lookin’ for your pardner?” asked the pleasant young man. I nodded
again. “Well, he’ll be in soon. He’s gone out with a fellow that           89
never misses this sort of thing.” I had previously formed my own
notion of Jack’s companion, and a jolly flourish on a neighboring
violin forestalled the necessity of inquiring as to the nature of the
“thing” which exercised such an influence over him. The pleasant young
man, however, became confidential, and added with an ingenuous air:
“The fact is, we are going to shuffle the hoof a little to-night, and
he never misses anything like that. You’d better come in and try it

Then, becoming confidential in turn and glancing at my unpolished
extremities, I suggested that perhaps the articles in question were
not in a condition to be shuffled. Here it was that our sympathy
culminated, and my friend, in a burst of intimacy, proffered the
invitation before alluded to, with the words: “Come along and slick
up.” I do not know into what folly I might have been seduced if my
good angel Jack had not just then appeared and rescued me.

“How many deer, Jack?”

“Oh! we did not so much as start one,” he answered. And then asked,
“Have you had anything to eat?”

On my reply, Jack said that he was glad, for he had just had his own
supper in the kitchen. As we rowed back to camp, Jack fell asleep in
the stern of the boat, while telling me how he had tramped in vain
from early dawn till night.

Oh! how proud I felt next morning, when, after kindling the fire and
putting on the kettle, I came back and found Jack still sleeping in
the tent.

Dear old nervous Jack! who ever saw you asleep in daytime before?

Quick as the thought in my mind, he bounded up as freshly as one of
the deer of which he had been dreaming.

“Caught!” he said, the old quiet smile lighting up his face as he came
out and fell to work getting breakfast.

When we had finished our meal and laughed over the adventures of the
precious day, Jack set me to catching grasshoppers, while he prepared
the fishing tackle.

I found my occupation quite lively for a sultry morning, and not
without a certain amount of adventure, as I also discovered, for one
ignorant of the precise difference between a grasshopper and a hornet.

Finally, enough were caught and imprisoned in an empty wine-bottle to
serve for bait, and Jack was sure we were going to catch a load of
fish. My confidence in fishing was only in proportion to my
experience, very meagre, and after several hours fruitlessly spent in
trying various places, great was my astonishment when the lance-wood
rod bent double in my hands, and the next instant a large fish
appeared struggling on the surface of the water.

“Don’t lose him!” shouted Jack as he came forward, and snatched the
rod out of my hands and landed the fish.

“A fool for luck!” said my cousin. “I beg your pardon, old boy, but
there won’t be a better fish caught here this summer.” It proved to be
a splendid specimen of black bass, and weighed, according to Jack’s
estimate, every ounce of six pounds. Several smaller fish of the same
species, together with a few small perch, were the result of our day’s
sport. The big bass made a sufficiently large Friday dinner and
supper; the other fish we saved for our last breakfast.

Alas! for some episode, before we row down to Ticonderoga and take the
steamer on Lake Champlain to Whitehall, and the cars thence to Albany      90
and New York. Our tent did not blow away that night; and, although the
storm beat fiercely, not a drop of water touched us, thanks to the
little furrow which Jack had traced with a sharp stick, to carry off
the drippings from the tent-cloth.

Starting bright and early next morning, we rowed past a steep smooth
cliff running almost perpendicularly for about four hundred feet and
then down into the lake.

“That’s ‘Rogers’s Slide,’” said Jack.

“The deuce it is! He must have worn a stout pair of pantaloons!”

“Oh! but he didn’t actually slide, you know!” replied Jack, and then
proceeded to recount the famous escape of Major Rogers in 1758, who
here eluded the pursuit of the Indians, and, having thrown his
knapsack over the precipice, turned his snow-shoes and made off by
another route.

In a few hours, we had left our little boat attached to the steamer to
be taken back to Caldwell. A stage ride of several miles brought us to
Ticonderoga and Lake Champlain. That same evening, at ten o’clock, we
snuffed the hot and fetid breath of the great metropolis, and Monday
morning saw us re-entering the shades of Hawkins & Smith. A word to
Jack and a stare at me were the only greetings of the junior partner,
as he passed through the salesroom.

“Ah, boys!” said the cheery Hawkins, “glad to see you; look as if
you’ve been having a good time. Plenty of bone, muscle, and brown
skin, eh? I guess Mr. Smith will think that it pays to give you such a
_rest_. You haven’t been wasting your money at Long Branch or
Saratoga, I’ll bet.”

Thus ended our summer vacation; and if we did not have enough
adventure to pass for heroes, or bag enough game for sportsmen, or see
enough sights for artists, or recall enough of the past for
antiquarians, or measure miles and heights enough for the
scientific--in short, if we appear as two vulgar and thoroughly
commonplace clerks, smoking and boating through our holiday--take
note, dear reader, that even such as we can take delight in Lake
George; then, go and make the trip after your own fashion, and see if
you can enjoy it more or better.


                  THE ELEMENTS OF OUR NATIONALITY.                         91

The diversity of race to be found in this republic, like its rapid and
stupendous physical and mental development, is unparalleled in
history. Great nations, such as Austria, Prussia, and Russia, it is
true, have been called into existence in times comparatively modern,
but they have been aggregations of smaller kindred states already
established, attracted towards each other by mutual interests and
tastes, or coerced into union by force of arms. With us, growth and
greatness, originating at different times and at places widely
separated, have been the result in the first instance of the
establishment of a wise and comprehensive system of government, the
benefits of which we were willing to share generously with the people
of all nations; and next, to the alacrity and sincerity with which
those people, acting on an impulse common to humanity, have accepted
the advantages thus presented.

Looking back to the history of the migration of mankind from the
cradle of the human race, we find that colonies, afterwards to become
nations and the _nuclei_ of distinct families, thrown off from
the centre, presented each a unity of language and affinity of which
the originators of our country had not the advantage. Even Greece, the
graceful daughter of dusky Egypt, soon ceased to be Hellenic, and
became, notwithstanding her many subdivisions, thoroughly Greek, and
her colonies in Europe and Asia, when they ceased their connection
with the mother country, were quickly absorbed in the surrounding
peoples. The Roman Empire had no nationality, being simply the
creature of force, and no matter how widely its boundaries were
spread, all authority was lodged in Rome, and its subjects outside the
walls of that city were comparatively or positively slaves, without
any voice in the management of their own affairs, or a nationality to
which they could lay claim. As the legions were withdrawn to the
capital, the empire crumbled, and the disintegrated parts gradually
resumed their original character. So with the splendid but short-lived
empire of Charlemagne, The Goths, Vandals, Huns, and other European
and Asiatic conquerors who from time to time overran different parts
of Europe and founded dynasties, were simply waves of conquest
overcoming and enslaving the previous inhabitants, subjecting them to
the yoke of their own crude customs and laws, and building upon the
ruins of one nation the greatness of another.

Far different was the origin of our republic. At the beginning, we had
on our shores voluntary immigrants from the then four great maritime
nations of Europe--Spain, France, Holland, and England. The colonists
of each, from fortuitous circumstances, or led by peculiar
predilections, selected for settlement certain portions of the
continent, established themselves therein, and, while adhering to
their parent country and following its laws, speaking its
language, and practising its religion, early assumed a state of

These representatives of distinct nationalities, though few in
numbers, grew prosperous each in its own territory, for the reason         92
that there was no idea of nationality, and consequently no unity of
action, among the aborigines in their resistance to the new-comers.
Supported by their home governments respectively, they grew from mere
settlements to be important colonies, at peace with each other as far
as their own individual relation was concerned, but always liable to
be embroiled in the incessant quarrels of their countrymen at home.
The sturdy Hollanders were the first to succumb to what might be
called foreign influence; then the French settlers, deserted by
France, laid down their arms before their English conquerors, who, in
their turn, by the Revolution of ‘76, yielded their dominion to the
Thirteen Colonies, which embraced within their limits much of the
territory and most of the descendants of the original colonists of at
least three of the nationalities which first effected settlements on
the Atlantic coast. From this period we may date the origin of
American nationality. In its infancy, it included nearly four millions
of men of various races, creeds, opinions, and sentiments. For the
first time in history was proclaimed the perfect equality before the
law of all persons of European origin, as has since been extended that
grand principle of human equality to men from every part of the earth.
In forming a code for itself, it rejected what was contrary to this
dogma, and adopted everything that was beneficial in all other forms
of government. From Holland, it took the Declaration of Independence,
that great manifesto of popular rights; from England, the writ of
habeas corpus and trial by jury; from France and Spain, many of those
equitable constructions of the civil law which regulate the rights of
property and the domestic status of individuals. To all these were
added the beneficent constitution under which we have the good
fortune to live, and the many excellent laws, local and national,
which, in conformity with that instrument, have been enacted from time
to time.

But custom is said to be stronger even than law, and hence we can
understand that the vivifying principle of the government itself was
generated from the peculiar circumstances amid which the first
settlers of America and their children found themselves, without local
monarchical traditions, an hereditary aristocracy, or laws of
primogeniture. With, as a general rule, little private fortune or
means of subsistence other than that derived from manual labor and
individual enterprise, the American colonist, no matter of what
nation, was naturally disposed towards popular government, and to
proclaim and admit general equality. It is undoubtedly to the
existence of these robust social and economical habits in the early
settlers--which, finding expression in their new-found political
power, were embodied in the fundamental laws of the new nation by the
fathers of the republic--that we are primarily indebted for the wise
and moderate scheme of government we enjoy, and which it is our duty
to preserve and perpetuate unimpaired to posterity.

It was thus by a combination of circumstances hitherto unknown that
our country became clothed with all the attributes of nationality
peculiar to itself--its subsequent progress, as we may presume its
future greatness, having no parallel in the annals of other lands.
That we are a nation, possessing an appropriate autonomy, capable of
sustaining all the relations of war and peace with other countries,
and exercising supreme authority over all our integral parts and
individual members, no sane man uninfluenced by the quibbles of mere       93
lawyers or unswayed by the political passions of the day, will deny.
Who would so deny, and maintain that this republic is a bundle of
petty sovereignties in which the power of one is coequal to that of
all the others combined, would reject the axiom of Euclid, that the
whole is greater than its part. The true American, then, is he who
keeps this principle of unity always in view. It gives dignity and
strength to his country abroad, and assures peace, concord, and
security at home. While allowing all possible latitude to subordinate
members in the management of their domestic affairs, it reconciles and
harmonizes the conflicting and sometimes antagonistic interests of
different sections, concentrates on works of vast commercial and
national importance the collective powers of all, directs the foreign
policy of the government for the general good, and arrays the power of
the people for the common protection and defence. True, some years
ago, many persons held contrary opinions, and in the attempt to carry
them out unhappily caused one of the most calamitous civil wars of
modern times; but, like the tempest which sweeps over the gigantic
oak, swaying its trunk and loosening the ground around it only that
its roots may strike deeper and firmer into the earth, our country has
passed through the storm unscathed and now rests on a basis firmer
than ever. The past and its errors, however, we can easily forget; the
future is ours; and who shall hold us harmless if we profit not by our
dearly-bought experience and the lessons which every day teaches us?

One, and not the least potent, of the causes which led to that
fratricidal struggle was the advocacy of what was called “manifest
destiny,” which is simply a delusive, dangerous, and, in its
application, very often a dishonest doctrine. It is not unnatural that
in a young and sanguine republic, whose short history is so full of
successes, many ardent propagandists of freedom should be found, who
without calculating consequences would like to extend the benefits of
our political system not only to the utmost confines of this
continent, but over all Christendom; but this feeling, though
creditable, is hardly one to be encouraged. It leads, as we have often
seen, to a national lust for the acquisition of our neighbor’s
territory, to the undue extension of our boundaries, disproportionate
to even our ever-increasing population, and to the weakening of the
bonds that hold together the comparatively settled states of the
Union, by the bodily introduction of foreign elements into our polity
at variance with our real interests. The annexation of Texas and the
acquisition of our Pacific territory, though productive of many
tangible advantages, were undoubtedly some of the remote, but,
nevertheless, very important, influences which, operating on the
public mind, tended to unfix our loyalty to the whole country, and to
induce us to view the recent forcible attempt on its integrity with
feelings somewhat akin to indifference. That enlargement of the
national domain was so sudden and immense that men’s minds, accustomed
to defined limits, failed to realize it. Patriotism is not a mere
sentiment, but a love of something of which we have some accurate
knowledge, whether associated with a particular race, locality, or
historical record, or all together; and hence, when we could not
understand how in one moment what we had thought was our country, the
object of our affection and source of our pride, was extended
thousands of miles and millions of acres, our imaginations could not       94
keep pace with the monstrous growth of the country, and we fell back
on our native or adopted states, and felt prouder of being known as
Virginians or Vermonters than of being United States citizens.

It is not at all improbable that posterity will see the whole of North
America united under one government, but this consummation, so
devoutly to be wished, to be permanent and salutary, must be the
result of time and the observance of the laws of right and justice,
for nations as well as individuals flourish or fade in proportion as
they follow or despise virtue. It must also be when our population is
not forty millions, as it now is, but quadruple that number, and when
our sparsely settled territories are well filled with citizens, their
resources in full process of development, and their varied interests
assimilated with those of other portions of the country. Steam and
electricity may do much to bring about such results, foreign
immigration more, but a proper administration of our own laws, and a
judicious, liberal, and conciliatory policy towards our American
neighbors, most of all.

Happily for us, we are at present on terms of friendship with all
nations, and, remote from Europe and Asia, we are not likely to become
involved in the complications and disputes of the Old World. Still, no
human penetration can foresee how long such a desirable state of
accord will exist. The monarchical states of Europe are not very
sincere friends of republicanism, and, should war occur between us and
them, our greatest difficulty would be to defend our already too
extensive frontiers from their attacks. Why, then, should we increase
our danger by enlarging them? A good general never lengthens his lines
unless he has proportionate reinforcements to maintain them.

As to becoming propagandists of republicanism in Europe, we think the
attempt, in this century at least, would be both injudicious and
useless. The impious atrocities and dark designs of the secret
societies there, who profane the word _liberty_ and blaspheme against
all religion, have put so far back the cause of true freedom in the
old countries that they who sincerely desire a more liberal system of
laws are glad to seek under the shadow of despotism protection and
security even at the sacrifice of their political liberties. If we
truly wish for the spread of free institutions, let us use example
rather than precept, and prove, by the honest administration of our
own concerns, respect for the doctrines of Christianity, and, by
proper regard for the rules laid down by the church, that
republicanism has ceased to be an experiment, and has become a
practical and glorious reality. Such a result would be an argument so
cogent that no sophistry could refute it and no force could combat its
logic. We must remember, also, that the greatest enemies of free
government are not, after all, kings and nobles, but those deluded men
who have banded themselves in every part of Europe, ostensibly as
republicans, but secretly as the destroyers of all law and order.
These men, it is well known, mock the inspired word of God and deny
his very existence, contemn truth, ignore the first principles of
justice, and scoff at the beautiful domestic virtues which bind the
wife in affectionate duty to the husband, and the child in love and
gratitude to the parent. Empires are governed mainly by force,
republics through obedience, and yet those pretended apostles of
freedom acknowledge no law except their own and that of their passions.
Human laws, no matter by whom made, or how just they may be in letter      95
and spirit, are mere pieces of paper or parchment if the people are
not disposed to obey them, and this disposition can only come through
religion. For, as man is constituted, he becomes amenable to the
operation of the divine law of obedience before he comes under the
edicts of human legislation; in other words, he is a Christian or the
reverse before he is a lawyer or responsible to the temporal law. “The
characteristics of a democracy,” says Blackstone, “are public virtue
and goodness as to its intentions;” and Napoleon I., though by no
means as good a Christian as he was a far-seeing statesman, when about
to reduce chaotic France to order and decency, found it necessary
first to restore religion and recall her exiled priesthood.

Unfortunately for us, this spirit of irreligion is not confined to the
other side of the Atlantic. We find it already making its way into
American society, though as yet it assumes more the character of
indifferentism. We call ourselves a Christian people, yet less than
one-half of the entire community ever enter a church for devotional
purposes from one year’s end to another. Recently, too, we notice, in
our larger cities particularly, exhibitions of the same wicked spirit
which animated the Carbonari and Socialists of Europe, and which
reveals itself in many expressions of sympathy for the infamous
Communists of Paris in the columns of some of our newspapers and the
speeches of more than one prominent politician. This insidious danger
to our venerated institutions ought to be closely watched and sternly
repressed. It is opposed alike to private virtue and public morals,
and, if ever allowed a controlling influence in the state, would
sweep away every safeguard that stands between the citizen and the
passions of the mob. No person who values the blessings of domestic
peace or venerates the memories of our ancestors, no true American,
can tolerate for a moment these communistic and socialistic designs
which are creeping in amongst us, utterly foreign as they are to our
soil and the genius of our people and government.

While thus excluding vicious principles from our shores, we ought to,
as we have ever done, continue to welcome the oppressed and
impoverished people of the Old World, and, as far as is consistent
with the public safety, to extend to them every facility to a
participation in the political as well as the material prosperity of
the country. They are our relations. Very few of us, going back two or
three generations, but will find that his ancestors were also
immigrants, like those who to-day seek our protection and hospitality.
Since the formation of our government, eight millions of them have
made their homes in the young republic, helping to develop our
resources, commerce, and manufactures, and always proving faithful to
their obligations of allegiance in peace as well as in war. An
enlightened and tolerant treatment of our immigrants is both
charitable and wise; and the best evidence that we have profited by
our superior political and educational advantages, is our readiness to
make allowance for the intellectual defects and antiquated habits of
those who have left home and country to join their lot with ours. The
exclusion of any class of citizens from a participation in the
benefits of our government, on account of religion or previous
nationality, never has had, and is never likely to have, the
countenance of the people of this country. The spasmodic efforts of
those fanatics, vulgarly but not inappropriately called Know-nothings,     96
which have been made occasionally, were directed against Catholics,
but they never reached the dignity of national movements, and, being
the offspring of disappointed ambition and blind prejudice, withered
before the scorn and contempt of all good men. Politically, there can
be little possible danger arising from the exercise of the elective
franchise by all citizens of foreign birth, even conceding their
inferiority in some respects to the native-born, as the former number
less than one-eighth of our entire population, and these, in the
natural course of events, will disappear from among us, their children
born here growing up thoroughly imbued with the spirit and liberality
of our institutions. Even to-day the immediate descendants of adopted
citizens hold, under both the great parties that divide the country,
many high places of honor and trust, and perform their duties with an
ability and patriotism that reflect credit on the American name. The
nationality that would deal harshly or jealously with friends or
neighbors because they were born in a foreign land, or are poor in the
world’s goods, is not American, and is more fitted for the latitude of
London or Peking than of New York or Washington.

We are well aware that there are many things in the conduct of some of
our adopted citizens that we find difficulty in understanding, and
which require all our good-nature to overlook or palliate. A great
famine, we might say a succession of famines, the misgovernment of
England, and the oppression of the worst class of alien landlords with
which a people ever were afflicted, have driven among us, within a
quarter of a century, over two millions of the inhabitants of Ireland.
Having been denied practically all participation in the government of
their own country, they never have had an opportunity of acquiring
that steady habit of thought and reflection necessary to qualify them
to judge of the relative merits or demerits of the manifold political
measures which the exigencies of a free nation are, from time to time,
presenting for popular endorsement; and having unlimited confidence in
those who profess to be their friends in their new homes, they fall an
easy prey to the demagogue and the political charlatan. The victims of
long, cruel, and unrelenting tyranny, and ardent lovers of their
fatherland, their hatred of England is, if possible, stronger than
their love for Ireland. In fact, those two engrossing passions
sometimes so absorb their minds that prudence, toleration, and even
self-interest are forgotten. This circumstance, while it may be
creditable to themselves, cannot but be regretted by us for many
reasons, but more particularly because it renders their assimilation
with the vast majority of our people more slow and difficult, and
operates against their material advancement, and consequently against
the welfare of their children. In the abstract, we do not blame our
Irish immigrants for this fond devotion to their natal country, nor
for their hatred of her oppressor; on the contrary, we admire it as
long as it works no injustice to them or to the country they have
selected as their future home; but we do most emphatically deprecate
the conduct of those among them who, trading on such natural and
generous feelings for selfish purposes, turn them aside from their
duty as parents and citizens, and, assuming to be their leaders, have
swayed them in the interest of this or that faction, wholly neglecting
at the same time the performance of duties to the execution of which       97
any one might be proud to devote his life.

Let us illustrate what we mean. There are, at least, two and a half
millions of Irish in the United States, the great majority of whom,
for very sufficient, if not obvious, reasons occupy socially and
pecuniarily a very inferior position to that which their natural
abilities would entitle them, yet we see how little effort is being
made by their countrymen, of more education or larger wealth, to
assist them. The Catholic Church has done much, but the church,
necessarily, can only attend to their spiritual wants and to the
education of their children; the temperance and benevolent societies
are good in their way, but their power is limited, and their sphere of
action very restricted; but we look in vain for an organization that
will take by the hand the bewildered and uncertain stranger as he
lands at Castle Garden or in the harbor of Boston, shield him from the
temptations and villany which mark him out as a victim from the moment
his foot touches the firm earth and his battle of life commences, find
him employment in the great centres of trade and commerce, or conduct
him safely to the broad spreading fields of the free and fruitful
West. If he be a farmer or agricultural laborer, as the majority of
Irish immigrants are, what society of his countrymen is prepared to
defray his expenses to the rural districts, where labor is always in
demand, and wages high, or help him to locate on the Western lands,
which can be had almost for the asking, and where he can bring up his
family in comfort and happiness? If half the money and one-quarter the
time and labor which were recently so foolishly expended in futile
efforts to free Ireland and invade the British dependencies had been
used for the benefit of the poorer class of our Irish immigrants, how
many thousands of them might now be enjoying happy homes in our
fertile Western states and territories, instead of infesting the
purlieus of New York, underbidding each other for precarious and
unhealthy employment. How many victims of disappointed hope or
mistaken confidence might have been rescued from the slough of
despondency and degradation into which they have fallen, and placed in
a position of at least comparative independence. The liberation of
Ireland through the instrumentality of her exiled children is an old
and a splendid dream, but it is only a dream so long as the present
relations exist between this country and England. We yield to no one
in appreciation of all that is noble in that pious and gallant nation,
and would, perhaps, sacrifice as much as the most enthusiastic of her
sons to see her not only independent, but in the enjoyment of the
fullest liberty; but no person who has ever casually studied the
relative strength and resources of England and Ireland, and who has
had any practical experience of the enormous expenditure of life and
money so unsuccessfully incurred by the people of the South, even when
military training and available population were so evenly balanced,
can for a moment believe in the success of any attempt of the people
themselves to separate forcibly one from the other.

But whatever the people in Ireland may see fit to do or dare, the
organization of armed men in this country to assist in that purpose is
most reprehensible and fraught with the greatest mischiefs. For any
person within our limits to attempt to levy war on a country at peace
with the United States is clearly illegal. If he be a stranger, it is
a criminal abuse of our hospitality; if a citizen, he disregards his       98
oath of allegiance. Such a movement gives color to the assertions of
the worst enemies of all foreigners, the Know-nothings, who accuse
Irishmen of not becoming citizens in the true spirit of their oath,
but merely pretended ones, whose object is to use this country as
their _point d’appui_ for ulterior objects. Besides, such
societies have a tendency to unsettle the minds of the people, and
divert them from the main objects of their self-expatriation--free
homes and altars. But even if Ireland were to-day independent, not
one-tenth of the Irish in America could or would return. The mass of
them are permanently attached to America by affection, association, or
interest; their children are growing up around them, naturally imbued
with a love for this, the country of their birth; their property and
business are here; some are too old to be retransplanted, and others
young enough to prefer seeking fortunes in our stupendous and but yet
only partially developed commonwealth, to spending a lifetime in the
necessarily limited sphere of enterprise presented by so small a
country as Ireland under the most favorable auspices. True patriotism
should, therefore, dictate to the Irish-American the wisdom of
promoting the welfare of this large majority of his countrymen who,
for good or evil, must pass their lives with us. And what a vast and
enticing field is thus presented to the successful merchant and ardent
Irish nationalist! If they cannot free Ireland, they can by their
money and their intelligence free tens of thousands of their
countrymen from the slavery of poverty and dependence, from the vices
of the cities and the degradation of the factories and the coal-mines.
Such an effort, judiciously made, apart from the benefits it would
confer on so many poor and deserving citizens, and the unanswerable
argument it would present of practical, disinterested sympathy, would,
if the occasion should ever present itself, enable the persons so
benefited to assist in their turn the cause of true Irish nationality.
There is nothing so successful, it is said, as success, and while the
sympathies of most nations, particularly of our own, are easily
enlisted in favor of an oppressed nation like Ireland, there is
generally observable an implied doubt that she is misgoverned because
her people have not the capacity to properly govern themselves. At
home, they certainly have not been allowed to try the experiment, but
here, with free institutions already firmly established, vast mineral,
agricultural, and commercial industries to invite their labor and
excite their ambition, and with an area of unoccupied land almost
beyond conception, a people incapable of profiting by these
advantages, either as individuals or by mutual co-operation, expose
themselves to the suspicion of being deficient in that organizing
faculty and mental grasp which create and sustain independent

Without intending to draw an invidious distinction between one class
of citizens and another, we may point to the German immigration to
this country as an admirable example of the benefits arising from
organization and mutual support. It is this harmony of purpose that
has given to the Teutonic element, though by no means the strongest in
our population, a preponderating influence in several of the Western
states, and the proprietorship of innumerable farms on both sides of
the Mississippi River. Coming from a self-governing country, and
leaving behind an extensive trading and manufacturing connection,
the German immigrant has of course many advantages over his Irish          99
fellow-voyager, but those who have closely watched the progress of
both races in America assert that it is to the admirable system of
mutual help and protection enjoyed by the former that his great
industrial progress is mainly due.

We are satisfied that there are many wealthy citizens of Irish birth
in this city and elsewhere who would gladly contribute of their
super-abundant means to assist their less fortunate fellow-countrymen,
were any feasible project inaugurated by which they could do so
practically and efficiently, and we trust that there are among us
adopted citizens themselves--persons who, abandoning chimerical
schemes of conquest and invasion, would devote their time and ability
to assist those of their helpless countrymen who have come and are
coming among us. Every intelligent agriculturist that can be planted
on the virgin soil of our now waste public lands, every ingenious
mechanic that is furnished with employment in our workshops, and, we
may say, every stalwart laborer that is removed from the overstocked
labor market of the East and assisted to the towns and smaller cities
of the South and West, adds to the general wealth of the community,
increases the strength and glory of our republic, and conduces to its
growing intelligence and morality.

The pursuit of wealth, however important, is not of course the primary
duty of man, considered either as an individual responsible being or
as a citizen. Religion, in its proper practical sense, is not only the
source of happiness for mankind in this world and the next, but is
absolutely necessary for the preservation of all well-regulated
society, and it is on this account among others that so many admirers
of American institutions have seen with regret that a large portion of
our immigrants from the continental countries of Europe evince a
complete disregard for the plainest forms of Christianity. Now, the
founders of this government were essentially a religious people. The
Catholics of Maryland and the Puritans of New England; the Virginia
Episcopalians and the Pennsylvania Quakers, feared God and revered his
laws, as far at least as they understood them; and the excellent
institutions which those men of diverse opinions, but honest
intentions, originated and transmitted to us, are but the reflex of
that reverential and devotional spirit. We admire the thrift and
enterprise of our German fellow-citizens, we admit their general good
order, taste, and proficiency in art, particularly the beautiful one
of music, and we know how many fine churches and hospitals they have
built and are sustaining, but it cannot be denied that there is a
great deal of indifferentism, and even worse, among the anti-Catholic
portion of them, the outward evidence of which may be found in the
complete disregard that is so generally manifested for the holiness of
the Sunday. We are not of those who would deny to the hard-working and
hard-faring classes their proper share of innocent and healthful
amusement on the only day in the week that they can escape from labor,
but this recreation should be preceded by some act of devotion, some
solemn and open recognition of our dependence on the great Giver of
life and happiness. Still, whoever visits our saloons and pleasure
gardens on a Sunday will find them thronged with persons of all ages
and both sexes from early morning till midnight, while churches that
would gladly receive them are comparatively deserted. Luther’s revolt
against the church has much of this to answer for, but Kant, Fichte,      100
and other so-called philosophers of more modern times have much more;
for while the “Reformers” only unsettled the religious mind of
Germany, and partially succeeded in alienating it from the Catholic
Church, the schoolmen succeeded in making atheism fashionable among
the intelligent classes by covering it with a thin veil of learned
mysticism. This want of proper deference for the day set apart by the
church, and by all Christian sects, for special reverence, and the
observance of which is even enjoined by our common and statute law,
is, we maintain, not only un-American, but is likely to produce a
general contempt for all law, and lead to a weakening of the sense of
that obedience which every individual citizen owes to the public

In thus alluding to the characteristics of some of our adopted
citizens, we have touched only on those of the two most numerous
representatives of European nationalities, not because there are not
others whose deficiencies, from an American point of view, are not as
apparent, but from the fact that we consider, from their numerical
strength and intrinsic qualities, they are destined to exercise a
marked and extensive influence on the future character of the country.
In feeling or temperament, they are not opposed to us nor to each
other. The vivacity and even excitability of one race find their
complement in the solidity and matter-of-fact disposition of the
other--a union of qualities which, governed and properly managed by
the practical genius of Americans, will in all human probability lead
to results in the distant future of the magnitude of which we scarcely
dare to dream. No people ever possessed the advantages that we, native
and adopted, enjoy. Let us avail ourselves of them in such manner that
posterity may look back to us, as we to the Revolutionary fathers,
with unmingled feelings of gratitude and admiration.


                        OUR LADY OF LOURDES.



                              PART X.


Another episode.

There are, in civil life, men whose appearance is precisely that of a
soldier. Though they have never seen service, every one who meets them
and does not know them takes them without hesitation for veterans.
They have the rather stiff carriage, firm step, disciplined
appearance, and concealed good-fellowship belonging to the profession.
They are specially common in the mixed services, such as the customs,
the waters and forests, which, though purely civil in their nature,
borrow their degrees of rank and their methods from the system adopted    101
for the army. On the one hand, these men have, like private citizens,
a family and a domestic life; on the other, they are bound in a
thousand ways by the manifold requirements of an entirely military
rule. To this is due the peculiar appearance of which I speak, and
with which every one is familiar.

If, then, you have ever seen a brave cavalry officer in citizen’s
dress, with his short hair and his bristly moustache beginning to turn
gray; if you have noticed in his energetic features those straight and
vertical lines which are hardly as yet wrinkles, and which seem
peculiar to these military faces; if you have gazed upon that
forehead, rebellious to the hat, and which seems made expressly for
the kepi or tricorne, upon those firm eyes which by day are accustomed
to brave danger, but by night become gentle at the fireside as they
rest upon the children’s heads; if you remember this characteristic
type, I have no need to introduce you to M. Roger Lacassagne, officer
in the custom-house at Bordeaux--you know him as well as I.

When, about two years ago, I had the honor of visiting him at his
house, Rue du Chai des Farines, No. 6, at Bordeaux, I was struck at
first by his severe appearance and his air of reserve.

He asked me, with the somewhat brusque politeness habitual to men of
discipline, what was the object of my visit.

“Monsieur,” said I, “I have heard the story of your journey to the
Grotto of Lourdes, and for the profit of some inquiries I am just now
making, I have come to have it from your own mouth.”

At the words “the Grotto of Lourdes,” this stern countenance became
tender, and a dear remembrance softened its rigid lines.

“Be seated,” said he, “and excuse the disorder of our establishment.
My family leaves to-day for Arcachou, and everything is topsy-turvy.”

“Do not mention it. Tell me all about these interesting events of
which I have already heard, but only confusedly.”

“For my part,” said he in a voice choked by emotion, “I shall never in
my life forget their smallest details.

“Monsieur,” he continued after a moment of silence, “I have only two
sons. The youngest, about whom I am going to tell you, is called
Jules. He will come in before long. You will see how sweet, pure, and
good he is.”

M. Lacassagne did not tell me all his affection for this youngest son.
But the accent of his voice, which became gentle and as it were
caressing in speaking of this child, showed me all the depth of his
paternal love. I understood that in that strong and tender feeling was
concentrated all the force of this manly soul.

“His health,” continued he, “was excellent until the age of ten.

“At that period there came on unexpectedly, and without apparent
physical cause, a disease the importance of which I did not at first
appreciate. On the 25th of January, 1865, when we were sitting down to
supper, Jules complained of a trouble in his throat which prevented
him from swallowing any solid food. He had to limit himself to a
little soup.

“This state of things continuing next day, I called in Dr. Noguès, one
of the most distinguished physicians of Toulouse.

“‘The difficulty comes from the nerves,’ said he--which gave me hopes
of a speedy cure.

“In fact, a few days afterwards, the boy was able to eat, and I
thought all was over, when the trouble returned, and continued with       102
occasional intermissions till the end of April. It then became fixed.
The poor child had to live entirely on liquids; on milk, the juice of
meat, and broth. Even the broth had to be very clear, for such was the
narrowness of the orifice that it was absolutely impossible for him to
swallow anything solid, even tapioca.

“The poor boy, reduced to such miserable diet, was becoming visibly
emaciated, and was dying slowly.

“The physicians, for there were two--as I had from the outset
requested a celebrated practitioner, Dr. Roques, to consult with Dr.
Noguès--the physicians, I say, astonished by the peculiarity and the
persistence of this difficulty, tried vainly to discover its precise
nature, that they might apply a remedy. One day, it was the tenth of
May--for I suffered so much, sir, and thought so much about this
illness that I remembered every date--one day, I saw Jules in the
garden running with unusual haste, and as it were precipitately. Now I
dreaded the least agitation for him.

“‘Stop, Jules!’ cried I, going to him and taking his hand.

“He broke away immediately.

“‘Father, I cannot,’ said he. ‘I must run. It is stronger than I.’

“I took him in my lap, but his legs moved convulsively. Soon after the
movement passed to his head and face.

“The true character of his disease had at last declared itself. My
poor child was attacked by chorea. You are no doubt aware, sir, by
what horrible contortions this disease is usually marked.”

“No,” said I, interrupting him, “I do not even know what it is.”

“It is what is often called _St. Vitus’s dance_.”

“Yes, I have heard of that. Go on.”

“The principal seat of the disease was in the œsophagus. The
convulsions which I had just witnessed, and which were continued at
all hours from that time, put an end to the perplexities of the

“But though they now understood the difficulty, they could not
overcome it. After fifteen months of treatment, the most they could do
was control these violent external symptoms; or really, in my own
opinion, these disappeared of themselves by the efforts of nature
alone. But as to the contraction of the throat, it had become chronic
and resisted all appliances. Remedies of every kind, the country, the
baths of Luchon, were successively and uselessly employed for about
two years. All the treatment seemed only to increase the disease.

“Our last trial had been one season at the sea-side. My wife had taken
our poor child to St. Jean-de-Luz. I need hardly say that in the state
in which he was, the care of his body was everything. Our only object
was to keep him alive. We had from the first suspended his studies and
stopped all labor on his part, whether of body or mind; we treated him
like a plant. Now, his mind was naturally active and inquiring, and
this privation of intellectual occupation gave him much _ennui_.
The poor boy was also ashamed of his trouble; he saw other children in
good health, and he felt himself as it were disgraced and under a ban;
so he kept apart.”

The father, deeply moved by these memories, stopped a moment to check
a rising sob, and continued:

“He kept apart. He was sad. When he found some interesting book, he
would read it to distract his mind. At St. Jean-de-Luz, he saw one day
on the table of a lady who lived in the neighborhood a little notice
of the apparition at Lourdes. He read it, and seems to have been very     103
much impressed by it. He said that evening to his mother that the
Blessed Virgin could very easily cure him; but she paid no attention
to his proposal, considering it as only a childish whim.

“On our return to Bordeaux--for a little while before this my station
had been changed, and we had come to live here--on our return to
Bordeaux the child was absolutely in the same condition.

“That was last August.

“So many vain efforts, so much science employed without success by the
best physicians, so much lost trouble, had by this time, as you will
easily imagine, discouraged us most completely. Disheartened by the
failure of all our endeavors, we gave up all kinds of remedies,
letting nature act alone, and resigning ourselves to the inevitable
evil which God was pleased to send us. It seemed to us that so much
suffering had in a certain way redoubled our love for this child. Our
poor Jules was tended by his mother and myself with equal tenderness
and solicitude continually. Grief added many years to our lives. You
would hardly believe it, sir, but I am only forty-six years old.”

I looked at the poor father; and at the sight of his manly face, upon
which grief had left such visible traces, my heart was moved. I took
his hand and pressed it with cordial sympathy and real compassion.

“Meanwhile,” said he, “the strength of the child decreased
perceptibly. For two years he had taken no solid food. It was only at
great expense, by means of a liquid nourishment in preparing which all
our ingenuity had been taxed that it might be substantial, and by most
extraordinary care, that we had been able to prolong his life. He had
become frightfully thin. His pallor was extreme; he had no blood
showing under his skin; you would have said he was a statue of wax. It
was evident that death was coming on apace. It was not only certain,
but imminent. And, though the uselessness of medical science in the
case had certainly been clearly shown, I could not help knocking once
again at its door. I knew of no other in this world.

“I applied to the most eminent physician in Bordeaux, Dr. Gintrac. Dr.
Gintrac examined his throat, sounded it, and found, besides the mere
contraction which had almost entirely closed the alimentary canal,
some most threatening roughnesses or small swellings.

“He shook his head, and gave me little hope. He saw my terrible

“‘I do not say that his cure is impossible,’ said he; ‘_but he is
very ill_.’

“These were his exact words.

“He considered it absolutely necessary to employ local remedies; first
injections, then the application of a cloth soaked in ether. But this
treatment prostrated the child; in view of the result, the surgeon
himself, M. Sentex, employed in the hospital, advised us to
discontinue it.

“In one of my visits to Dr. Gintrac, I communicated to him an idea
which had occurred to me.

“‘It seems to me,’ said I, ‘that if Jules _had the will_, he
could swallow. Does not this difficulty perhaps come from fear? Is it
not perhaps that he does not swallow to-day merely because he did not
yesterday? If so, it is a mental malady, which can only be cured by
moral means.’

“But the doctor dispelled this my last illusion.

“‘You are mistaken,’ said he. ‘The disease is in the organs
themselves, which are only too really and seriously affected. I have      104
not contented myself with looking at them, for the eye may easily be
deceived; but I have sounded them with an instrument, and felt of them
carefully with my fingers. The œsophagus is covered with little
swellings, and the passage has become so small that it is
_materially impossible_ for the boy to take any food whatever,
except liquids, which can accommodate themselves to the size of the
opening, and pass through the pin-hole, as I may call it, which still
remains. If the enlargement of the tissues proceeds a few millimetres
further, the patient cannot live. The beginning of the trouble, the
alternations which characterized it, and its occasional interruptions
also bear out the result of my examination. Your child, having once
recovered, would have continued well if the difficulty had been in his
imagination. Unfortunately, it is organic.’

“These remarks, which had been already made to me at Toulouse, but
which I had gladly forgotten, were too conclusive not to convince me.
I returned home, with death in my soul.

“What could now be done? We had applied to the most distinguished
physicians both of Toulouse and Bordeaux, and all had been unavailing.
The fatal evidence was before my eyes; our poor child was condemned,
and that without appeal.

“But, monsieur, such cruel conclusions cannot easily remain in a
father’s heart. I still tried to deceive myself; my wife and I
continued to consult; I was thinking of hydropathy.

“It was in this desperate state of things that Jules said to his
mother, with an air of confidence and absolute certitude which
strongly impressed her:

“‘Mamma, neither Dr. Gintrac nor any other
doctor can do anything for my trouble. It is the Holy Virgin who will
cure me. Send me to the Grotto of Lourdes, and you will see that I
shall be cured. I am sure of it.’

“My wife reported this proposal to me.

“‘We must not hesitate!’ cried I. ‘He must go to Lourdes. And that as
soon as possible.’

“It was not, sir, that I was full of faith. I did not believe in
miracles, and I hardly considered such extraordinary interventions of
divine power as possible. But I was a father, and any chance, no
matter how insignificant, seemed to me not to be slighted. Besides, I
hoped that, without any supernatural occurrence, the possibility of
which I did not wish to admit, this journey might have a salutary
moral effect on the child. As for a complete cure, I did not entertain
the slightest idea of such a thing.

“It was in winter, at the beginning of February; the weather was bad,
and I wished to wait for a fine day, on Jules’s account.

“Since he had read the little notice, eight months before, at St.
Jean-de-Luz, the idea which he had just expressed to us had never left
him. Having expressed it once without any attention being paid to it,
he had not introduced the subject again; but the thought had remained
in him, and worked there while he was undergoing all the medical
treatment with a patience that had to be seen to be appreciated.

“This faith, so full and complete, was the more extraordinary because
we had not brought up the child to any unusual practices of piety. My
wife attended to her religious duties, but that was all; and, as for
myself, I had, as you have just heard, philosophic ideas tending          105
quite the other way.

“On the 12th of February, the weather promised to be magnificent. We
took the train for Tarbes.

“During the whole journey, Jules was gay, and full of the most
positive faith that he would be cured; his faith was overpowering.

“As for myself, I encouraged, but did not share, this confidence; it
was so great that I should call it exaggerated, did I not fear to be
wanting in respect for the God who inspired it.

“At Tarbes, at the Hôtel Dupont, where we put up, every one noticed
the poor child, so pale and wasted, and yet with such a sweet and
attractive expression. I mentioned at the hotel the object of our
journey, and in the good wishes and prayers which these good people
made for us there seemed to be a presentiment of success. And when we
set out, I saw plainly that they would await our return with

“Notwithstanding my doubts, I took with me a small box of biscuits.

“When we arrived at the crypt above the Grotto, Mass was being said.
Jules prayed with a faith which shone out in all his features, with a
truly celestial ardor.

“The priest noticed his fervor, and when he had left the altar, he
came out of the sacristy almost immediately, and approached us. A good
idea had occurred to him on seeing the poor little one. He proposed it
to me, and, turning to Jules, who was still on his knees, said:

“‘My child, would you like to have me consecrate you to the Blessed

“‘Indeed I would,’ answered he.

“The priest immediately proceeded with the very simple ceremony, and
recited over my child the sacred formulas.

“‘Now,’ said Jules, in a tone which impressed me by its perfect
confidence, ‘I am going to be cured.’

“We went to the Grotto. Jules knelt before the statue and prayed. I
looked at him, and can still see the expression of his face, his
attitude, and his joined hands.

“He rose, and we went to the fountain.

“It was a terrible moment.

“He bathed his neck and chest. Then he took the glass and drank
several mouthfuls of the miraculous water.

“He was calm and happy, gay in fact, and radiant with confidence.

“For my part, I trembled and almost fainted at this last trial. But I
restrained my emotion, though with difficulty. I did not want to let
him see my doubt.

“‘Try now to eat,’ said I, handing him a biscuit.

“He took it, and I turned away my head, not feeling able to look at
him. It was, in fact, the question of the life or death of my child
which was to be decided. In putting this question, such a fearful one
for a father’s heart, I was playing, as it were, my last card. If I
failed, my dear boy would have to die. This test was a decisive one,
and I could not see it tried.

“But I was soon relieved of my agony.

“Jules’s voice, joyous and sweet, called me:

“‘Papa! I have swallowed it. I can eat, I knew I could--I had faith!’

“What a surprise it was! My child, who had been at death’s door, was
saved, and that instantly. And I, his father, was a witness to this
astonishing resurrection.

“But, that I might not disturb the faith of my son, I checked any
appearance of astonishment.

“‘Yes, Jules, it was certain, and could not have been otherwise,’ said    106
I, in a voice which I made calm by great effort.

“There was in my breast, however, a whirlwind of excitement. If it
could have been opened, it would have been found burning as if full of

“We repeated our experiment. He ate some more biscuits, not only
without difficulty, but with an increasing appetite. I was obliged to
restrain him.

“But I could not refrain from proclaiming my happiness, and thanking

“‘Wait for me,’ said I to Jules, ‘and pray to the Blessed Virgin. I am
going to the chapel.’

“And leaving him for a moment kneeling at the Grotto, I ran to tell
the priest the wonderful news. I was quite bewildered. Besides my
happiness, so unexpected and sudden that it was terrible, besides the
confusion of my heart, I felt in my soul and mind an inexpressible
disturbance. A revolution was going on in my agitated and tumultuous
thoughts. All my ‘philosophical’ ideas were tottering and crumbling

“The priest came down immediately and saw Jules finishing his last
biscuit. The Bishop of Tarbes happened to be that day at the chapel,
and he wished to see my son. I told him of the cruel illness which had
just had such a happy end. Every one caressed the child, and rejoiced
with him.

“But I meanwhile was thinking of his mother, and of the joy in store
for her. Before going to the hotel, I ran to the telegraph office. My
despatch contained only one word: ‘Cured!’

“Hardly had it gone before I wanted to recall it.

“‘Perhaps,’ said I, ‘I have been too hasty. Who knows if he will not
have a relapse?’

“I did not dare to believe in the blessing I had received; and when I
did believe in it, it seemed that it was going to escape from me.

“As for the child, he was happy without the least mixture of
disquietude. He was exuberant in his joy and perfect security.

“‘You see now, papa,’ said he to me every moment, ‘it was only the
Blessed Virgin who could cure me. When I told you so before, I was
sure of it.’

“At the hotel, he ate with an excellent appetite; and how I enjoyed
watching him!

“He wanted to return on foot to the Grotto to give thanks for his
deliverance, and actually did so.

“‘You will be very grateful to the Holy Virgin, will you not?’ said a
priest to him.

“‘Ah! I shall never forget,’ said he.

“At Tarbes, we stopped at the hotel where we had put up the day
before. They were on the lookout for us. They seem to have had (as I
think I told you) a feeling that we would be successful. There was a
great rejoicing. People gathered around us to see him eat with a
relish everything that was served upon the table; to see him eat
heartily who the day before could only swallow a few spoonfuls of
liquid. That time seemed to me long gone by.

“This illness, against which the science of the most able physicians
had failed, and which had just been so miraculously cured, had lasted
two years and nineteen days.

“We were in haste to return to his mother, and took the express train
for Bordeaux. The child was overcome with fatigue by the journey, and
I should also say by his emotions, were it not for his peaceable and      107
constant calmness in spite of his sudden cure, which overwhelmed him
with joy, but did not astonish him. He wanted to go to bed on reaching
home. He was extremely sleepy, and took no supper. His mother, who had
nearly died of joy before our return, when she saw him so exhausted
and refusing to eat, was seized by a horrible doubt. She told me that
I had deceived her, and I had the greatest difficulty in making myself
believed. But how she rejoiced when, the next morning, Jules sat down
at our table, and breakfasted with a better appetite than ourselves.
It was not till then that she became reassured.”

“And since then,” I asked him, “has there been no relapse?”

“No, sir, absolutely none. I may say that the cure progressed, or
rather consolidated itself, considering that it had been as complete
as it was instantaneous. The transition from a disease so fixed and
obstinate to a perfect cure was made without the least gradation,
though it was without apparent disturbance. But his general health
improved visibly, under the influence of a restorative regimen, the
salutary effects of which it was full time for him to experience.”

“And the physicians? Have they testified to Jules’s previous
condition? Certainly they should have done so.”

“I thought so too, sir, and mentioned the subject to the Bordeaux
doctor who had been the last to attend my child; but he maintained a
reserve which prevented me from insisting. As for Dr. Roques of
Toulouse, to whom I wrote immediately, he hastened to recognize in the
clearest terms the miraculous nature of the fact which had occurred,
and which was entirely beyond the powers of medicine. ‘In view of
this cure, so long desired and so promptly effected,’ he said to me,
‘why not quit the narrow sphere of scientific explanations, and open
one’s mind to gratitude for so strange an event, in which Providence
seems to obey the voice of a child?’ He rejected most decidedly, as a
physician, the theories which are always produced on such occasions of
‘moral excitement,’ ‘the effect of the imagination,’ etc., and
confessed frankly in this event the clear and positive action of a
superior Being revealing himself and imposing himself on the
conscience. Such, sir, was the opinion of M. Roques, physician of
Toulouse, who knew as well as myself the previous condition and the
illness of my son. There is his own letter, dated February 24.

“But the facts which I have just related are also so well known that
no one would care to contest them. It is superabundantly proved that
science was absolutely powerless against the strange disease by which
Jules had been attacked. As for the cause of his cure, every one can
place it differently, according to the point of view which he chooses
to assume. I, who had previously believed only in purely natural
phenomena, saw clearly that its explanation must be sought in a higher
order of things; and every day I gave thanks to God, who, putting an
end to my long and cruel trial in such an unexpected way, had
approached me in the way most adapted to make me bow before him.”

“I understand you, and it seems also to me that such was the divine

After these words, I remained some time silent and absorbed in my

The conversation returned to the boy so wonderfully cured. The father’s
heart came back to him, as the needle does to the pole.                   108

“Since that time,” said he, “his piety is angelic. You will see him
soon. The nobleness of his feelings is visible in his face. He is
well-born, his character is honest and dignified. He is incapable of
lies or meanness. And his piety has not been at the expense of his
natural qualities. He is studying in a school close by, kept by M.
Conangle, in the Rue du Mirail. The poor child has quickly made up for
his lost time. He loves his studies. He is the first in his class. At
the last examination, he took the highest prize. But, above all, he is
the best and most amiable. He is the favorite of his teachers and
schoolmates. He is our joy, our consolation, and--”

At this moment the door opened, and Jules came with his mother into
the room where we were sitting. I embraced him affectionately. The
glow of health was on his face. His forehead is large, high, and
magnificent; his attitude has a modesty and gentle firmness which
inspires a secret respect. His eyes, large and bright, show a rare
intelligence, and absolute purity and a beautiful soul.

“You are happy to have such a son,” said I to M. Lacassagne.

“Yes, sir, I am happy. But my poor wife and I have suffered a great

“Do not be sorry for that,” said I, going a little away from Jules.
“This path of grief was the way which led you from darkness to light,
from death to life, from yourself to God. The Blessed Virgin has shown
herself twice in this event as the mother of life. She has given your
son his temporal life in order to give you the true life which knows
no end.”

I left this family, so greatly blessed by our Lord, and, still under
the impression of what I had heard and seen, I wrote, with my heart
full of the feelings produced, what you have just read.

                              PART XI.


Let us return to Lourdes. Time had passed, and human industry had been
at work. The surroundings of the Grotto, where the Blessed Virgin had
appeared, had changed their former aspect. Without losing anything of
its grandeur, this savage spot had put on a pleasing aspect. Yet
unfinished, but fairly alive with workmen, a superb church, proudly
crowning the Massabielle rocks, was rising joyously to heaven. The
lofty heights, so abrupt and uncultivated, where formerly the feet of
the mountaineers could scarcely descend, were covered with a
greensward and planted with shrubs and flowers. Among dahlias and
roses, daisies and violets, beneath the shade of acacias and
cytisuses, a path, broad as the highway, wound in sinuous curves from
the church to the Grotto.

The Grotto was enclosed like a chancel by an iron railing. From the
roof a golden lamp had been suspended. On the rocks, which had been
pressed by Mary’s sacred feet, clusters of tapers burned day and
night. Outside the enclosure the miraculous spring fed three bronze
lavers. A canal, screened from sight by a little building, afforded a
chance for those invalids who wished to be bathed in this blessed
water. The mill-race of Savy had changed its bed, having been led into
the Gave, further up. The Gave itself had withdrawn somewhat, to give
room for a fine road which leads to the Massabielle Rocks. Below, on
the banks of the river, the ground had been levelled, and formed
an extensive lawn and walk, shaded by elms and poplars.                   109

All these changes had been accomplished and were still going on amid
the incessant concourse of the faithful. The copper coin, thrown by
popular faith into the grotto--the _ex-votos_ of so many invalids
who had been cured, of so many hearts who had been consoled, of so
many souls reawakened to truth and life, alone defrayed the cost of
these gigantic labors, which approaches the sum of two million francs.
When God, in his bounty, vouchsafes to call men to co-operate in any
of his works, he does not employ soldiers, or tax-gatherers, or
constables to collect the impost--he accepts from his creatures only a
voluntary assistance. The Master of the universe repudiates
constraint, for he is the God of free souls; he does not consent to
receive anything which is not spontaneous and offered with a cheerful

Thus the church was gradually rising, thus the river and the
millstream gave way, hillsides were levelled, trees were planted, and
pathways traced around the now famous rocks where the Mother of Christ
had manifested her glory to the eyes of mortals.


Encouraging the laborers, superintending everything, suggesting ideas,
sometimes putting his own hands to the work to set a misplaced stone
or straighten a badly-planted tree, recalling, by his ardor and holy
enthusiasm, the grand figures of Esdras and Nehemiah, occupied, by
God’s order, with the rebuilding of the walls of Jerusalem, a tall
man, of marked features, seemed to make himself everywhere present.
His powerful stature and black cassock rendered him conspicuous to
all eyes. His name will be speedily guessed. It was the chief pastor
of the town of Lourdes, the Abbé Peyramale.

Every hour of the day he thought of the message which the Blessed
Virgin had addressed to him; every hour he thought of the miraculous
cures which had followed the apparition; he was a daily witness of
countless miracles. He had devoted his life to execute the orders of
his powerful Queen, and raise to her glory a splendid monument. All
idleness, all delay, every moment wasted, seemed to his eyes a token
of ingratitude, and his heart, devoured by zeal for the house of God,
often broke forth in warnings and admonitions. His faith was perfect,
and full of confidence. He had a horror of the wretched narrowness of
human prudence, and scouted it with the disdain of one who looks upon
all things from that holy mount whereon the Son of God preached the
nothingness of earth and the reality of heaven, when he said: “Be not
solicitous ... seek first the kingdom of heaven, and all these things
shall be added unto you.”

One day, while standing before the miraculous fountain amid a group of
ecclesiastics and laymen, the architect offered him a plan for a
pretty chapel which he proposed to build above the Grotto. The curé
looked at it, and a flush rose to his cheek. With a gesture of
impatience he tore the drawing into bits, and tossed it into the Gave.

“What are you doing?” cried the astonished architect.

“Look you,” answered the priest, “I am ashamed of what human meanness
would offer to the Mother of my God, and I have treated the wretched
plan as it deserved. We do not want a country chapel to commemorate       110
the great events which have taken place here. Go, give us a temple of
marble as large and as high as these rocks can sustain--as magnificent
as your soul can conceive! Go, and do not check your genius till you
have given us a _chef-d’œuvre_; and understand that, if you were
Michael Angelo himself, it would all be unworthy of her who has
appeared in this spot.”

“But, _monsieur le curé_,” observed everybody, “it will cost
millions to carry out your ideas!”

“She who has made this barren rock send forth its living stream--she
will know how to make faithful hearts generous,” answered the priest.
“Go, do what I tell you. Why are you afraid, O ye of little faith?”

The temple rose in the proportions designed by the man of God.

The good pastor, as he watched the progress of the various works,
often used to say:

“When will it be granted me to assist, with my priests and people, at
the first procession which goes to inaugurate in these hallowed
precincts the public worship of the Catholic Church? It seems to me
that then I could sing my _Nunc dimittis_, and die of joy.” His eyes
filled with tears at the thought. Never was there a deeper or warmer
desire than this innocent wish of a heart given wholly to God.

Sometimes, at hours when the crowd was thin at the Massabielle Rocks,
a little girl used to come and kneel before the place of the
apparition, and drink of the miraculous spring. She was a poor child,
and meanly clad--nothing marked out from the common people about. And
if the pilgrims were all strangers to the place, no one suspected that
it was Bernadette. This privileged soul had withdrawn into silence and
concealment. She went daily to the sisters’ school, where she was
the simplest, and strove to be the most unnoticed. The numerous
visitors whom she was called upon to receive never disturbed her peace
of mind, which ever retained the memory of its glimpse at heaven and
the incomparable Virgin. Bernadette kept all these things in her
heart. People came from all quarters, miracles were being worked, the
temple was rising. Bernadette and the holy pastor of Lourdes awaited,
as their crowning joy, the day which was to bring to their eyes the
sight of priests of the true God leading their people, with cross
advanced and flying banners, to the spot of the apparitions.


In spite of the bishop’s decree, the church in fact had not yet taken
possession, by any public ceremony, of this spot, consecrated for
ever. It was not till the 4th of April, 1864, that this was done, by
the inauguration and blessing of the superb statue of the Blessed
Virgin, which was placed with all the pomp customary on such occasions
in the rustic niche, bordered with wild flowers, where the Mother of
God had appeared to the child of man.[39]

The weather was magnificent. The young spring sun had risen, and
advanced in a blue and cloudless sky.

The streets of Lourdes were adorned with flowers, banners, garlands,
and triumphal arches. The bells of the parish church, the chapels, and
the churches of the neighborhood, rang out joyous peals. Immense          111
numbers of people flocked together to this great festival of earth and
heaven. A procession, such as had never been seen by the oldest
inhabitant, moved from the church of Lourdes to the Grotto. Troops, in
all the splendor of military attire, led the way. Following them were
the confraternities of Lourdes, the societies for mutual aid, and
other associations, with their banners and crosses; the Congregation
of the Children of Mary, whose long robes were white as snow; the
Sisters of Nevers, with their long black veil; the Daughters of
Charity, with their great white hoods; the Sisters of St. Joseph, in
dark mantles; the religious orders of men, the Carmelites, the
Brothers of Instruction and of the Christian schools, and prodigious
numbers of pilgrims, men and women, young and old--fifty or sixty
thousand persons in all--wound along the flowery road leading to the
Massabielle rocks. Here and there, choirs and instrumental bands gave
a voice to the popular enthusiasm. Last, surrounded by four hundred
priests in choir dress, his vicars-general, and the dignitaries of his
cathedral chapter, came his lordship, Mgr. Bertrand-Sévère Laurence,
Bishop of Tarbes, in his mitre and pontifical robes, with one hand
blessing the people, and bearing his crosier in the other.

An indescribable emotion, an exaltation of feeling, such as only
Christian people assembled before God can know, filled every heart.
The day of solemn triumph had at last come, after so many
difficulties, struggles, and disasters. Tears of joy, enthusiasm, and
love ran down the cheeks of the people, moved by an impulse from God.

What indescribable joy must have filled the heart of Bernadette on
this day, as she led the Congregation of the Children of Mary! What
overwhelming happiness must have inundated the soul of the venerable
curé of Lourdes, who was no doubt at the side of the bishop, singing
the hosanna of the victory of God! Having both had to labor, the time
was certainly come for them to enter into their reward.

Alas! one would have sought in vain among the Children of Mary for
Bernadette: among the clergy surrounding the bishop, the Abbé
Peyramale would not have been found. There are joys too sweet for
earth, which are reserved for heaven. Here below, God refuses them to
his dearest children.

At this time of rejoicing, when the bright sun was shining on the
triumph of the faithful, the curé of Lourdes, laboring under a disease
which was expected to result fatally, was a victim to intense physical
sufferings. He was stretched on his bed of pain, at the head of which
two religious watched and prayed night and day. He wished to rise to
see the grand cortége pass, but his strength failed him, and he had
not even a momentary glimpse of its splendor. Through the closed
shutters of his room, the joyous sound of the silvery bells came to
him only as a funeral knell.

As for Bernadette, God showed her his predilection, as usual with his
elect, by giving her the bitter trial of pain. While Mgr. Laurence was
going, accompanied by countless numbers of his flock, to take
possession of the Massabielle rocks in the name of the church, and to
inaugurate solemnly the devotion to the Virgin who had appeared there,
Bernadette, like the eminent priest of whom we have just spoken, was
prostrated by illness; Providence, perhaps, fearing for this
well-beloved child a temptation to vainglory, deprived her of the         112
sight of this unprecedented festivity, where she would have heard her
name on the lips of thousands, and extolled from the pulpit by the
voice of enthusiastic preachers. Too poor to be taken care of in her
own home, where neither she nor her family would ever receive any
gift, Bernadette had been carried to the hospital, where she lay upon
the humble bed provided by public charity, in the midst of those poor
whom the world calls unfortunate, but whom Jesus Christ has blessed in
declaring them the possessors of his eternal kingdom.


Eleven years have now elapsed since the apparitions of the most Holy
Virgin. The great church is almost finished; it has only to be roofed,
and the holy sacrifice has long since been celebrated at all the
altars of the crypt below. Diocesan missionaries of the house of
Garaison have been stationed by the bishop near the grotto and the
church, to distribute to the pilgrims the apostolic word, the
sacraments, and the body of our Lord.

The pilgrimage has taken dimensions perhaps quite without precedent,
for before our day these vast movements of popular faith did not have
the assistance of the means of transportation invented by modern
science. The course of the Pyrenees Railroad, for which a straighter
and cheaper route had been previously marked out between Tarbes and
Pau, was changed so as to pass through Lourdes, and innumerable
travellers continually come from every quarter to invoke the Virgin
who has appeared at the Grotto, and to seek at the miraculous fountain
the healing of all their ills. They come not only from the different
provinces of France, but also from England, Belgium, Spain, Russia,
and Germany. Even from the midst of far America, pious Christians have
set out, and crossed the ocean to come to the Grotto of Lourdes, to
kneel before these sacred rocks, which the Mother of God has
sanctified by her touch. And often those who cannot come write to the
missionaries, and beg that a little of the miraculous water may be
sent to their homes. It is thus distributed throughout the world.

Although Lourdes is a small town, there is a continual passing to and
fro upon the road to the grotto, a stream of men, women, priests, and
carriages, as in the streets of a large city.

When the pleasant weather comes, and the sun, overcoming the cold of
winter, opens in the midst of flowers the gates of spring, the
faithful of the neighborhood begin to bestir themselves for the
pilgrimage to Massabielle, no longer one by one, but in large parties.
From ten, twelve, or fifteen leagues’ distance, these strong
mountaineers come on foot in bodies of one or two thousand. They set
out in the evening and walk all night by starlight, like the shepherds
of Judea, when they went to the crib of Bethlehem to adore the
new-born infant God. They descend from high peaks, they traverse deep
valleys, they cross foaming torrents, or follow their course, singing
the praises of God. And on their way the sleeping herds of cattle or
of sheep awake, and diffuse through these desert wilds the melancholy
sound of their sonorous bells. At daybreak, they arrive at Lourdes;
they spread their banners, and form in procession to go to the Grotto.
The men, with their blue caps and great shoes covered with dust from
their long night march, rest upon a knotty stick, and usually carry
upon their shoulders the provisions for their journey. The women wear     113
a white or red capulet. Some carry the precious burden of a child. And
they move on slowly, quiet and recollected, singing the litanies of
the Blessed Virgin.

At Massabielle they hear Mass, kneel at the holy table, and drink at
the miraculous spring. Then they distribute themselves, in groups
according to family or friendship, upon the grass around the Grotto,
and spreading out on the sod the provisions they have brought, they
sit down upon the green carpet of the fields. And, on the bank of the
Gave, in the shade of those hallowed rocks, they realize in their
frugal repast those fraternal agapes of which tradition tells us.
Then, having received a last blessing and said a parting prayer, they
set out with joyful hearts upon their homeward way.

Thus do the people of the Pyrenees visit the Grotto. But the greatest
numbers are not from there. From sixty or eighty leagues’ distance
come continually immense processions, brought from these great
distances upon the rapid wings of steam. They come from Bayonne, from
Peyrehorade, from La Teste, from Arcachon, from Bordeaux, and even
from Paris. At the request of the faithful, the Southern Railroad has
established special trains, trains of pilgrimage, intended exclusively
for this great and pious movement of Catholic faith. At the arrival of
these trains, the bells of Lourdes ring out their fullest peals. And
from these sombre carriages the pilgrims come out and form in
procession in the square by the station; young girls dressed in white,
married women, widows, children, full-grown men, the old people, and
the clergy in their sacred robes. Their banners are flung to the
breeze; the crucifix and the statues of the Blessed Virgin and the
saints are displayed. The praises of the Mother of God are upon every
lip. The innumerable procession passes through the town--which seems,
on such occasions, like a holy city, like Rome or Jerusalem. One’s
heart is elated at the sight; it rises toward God, and attains without
effort that elevation of feeling in which the eyes fill with tears and
the soul is overwhelmed by the sensible presence of our Lord. One
seems to enjoy for a moment a vision of paradise.

The hand of the Almighty does not weary in shedding all kinds of
graces at the spot where his Mother has appeared. Miracles are still
frequent. Not long ago Fr. Hermann recovered his sight there.


God has accomplished his work.

He says to the flake of snow, resting hidden upon the lonely peak,
“Thou must come from Me to Me. Thou must pass from the inaccessible
heights of the mountain to the unfathomable caves of the deep.” And he
sends his servant the sun with its brilliant rays to collect and draw
along this shining dust, changing it first into limpid pearls. The
drops of water run through the snow, they roll down the side of the
mountain, they leap over the rocks, they break upon the pebbles, they
reunite, they collect in a mass, and run together, now gently, now
rapidly, toward the wonderful ocean, that striking image of eternal
movement in eternal rest--and thus they reach the valleys where the
race of Adam dwells.

“We will stop these drops of water,” says this race of man, as proud
now as in the days of Babel.

And they undertake to dam up this weak and quiet stream as it gently
crosses their fields. But the stream laughs at their dikes of wood,       114
earth, and pebbles.

“We will stop these drops of water,” the fools repeat in their

And they heap up enormous rocks; they join them together with
impenetrable cement. And notwithstanding, the water does leak through
in a thousand places. But the men are numerous--they have a force
greater than the armies of Darius. They stop up the thousand fissures,
they fill up the cracks, they replace the fallen stones; and at last a
time comes when the stream cannot pass by. It has before it a barrier
higher than the pyramids, and thicker than the famous walls of
Babylon. Beyond this gigantic obstacle, the pebbles of its dry bed are
shining in the sun.

Human pride shouts its pæan of triumph.

Meanwhile the water continues to descend from those eternal heights
where it has heard the voice of God; and millions of drops, coming one
by one, stop before the barrier and rise silently against this granite
wall which millions of men have built.

“Look,” say the men, “at the immense power of our race. See this
enormous wall. Raise your eyes to its summit; admire its astonishing
height. We have for ever conquered this stream which comes from the

At this moment, a thin sheet of water passes over the cyclopean
barrier. They run up; but the sheet has thickened--it is a river which
is now falling, scattering on all sides the upper rocks of the wall.

“What is the matter?” they cry on all sides in the doomed city.

It is the drop of water to which God has spoken, and which proceeds
invincibly on its way.

What has your Babel-like wall accomplished? What have you done with
your herculean efforts? You have changed a quiet stream into a
formidable cataract. You tried to stop the drop of water; but it now
resumes its course with the violence of Niagara.

How humble was this drop of water, this word of a child to which God
had said, “Pursue thy course!” How insignificant was this drop of
water--this shepherdess burning a candle at the Grotto--this poor
woman praying and offering a bouquet to the Blessed Virgin--this old
peasant on his knees! And how strong, how apparent, impassable, and
invincible was this enormous wall, upon which all the force of a great
nation, from the policeman and the gendarme to the prefect and the
minister, had labored for eight months!

But the child, the poor woman, the old peasant, have resumed their
course. Only now it is not a stray candle or a poor bouquet that
testifies to the popular faith; it is a magnificent monument which the
faithful are erecting; they are spending millions upon this temple,
already celebrated throughout Christendom. Their opposers thought to
put down some scattered believers; but now they come in crowds, in
immense processions, displaying their banners and singing their hymns.
There is a pilgrimage without precedent; whole peoples now come, borne
upon their iron roads by chariots of fire and steam. It is not now a
little neighborhood which believes--it is Europe; it is the Christian
world which is coming from all directions. The drop of water which men
tried to stop has become a Niagara.

God has finished his work. And now, as on the seventh day, when he
entered into his rest, he has resigned to men the duty of profiting
by this work, and the formidable responsibility of developing or          115
compromising it. He has given them a germ of abundant grace, as of
other things; the burden remains on them of cultivating and maturing
it. They can multiply it a hundredfold by walking humbly and holily in
the order of his providence; they can make it unfruitful by refusing
to enter into this order. Every good thing from on high is entrusted
to human liberty, as the terrestrial paradise was at the outset, on
the condition of laboring for and keeping it--“_ut operaretur et
custodiret illum_.” Let us beseech God that men may not reject what
he has done for them, and that they may not by earthly ideas or
irreligious acts break in their guilty or awkward hands the sacred
vessel of divine grace which they have received in trust.


Most of the persons mentioned in the course of this long history are
still alive. The prefect, Baron Massy, Judge Duprat, Mayor Lacadé, and
Minister Fould are dead.

Some of them have made several steps in advance on the road to
fortune. M. Rouland has left the Ministry of Public Worship (for which
he does not seem to have been well fitted), to take care of the Bank
of France. M. Dutour, the procureur-imperial, has become counsellor of
the court; M. Jacomet is the chief commissary of police in one of the
largest cities of the empire.

Bourriette, Croisine Bouhohorts and her son, Mme. Rizan, Henri
Busquet, Mlle. Moreau de Sazenay, the widow Crozat, Jules Lacassagne,
and all those whose cures we have recorded, are still full of life,
and testify by their recovered health and strength to the powerful
mercy of the apparition at the Grotto.

Dr. Dozous continues to be the most eminent physician of Lourdes. Dr.
Vergez is at the spring of Barèges and attests to the visitors at this
celebrated resort the miracles which he formerly witnessed. M.
Estrade, whose impartial observations we have several times given, is
receiver of indirect contributions at Bordeaux. He lives at No. 14 Rue

Now, as formerly, Mgr. Laurence is Bishop of Tarbes. Age has not
diminished his faculties. He is to-day what we have represented him in
this work. He has near the Grotto a house to which he sometimes
retires, to meditate in this spot, beloved by the Virgin, on the great
duties and the grave responsibilities of a Christian bishop who has
received so wonderful a grace in his diocese.[40]

The Abbé Peyramale recovered from the severe illness of which we spoke
above. He is still the venerated pastor of this Christian town of
Lourdes, where his record is left in ineffaceable characters. Long
after he is gone, when he rests under the sod in the midst of the
generation which he has formed to the Lord; when the successors of his
successors live in his house and occupy the great wooden chair in his
church, his memory will be living in the minds of all; and when the
“Curé of Lourdes” is mentioned, every one will think of him.

Louise Soubirous, the mother of Bernadette, died on the 8th of
December, 1866, the very day of the feast of the Immaculate
Conception. In choosing this festival to take the mother from the
miseries of the world, she who had said to the child, “I am the
Immaculate Conception,” seems to have intended to temper the              116
bitterness of the loss to the heart of her survivors, and to show them
as a Certain pledge of hope and of a happy resurrection the sign of
her radiant appearance.

While thousands go to the Grotto to contribute to the splendid church,
Bernadette’s father has remained a poor miller, subsisting with
difficulty by manual labor. Mary, the daughter, who was with
Bernadette at the time of the first apparition, has married a good
peasant, who has become a miller and works with his father-in-law. The
other companion, Jane Abbadie, is a servant at Bordeaux.


Bernadette is no longer at Lourdes. We have seen how she had, on many
occasions, refused gifts freely offered, and repelled the good fortune
which was knocking at the door of her humble cottage. She was dreaming
of other riches. “We shall know some fine day,” the unbelievers had
said at the outset, “what her pay is going to be.” Bernadette had in
fact chosen her pay, and put her hand on her reward. She has become a
Sister of Charity. She has devoted herself to tend in the hospitals
the poor and the sick collected by public benevolence.

After having seen with her own eyes the resplendent face of the thrice
holy Mother of God, what could she do but become the compassionate
servant of those of whom the Virgin’s Son has said: “As long as you
did it to one of these my least brethren, you did it to me.”

It is among the Sisters of Charity and Christian Instruction at Nevers
that Bernadette has taken the veil. She is called Sister
Marie-Bernard. We have lately seen her in her religious habit at the
mother-house of this congregation. Though she is now twenty-five,
her face has kept the character and the charm of childhood. In her
presence, the heart feels moved in its better part by an indescribable
religious sentiment, and one leaves it embalmed in the perfume of this
peaceful innocence. One understands that the Holy Virgin has specially
loved her. Otherwise, there is nothing extraordinary, nothing which
would make her conspicuous, or would make one suspect the important
part she has filled in this communication from heaven to earth. Her
simplicity has not been touched by the unexampled interest which has
been taken in her. The concourse and enthusiasm of the multitude have
no more troubled her soul than the turbid water of a torrent would
tarnish the imperishable purity of a diamond.

God visits her still, not now by bright visions, but by the sacred
trial of suffering. She is often ill, and suffers cruelly; but she
bears her pains with a sweet and almost playful patience. Sometimes
they have thought her dead. “I shall not die just yet,” she would say,

She never speaks, unless questioned, of the favors which she has

She was the Blessed Virgin’s messenger. Now that she has given her
message, she has retired into the shade of religious life, wishing to
be unnoticed among a number of companions.

It is a trouble to her when the world comes to seek her in the depth
of her retreat, and when some circumstance obliges her to appear
before it again. She fears the glory of this life. She lives in the
humility of the Lord, and is dead to the vanities of the earth. And
this book which we have written, and which speaks so much of
Bernadette, Sister Marie-Bernard will never read.

     [39] This statue, made of fine Carrara marble, of
     life-size, was presented to the Grotto of Lourdes by two
     noble and pious sisters of the diocese of Lyons, Mesdames de
     Lacour. It was executed according to Bernadette’s particular
     instructions, by M. Fabish, the eminent Lyonnese sculptor.
     The Blessed Virgin is represented as Bernadette described
     her, with scrupulous regard to the smallest details, and
     rare talent in execution.

     [40] Mgr. Laurence died at the Vatican Council in the
     winter of 1869-70.


                      THE RIOT OF THE TWELFTH.                            117

We are late in our comments on the riot of the 12th of July last in
this city, occasioned by the Orange procession in commemoration of the
Battle of the Boyne; but as what we have to say relates to general
principles rather than to particular facts, our remarks will have
suffered little from the delay, and will stand a chance of being more
carefully read and duly weighed than if made at an earlier day. The
tragic event is not likely to be soon forgotten.

The secular press of the city have, as far as we have observed, with
scarcely an exception, taken the ground that, however ill-advised
might be the Orange procession, it was a right of the Orangemen, and
the liberty of the citizen was infringed by the police order
prohibiting it. The order was also an act of cowardice, as dictated by
fear of a Catholic mob; and hence its revocation by the governor, and
his excellency’s resolution to sustain the majesty of the law, and to
protect the Orange procession by all the force, if necessary, at his
command, was a firm and manly interference in behalf of liberty and
law. The sectarian press of city and country see in the police order
prohibiting the procession--dictated, it is assumed, by the Catholic
clergy--only a proof of the hatred of the Catholic Church to liberty
and republican institutions, and in the action of the governor, and
the bravery of the military in firing on the crowd, and killing and
wounding a large number of citizens, for the most part innocent, except
of idle curiosity, an assurance much needed, that Protestants have as
yet even in this country some rights which Catholics are bound and can
be compelled to respect.

The view taken by the sectarian press is ridiculous, as well as
malicious. The Catholic Church was the victim of the riot, but her
only responsibility for it was in warning her children against it, and
bidding them to let the procession alone, and not to go near it. If
she had been heeded, there would have been no riot, no disturbance.
The question was not a Catholic question, and the church had nothing
to gain by preventing the procession, still less by a riot to break it
up. The pretence that the rights of Protestants are in danger from
Catholics in this country, where the Protestants outnumber the
Catholics as eight or ten to one, is too absurd to be even a passable
joke. Do the sectarian journals count one Catholic more than a match
for eight or ten Protestants? That were a greater compliment to us
than we deserve. We are afraid the sectarian leaders have bad
consciences, which make them cowards. Catholics cannot show the least
sign of vitality, or make the slightest move for the practical
possession of the equal rights guaranteed them by the constitution and
laws, but they take fright, tremble in their shoes, and cry out:
“Liberty is in danger!” the Pope is going to suppress American
republicanism, strip Protestants of their rights, cut their throats,
or reduce them to be “hewers of wood and drawers of water” to--the
Jesuits. They are dreadfully alarmed, or affect to be, and create a       118
panic throughout the whole country. But, dear frightened souls, there
is no occasion for your alarm, unless you suppose you cannot be free
if everybody else is not enslaved. Even if we were the majority of the
American people, as we are not, nor likely to be to-day, to-morrow, or
the day after, you would be in no danger, for we understand liberty as
well as you do, appreciate it more highly, love it better, and have
made greater sacrifices for it than you can imagine. Not a few of us
have fled hither from the tyranny and oppression of Protestant
governments, expatriated ourselves for the sake of liberty, and do you
believe us such fools as to destroy it the moment we have found it?

This talk about the hostility of the church to liberty and American
republicanism, when not malicious, is sheer nonsense. The acts
Protestants allege to prove that the church is hostile to liberty,
prove the contrary; for they were acts done against tyrants and
despots in defence of liberty, both civil and religious. What were her
long struggles against the Franconian and Suabian emperors, but
struggles on her part for the freedom of religion, the basis and
principle of all true liberty? Why did the popes deny to kings and
emperors in the middle ages the right of investiture by the cross and
ring, but because to have conceded it would have enslaved the church
to Cæsar, and destroyed the independence of religion and the freedom
of conscience? Know you not that it was under the fostering care and
protection of the church that grew up the freedom and independence of
all modern nations? What nation, state, or people has she ever
deprived of independence or liberty? If she has asserted the rights
of sovereigns, and condemned sedition, turbulence, conspiracies,
insurrections, rebellions, on the part of the people, she has been
equally prompt and determined in asserting the rights and franchises
of subjects, and in censuring, excommunicating, and even deposing,
when professing to be Catholic, the tyrant who despoiled and oppressed
them. The great principles of justice and equality on which American
republicanism is founded were taught by hooded friars in their
monasteries, and proclaimed from the Papal throne ages before the
landing at Plymouth of the Pilgrims from the _Mayflower_, or the
settlement of English colonists on the banks of the James. Do, dear
friends, read and try to understand a little of history, and dismiss
your idle fears, or, if fear you must, fear for the salvation of your
own souls hereafter.

The fact is, we are a little impatient when we hear Protestants
expressing in grave tones and with a serious face their apprehensions
that the spread of Catholicity will tend to the destruction of
American liberty. Considering what Protestantism is, and by what means
it was introduced and has been sustained, it is too much as if Satan
should express serious apprehensions that the spread of the Gospel may
tend to the destruction of Christian piety and humility. We find among
Protestants men, and not a few, who, when they speak of liberty, mean
liberty for all men, for Catholics as well as for non-Catholics; but
your true-blue Protestant, who is imbued with the original and genuine
spirit of Protestantism, would seem unable to understand by liberty
anything but his right to govern, or by religious liberty anything but
his right to reject the papacy, abuse the Pope, calumniate and despoil
the church, and exterminate or enslave Catholics. Who has not heard of    119
Tyburn, and who went there--of the infamous penal laws against
Catholics of England and Ireland, to say nothing of other countries?
And were not these same penal laws enacted and enforced in the colony
of Virginia, and was it not a capital offence in Massachusetts for a
priest to set his foot within the colony, or for an inhabitant to
harbor or give him even a meal of victuals? Did not Massachusetts fit
out and send from Boston an armed body of men, who shot down Father
Rasle, a missionary to the Norridgewock Indians, at the head of his
congregation as they came forth from Mass, and massacred them? Did not
an American Provincial Congress enumerate among their grave charges
against George III. the fact that he had granted freedom of worship to
Catholics in the neighboring province of Canada? Was not Guy Fawkes’
Day celebrated in Boston with the usual anti-popery demonstrations
down to the epoch of the Revolution, until protested against by some
French officers, who came with the army from France to aid us in
gaining our national independence? Yet Protestants do not blush to
call Protestantism the friend, and Catholicity the enemy, of liberty!

Protestants have very short memories if they have forgotten these
things, or else they suppose that Catholics have no memories at all if
they suppose that we can permit them to claim, unchallenged, to be and
always to have been the party of liberty. It is not, however, the
strangest delusion of Protestants, and is only of a piece with their
delusion that Protestantism is Christianity and sustained by the Holy
Scriptures. But let this pass. We yield to no one in our devotion to
liberty or in our readiness to defend the rights of the citizen. We
have no sympathy with the rioters of the Twelfth of July and not one
word to offer in their defence. They broke both the law of the church
and the law of the land, sinned against God, and committed a crime
against the state. But we venture to deny that the police order
forbidding the Orange procession infringed the liberty of any citizen
or deprived the Orangemen of any right they had or could have on
American soil. No men or class of men have the right, in the
performance of no civil or religious duty, but for their own pleasure
or gratification of their own passions, to do any act or make any
display in the judgment of the police certain or very likely to
provoke a riot or breach of the peace. This is common sense, and, we
presume, common law.

The Orangemen were required by no duty, civil or religious, to
celebrate the battle of the Boyne by a public procession in the
streets of our city, nor were they called to do it by any sentiment of
patriotism--not of Irish patriotism, for the battle of the Boyne
resulted in the subjugation, not the liberation, of Ireland--not
American patriotism, for the event was foreign to American
nationality. No foreign patriotism has any right on American soil. The
event commemorated is wholly foreign to our patriotism. It occurred in
a foreign country before our nationality was born, and has no relation
whatever to any American sentiment. No precession not in honor of
religion or some religious event, and wholly disconnected with
American interests or sentiments, has any right on American soil, and
can only take place by courtesy or sufferance, indifference or connivance.
The prohibition of the Orange procession by the police would have         120
deprived the Orangemen of no right which they had or could pretend to
have in this country; and if the procession was designed or even
likely to irritate a portion of our citizens, and to provoke a riot,
it was not only the right but the duty of the police, as conservators
of the peace, to prohibit it, and as far as possible to prevent it.

But the right and the duty of the police do not stop here. There is
another side to the question. Every peaceable citizen has the right to
walk the streets without being insulted or having his feelings
outraged. Processions, banners, songs, tunes offensive, and really
intended to be offensive, to any portion of the community, and in
commemoration of no American event, in satisfaction of no American
sentiment, or in the performance of no civil, military, or religious
duty incumbent on American citizens, are never allowable, for the
insult and outrage offered to the feelings and sentiments, no matter
of what class of the population, is purely wanton, malicious, and
wholly unjustifiable. Of this sort is manifestly the insult and
outrage offered by Orange processions, banners, songs, and tunes to
all of our Irish fellow-citizens not of the Orange party; and these
fellow-citizens of Irish birth or extraction, though they have no
right to take the law into their own hands, have undoubtedly the
right, on American soil, to be protected by the American authorities
from insult and outrage to their feelings and sentiments, just as much
as persons have the right to be protected from indecent sights in the
public streets, or the display of obscene pictures and images in the

But these Orangemen--very few, if any, of whom, we are told, are
American citizens--outrage American as well as Irish manhood. Their
celebrations here are an insult to every true American, for they are
in honor of principles and deeds abhorrent to every American heart.
For them to bring their old quarrels hither from a foreign land would
be reprehensible, even if their quarrels were not utterly disgraceful
to them, but they become a gross outrage when the real character of
their quarrel with their loyal countrymen is considered. The deeds of
the party in Ireland they represent are such as are condemned by every
distinctive American principle, and a more infamous party it would be
difficult to find in any country on earth. They represent the party
that in Ireland fought for a foreign invader and a chief of rebels
against their own country, and were at once traitors to their king and
nation. They represent the party that enacted the infamous and
brutalizing penal laws which deprived the loyal Irish--who in the
battle of the Boyne fought for and at the command of their rightful
king against rebels, traitors, foreign invaders, and enemies--of every
vestige of civil and religious liberty, even making it a crime for a
father to teach his own child letters, and doomed their descendants,
till within our own memory, to the most cruel, heartless, and hopeless
oppression ever endured by any people in the world; they represent the
party that, after the Presbyterian and Jacobin movement of 1798, into
which some Catholics had been inveigled by the promise of freedom for
their religion, and left to do the fighting and to bear almost alone
the penalty of defeat, were the authors of the savage butcheries
inflicted by the Orange yeomanry on the Catholic peasantry, even on
those who had taken no part in the movement, and were innocent of all
offence except that of sighing to be delivered from bondage, and
treated as men made in God’s image, not as wild beasts, whom it is a      121
merit to hunt out and shoot down wherever they can be found. They
commemorate in their processions, their banners, their songs and
tunes, the triumph of treachery, baseness, bigotry, persecution,
oppression, murder, rapine, and wholesale massacres, unsurpassed in
the history of the most barbarous and heathenish nations.

Never was there a more cruel and bloodthirsty party, one redeemed by
fewer virtues or blackened by more or greater crimes, or more
deserving the execration of mankind, than that which these Orangemen
represent and delight to honor. Is it no insult to us free-born
Americans for them to come here and flaunt in our faces their banners
stained with the blood of the innocent and the good, branded by the
widow’s curse, and wet with the orphan’s tears--symbols of ages of
wrong, oppression, and religious intolerance and persecution? Is it
here, in free America, they dare come to boast in public of their
crimes, and glory in their infamy? Do not we Americans profess to
abhor persecution, tyranny, and oppression? Do we not, as a sovereign
people, proclaim to the world that we have opened an asylum to the
wronged, the oppressed, the downtrodden of every land and of every
belief? Where, then, is our manhood when we allow the tyrant, the
oppressor, the persecutor, to come here and insult and outrage his
victims in the very asylum we profess to have opened to them? What
greater insult to all that is noble and manly can be offered Americans
than to be even asked to protect those who will not respect even the
right of asylum?

No, no; the press has taken only a one-sided view in calling the
prohibition of the Orange procession a violation of freedom and a
cowardly yielding to Irish or Catholic dictation. It was no such
thing. The Orangemen had no right on their side, and were entitled to
no protection. Liberty was on the other side, and its vindication and
the right of asylum required us as Americans to protect the victims of
the Orange party who had sought refuge with us from Orange insult and
outrage on our own soil. His excellency the governor of the state also
took only a hasty and a very incorrect view of the case in revoking
the very proper order of the police. We are as far as he can be from
yielding to the dictation of the mob. When a mob has collected, it
must be admitted to no parley, and the only answer to be given to its
demands is the reading of the riot act, and a whiff of grape-shot or a
shower of musket-balls. But no threats of violence should ever deter
authority from doing what is right, and, in this case, right was not
on the side of the Orangemen. Authority must be just as well as firm.
The threats of violence were wrong, but they did not put the Orangemen
in the right. Authority was bound to protect the Orangemen from actual
violence, but it was not bound to protect them in the performance of
acts which they had no moral or legal right to perform, and which it
was foreseen, if permitted, would lead to violence. One wrong is not
redressed by permitting another that must provoke it.

His excellency’s revocation of the order of the police prohibiting the
Orange procession, and promise to protect the procession by all the
force at his command, cannot be defended on the ground that the party
opposed threatened violence in case the procession took place, unless
it be assumed that the Orangemen had a perfect moral or legal right to
march in procession through our streets in their regalia, and with        122
their insulting banners flying and bands playing offensive marches.
But they had no such right, as we have seen, and the party making the
threats, however wrong the threats were, had the right to be protected
from the insult and outrage offered to their feelings by such a
display. The vindication of liberty did not require the procession to
take place, for liberty is not infringed where no right is violated or
abridged; and the assertion of the majesty of the law never requires
protection of a wrong because they who would be aggrieved by it have
threatened, if permitted, they will attempt by violence to right
themselves. Neither American liberty nor law required the Orange
procession to be permitted, and if both liberty and law required a
mob, when collected, to be dispersed and the violence suppressed, they
both also required the protection of American citizens from public
insult and outrage. His excellency forgot the duty of protecting
American citizens from wrong, and thought only of protecting a foreign
and wholly un-American party in committing it.

Yet we have no doubt that the mistaken conduct of the governor--an
able man, a good lawyer, and for the most part a worthy chief
magistrate of the state--was chiefly prompted by the clamor against
Catholics, and the charge brought against his party by its opponents
of acting under the dictation of Catholics, who, of course, it is
assumed, act always under the dictation of their clergy, and was
intended to refute the charge by showing his readiness to protect even
Protestant Orangemen, and shoot down their hereditary enemies, though
Catholics. The charge, we know, was made against the party now in
power in this state; but his excellency should not have allowed it
to move him. It is no doubt true that, but for the votes of citizens
who happen to be Catholics, he would never have been governor of the
state, and his party would be, at least for the present, in a hopeless
minority; but we cannot allow that Catholics have presumed upon the
fact, or asked anything not their right as simple American citizens,
and we know that they have obtained less than their equal rights, even
in this city, where they can probably count not much less than
one-half of the population. But the charge is a mere party trick,
designed, through the sectarian prejudice against Catholicity, to
throw the party now in out of power. The governor seems to us to have
fallen into the trap his political enemies set for him, and has not
unlikely damaged the political prospects both of himself and of his

The clamor against the party on account of its Catholic leaders and
supporters means only that the _outs_ are anxious to become the
_ins_. The party out of power in the State would as willingly
receive the votes of Catholic citizens as does the party in power, and
when in power it did, we believe, more for Catholics than the party
now in power has ever yet done, though it, doubtless, promised less.
Catholics have never had any reason for giving their votes to the
Democratic party but that, in doing so, they followed, very
disinterestedly, their honest political convictions.

The pretence of Protestants that Catholics in or out of office act
politically under the dictation of their clergy, and in reference to
Catholic interests as such, is too notoriously false to mislead
anybody. Those prominent politicians, in or out of office, who happen
to be Catholics, are the last men in the world to listen to the           123
dictation of the clergy or to act in obedience to the orders of their
church, and they take infinite pains to prove that their religion has
nothing to do with their politics, in order, we suppose, to escape the
suspicion of being influenced in their political conduct by regard for
Catholic interests. Their party standing is more to them than their
Catholic standing, and they consult rarely the wishes or interests of
their church, and usually only the wishes and interests of their party
and its leaders. All the offices in the state or nation might be
filled by Catholics, the constituencies remaining unchanged, without
any more advantage accruing to the church than if they were all filled
by Protestants. Catholics and Protestants alike, when in office,
consult their constituencies, and act in the way and manner they judge
most likely to secure votes to themselves or their party.

The fact is, Catholicity has never placed any man in city, state, or
nation in office, and never yet has any man in our country been
elected to office because he is Catholic. The Catholics who are in
office under the municipal, state, or federal government, in congress,
in the state senate, or the assembly, are there not because they are
Catholics, but because they are Democrats or Republicans, or because
they are of Irish, German, or some other foreign origin, and have or
are supposed to have influence in securing the so-called “Irish vote,”
the “German vote,” or the “foreign vote”--distinctions which should
have no place in American politics--not because they are Catholics,
and supposed to be devoted to Catholic interests. There is an “Irish
vote,” a “German vote,” a “foreign vote,” but no “Catholic vote,” and,
the constituencies remaining the same, Catholic interests would be
just as safe in the hands of American Protestants as in the hands of
Catholics elected to office, not for their Catholicity, but for their
real or supposed influence with our naturalized fellow-citizens; and
perhaps safer, because Protestants would be less likely to be
suspected of acting under Catholic influence, and therefore could act
more independently.

It is, we think, a mistake on the part of our politicians who are
Catholics, whether in or out of office, to be so anxious not to be
suspected of acting under Catholic influence and in view of Catholic
interests. The church asks only what is just, only to be protected in
the possession of the equal rights before the state, guaranteed to her
by the constitution of the state, and which are not always respected
by the popular sentiment of the country. The care which politicians
take to show themselves independent in their political action, if
Catholics, gains them no credit, and a frank, open, straightforward,
and manly course would gain much more respect for themselves and for
their religion. Indeed, their sensitiveness and over-caution on this
point tend to excite the very suspicion they would guard against, or
the suspicion that their conduct is diplomatic, and that they have
some ulterior purpose in reserve which they artfully and adroitly
conceal. The church is supposed by Protestants to be the very
embodiment of craftiness and dissimulation, always and everywhere
intriguing to get the control of the secular power, and to wield it in
her own interest regardless of all rights and interests of the citizen
who happens not to be Catholic. Hence, every Catholic politician is
suspected beforehand of craft, intrigue, of crooked and underhand
ways, lacking frankness, openness, and straightforward honesty. The       124
only way to repel this false and unjust suspicion is for such
Catholics as are politicians to show in an open and manly manner that
neither they nor their church have any sinister purpose, and that in
being devoted to her interests and acting under influence as good
Catholics, they have nothing to conceal, and no ends to gain for her
incompatible with their plain duty as American citizens, or which they
fear or hesitate to avow in the face of all men. The best way to quell
a wild beast is to look him steadily in the eye, and show that you do
not fear him.

But to return to the question more immediately before us. If the press
and the executive had looked at the subject from the point of view of
common sense, as a simple question of right and wrong, without
prejudice against Catholics or in favor of Protestants, and without
any wish to charge or acquit any party of being under Catholic
influence, they could not, it seems to us, have failed to see that
liberty was violated in permitting, not in prohibiting, the Orange
procession. Party or sectarian prejudices obscured the judgment, and
many lives of innocent persons were lost in consequence.

It is contended by some that if a procession of Catholic Irish in
honor of St. Patrick is allowed, the Orange procession of the
Protestant Irish should also be allowed; either permit both, or
prohibit both. The celebration of St. Patrick’s Day as a festival of
the Catholic Church, which it is, even by a public procession through
our streets, if peaceable and orderly, is a right guaranteed in the
freedom of the Catholic religion under our constitution and laws, and
so far differs totally from the Orange procession. As a purely Irish
national festival, it can be celebrated here only by courtesy, as is
St. George’s Day by the English, St. Nicholas’s Day by the Dutch, or
St. Andrew’s Day by the Scotch; for no foreign nationality has any
right on American soil; otherwise, American nationality would not be
independent and supreme on American territory. No foreign national
festivals in commemoration or honor of events and interests or
sentiments foreign to American nationality and interests and
sentiments, can be publicly celebrated here except by indifference,
courtesy, sufferance, connivance, national comity, or international

This rule, however, does not apply to religious festivals and
celebrations, whether Catholic or Protestant, because in the eye of
the state all religion is catholic, and not national, and, therefore,
never a foreigner in any nation. Protestants cannot claim Orange
celebrations as a right, though the Orangemen are all good
Protestants, because the event celebrated is a foreign political, not
a religious event; yet they have the right to institute and celebrate
festivals in honor of Martin Luther, John Calvin, John Knox, and other
Protestant reformers; for these being the founders of their religion
are as such not foreigners. Catholics may also celebrate here any of
the festivals of the church in the way and manner she prescribes,
because they are religious festivals, and the right to celebrate them
is included in the freedom of conscience; so may they celebrate
publicly the birthday of the Holy Father, his return to Rome from his
exile at Gaëta and Portici, the completion of the twenty-fifth year of
his pontificate, or his liberation, when effected, from his present
imprisonment, and the recovery for the Holy See of the possessions of
which she has been sacrilegiously despoiled--because, as the chief of
their religion, he is no foreigner in America.

The German peace celebration, as it was called, but really the            125
celebration of the German conquest and humiliation of France, our
ancient ally, was by sufferance, not by right. The Fenian
organizations, marches and countermarches, parades and processions in
honor of victories not won, are absolutely illegal, and take place
only by the connivance--we might say the culpable connivance--of the
government, if Great Britain, against whom they are directed, did not
herself allow demonstrations on her own soil against foreign
sovereigns. The celebrations of Italian unity, since effected by
fraud, violence, sacrilege, and robbery, the spoliation of the Holy
See, and the imprisonment of the Pope, perhaps should be regarded as
the celebrations of the successes of Protestant principles, and
therefore, by a right secured in the civil freedom of Protestantism,
and if peaceable and orderly, not prohibitable by the police. They may
be annoying to Catholics, but so is Protestantism itself; but
Protestants have, so far as the secular authorities go, the same right
to be Protestants that we have to be Catholics.

We have already shown that it is ridiculous to attempt to hold the
church responsible for the riot. The rioters may have been nominal
Catholics; but, if so, they were bad Catholics, for they acted
contrary to the principles of their church, and the advice and
direction of their pastors, and the church cannot be held responsible
for acts done contrary to her orders and in violation of her
principles. The rioters, themselves, knew and owned that they were
disobeying their church, and defended themselves on the ground that
the question was a national not a religious question, and, therefore,
not within the jurisdiction of the clergy. Their defence was a lame
one, and proved they were no true Catholics; for the church, without
assuming to decide the national, party, or political question, had
full jurisdiction of the morality of their acts, and was quite
competent to condemn the passions of anger and revenge that actuated
them and their riotous proceedings, as condemned by the law of God.

But there are Catholics in this city of fifteen or twenty different
nationalities, and yet the rioters were exclusively of Irish origin,
which is full proof that the riot was not Catholic, but Irish. Had it
been a Catholic riot, inspired by the church and for a Catholic
object, for which the church could be held responsible, Catholics,
irrespective of their nationality, would have been engaged in it, and
it would not have been confined to persons of one nationality alone.
It was, as everybody knows, an Irish riot, occasioned by an old Irish
feud between two Irish parties, not an American or a Catholic riot.
These hot-headed, disobedient Irishmen, even if Catholics, could not
commit the church to their disorderly and criminal proceedings.

It is only fair to add that this handful of Irish rioters could not
any more commit the great body of our Irish fellow-citizens. According
to the last census, there were 201,000 souls in this city who were
born in Ireland, to say nothing of their children and grandchildren
born here. There probably was not over five hundred, if so many,
actively engaged in the riot; but double the number, say there were a
thousand, and they are quite too few, even if they were of reputable
character, which they were not, to commit so large a body as that of
our Irish population, most of whom remained quietly engaged in their
ordinary avocations. That the Irish furnish their full quota of
rowdies, roughs, and disorderly persons in our large towns, nobody        126
denies; but we must remember that there are plenty of the same class
not of Irish origin, and there have been riots, and riots of a very
grave character, in which the Irish had no hand, though of some of
them they were the victims. We have seen more than one American mob in
which the chief actors were respectable, well-dressed Protestant
American citizens.

There are Irishmen who are wealthy and wear fine clothes that are no
credit to their race or their religion, but the Catholic Irish as a
body constitute a sober, quiet, peaceable, intelligent, religious,
industrious, and thriving portion of our population, and no
American-born citizen has any right to say a word in disparagement of
them. Indeed, we may say of the Catholic population of the city
generally, that it is that portion of the population that it can least
afford to spare. Were the city to lose them, it would lose the very
population that has contributed, and contributes, the most to its high
moral and religious character, to its industry and wealth, and on
which its prosperity chiefly depends. With all their faults, and they
are many, and many more in the eyes of the Catholic than of the
Protestant, they are, as they should be, decidedly the best people
going. Their vices are on the surface; their virtues lie deeper, and
are many, solid, and durable. We bless God that we are permitted to
call them brethren, and that we are with them in the unity of faith
and communion, though we happen to be an American of the seventh
generation, and it was our misfortune to be reared a Protestant.

We think the conduct of the Democratic party towards their Catholic
supporters is discreditable. Any party may feel itself honored that
secures the votes of the great body of our Catholic citizens, whether
naturalized or native-born citizens, and no party will suffer in the
end by insisting on justice to Catholics and to Catholic interests.
Any party, by frankly and fearlessly sustaining the equal rights of
Catholics with Protestants, and maintaining the freedom and
independence of religion, will not only serve truly their country, and
respond to the demands of American patriotism, but they will best
ensure its own permanent prosperity, power, and influence. They who
scorn and trample on the church may flourish for a time like the green
bay tree, but in the end they will wither and die, and their places be
sought, and not found. It is well for every political party to
remember that God reigns, and that they who scorn his church, whom he
hath purchased with his own blood, will in turn be scorned by the
“King of kings, and Lord of lords.”


                 THE PLACE VENDOME AND LA ROQUETTE.                       127


                     FROM LE CORRESPONDANT.

It would be difficult to find in the history of human revolutions a
spectacle at once as burlesque and terrible as that just presented by
the too celebrated Commune of Paris. It began with a long trail of
blood at the entrance of the Place Vendôme, and signalized its
wretched end by the horrible massacre of La Roquette. A witness of
these two bloody scenes, I shall depict them with but few comments,
but with perfect exactness of detail. At the risk of being incomplete,
I shall only relate what I saw. In speaking of the confinement at
Mazas and the massacres at La Roquette, I shall barely add some
incidents, the truth of which was vouched for by the companions of my
cruel captivity. Comments would only weaken the impressiveness of
these facts. I leave my readers to draw their own conclusions from a
moral and social point of view, only remarking that the first account,
relating to the events that transpired in the Place Vendôme during the
latter half of March, was drawn up a few days after they occurred.

Though the first essays of the Commune were not marked by the nameless
horrors that drew upon its end the reprobation of all civilized
nations, I have thought it right not to alter my first account.
Perhaps some observations may not appear sufficiently severe, and
others not wholly justified by the events. I give them to the public
as they were noted down at the time. By comparing the account written
at the end of March with that of the end of May, an exact idea may be
formed--I was going to say a faithful photograph may be had--of the
revolutionary condition of Paris at the beginning and the end of the
Commune. We may thereby be enabled to judge of the development, during
this short interval, of a brutal revolution--the implacable enemy of
all institutions, human and divine.

In spite of the mingled emotions of horror and disgust I feel in
recalling the men and the deeds I speak of, I may be permitted to
manifest two feelings that prevail over all others in the depths of my
soul--a redoubling of constant sympathy for the unhappy city of Paris,
only rendered dearer by its misfortunes, and an ardent gratitude for
the infinite mercy of God, which preserved me, contrary to all human
expectation, from the bullets of a herd of assassins more shameless
and lower than their predecessors of 1793.



I passed a great part of Tuesday, the twenty-first of March, in
discussing with some political friends the intolerable situation of
things at Paris, effected by the triumphal mob of Saturday, the
eighteenth. We all deplored and denounced that unjustifiable attempt      128
at the national sovereignty which suddenly drew on us the danger of
Prussian occupation of the city and the horrors of civil war--perhaps
both of these scourges. Our indignation was profound. One blamed the
government for having too readily abandoned Paris to the danger of
insurrection; another maintained that by establishing itself at
Versailles with the national assembly, and defending the environs of
Paris, it saved France. Another declaimed with bitterness, sometimes
against the culpable indifference of the national guards, which left
everything to be done, and sometimes against the audacity and
wickedness of the leaders of the mob that, without any pretext, was
dragging France, all bleeding from the wounds incurred in war, into a
bottomless abyss. We all felt there was something beneath all this: it
was the shameful defection of a part of the troops of the line which
had rendered such cruel misfortunes possible. If the army were to
countenance the insurrection, that would decide the fate of
France--_Galliæ finis!_

It was easier to deplore the gravity of the evil than to point out a
practical means of remedying it. There was great diversity of opinion
respecting the latter. Should recourse be had to material force or to
a spirit of persuasion and conciliation? The use of material force
might inflame the rebellious party still more, and cover Paris with
blood and ruins. The success of moral influence was hardly possible
with insurgents who began by assassinating Generals Lecomte and
Clément Thomas, and deliberately advocated a social revolution.

At three o’clock, a well-known inhabitant of the Place Vendôme, who
had already distinguished himself by his courage in the insurrection
of June, 1848, in which he was one of the first wounded, came to
announce to me the formal intention of the national guards of his
battalion to retake the place from the insurgents come from the
faubourgs. He thought that by a bold stroke they might effect their
object without a shot. It is sure that the friends of order wished by
all means to avoid the shedding of blood. Some moments after, one of
my friends, who bears one of the great political names of France, and
is destined to render his country eminent service, after the example
of his family, because he is at once a man of superior intelligence
and disinterestedness, very liberal and very religious, announced to
me that the national guards of his arrondissement were animated with
the best intentions, and comprehended the urgent necessity of
maintaining order in the midst of the inextricable chaos into which we
had fallen. He was himself a powerful example of the resolution and
self-sacrifice inspired by an enlightened and generous patriotism. A
retired officer from the time of his marriage, he had organized, at
the beginning of the war, the national guards of that section of the
country in which his estate was. Later, when the army of General
Chanzy made his evolution from the Loire toward the Sarthe, he resumed
his military life, and took an active part as captain of the staff in
the operations and struggles of the army of the west. The very day he
returned to civil life, he took the cars to spend some days at Paris,
where several members of his family awaited him. He arrived there on
the eve of the eighteenth of March. Instead of returning to the
country, like so many other Parisians, he enrolled his name the
following day as a simple member of the national guards, resolved to
recede before no danger or fatigue, and to serve the cause of order at    129
Paris as he had been serving the cause of the national honor in his
province. We should not despair of the future prosperity of a country
in which there is still a great number of examples of similar
devotedness. He did not think of returning to the country till the day
after the mayors and deputies of Paris, doubtless unwittingly serving
the interests of demagogism much more than the demagogues themselves,
thought they were making a conciliatory move by yielding to their
wishes, inviting the Parisian electors to illegal elections,
disbanding the battalions of the national guard, wholly devoted to the
cause of order, and thus destroying the sole material and moral
support that still remained to the better portion of Paris. These
mayors and deputies, whose imprudence and want of foresight no human
tongue could express, declared they had saved everything, and they had
lost everything. They ascended to the Capitol as in triumph, and they
had led us to the Tarpeian Rock. They pretended to avoid the shedding
of blood, and chose the surest means of shedding it in torrents. My
friend agreed with me that next to the hideous stand of the battalions
of the line that had entered into a pact with the mob, nothing could
be more disastrous than the inexplicable compromise entered into by
these mayors and deputies. There was not a day on which I did not
apply to them the dilemma that I formerly applied to the government of
the emperor in the _guêt-à-pens_ of Castelfidardo: “Either dupes or

At five o’clock, an old deputy who had been brutally excluded from the
legislative body in the favorable time of official candidature,
because he would not renounce his opinions of freedom and control,
gave me some interesting details respecting the pacific manifestations
that had just met with an unhoped-for success. A great number of
citizens, of all ages and of every rank, had traversed the principal
quarters unarmed, crying, “_Vive l’Ordre! Vive la France! Vive
l’Assemblée Nationale!_” They everywhere meet with cordial sympathy.
The battalion that guarded the Bourse presented arms as they passed.
The battalions of the faubourgs, that held the Place Vendôme,
endeavored in vain to prevent their passing, and the person who from
the balcony of the staff wished to address them in order to justify
the insurrectionary movement, was interrupted by enthusiastic
acclamations in favor of order and the national assembly.

The central committee at the Hôtel de Ville understood so well the
bearing of this manifestation that they hastened to take energetic
measures to remain masters of the Place Vendôme, and not to allow in
it any new manifestations from the friends of order. They sent thither
several battalions. Travel was forbidden there and in the neighboring
streets; the approaches were rigorously guarded: four pieces of
cannon, with cannoneers ready to fire, were set up in the Rue de la
Paix and the Rue Castiglione.

At nine o’clock, the wife of one of the employees of the minister of      130
justice came to beg me to carry to her brother the final consolations
of religion. I had seen him some days previous, and his end seemed
near. It was with the greatest difficulty she had left the Ministère
and the Place Vendôme, and she feared it would be impossible for me to
return with her. But, unwilling her brother should die without the
sacraments of the church, she succeeded by her prayers and tears in
reaching me, and was willing to brave everything again in order to
enable me to go to him.

I assured her I would unite my efforts to hers, and, though conscious
that the ecclesiastical costume had, since the downfall of the empire,
been disagreeable to the Parisian revolutionists, I added that we
should succeed. I set out that very instant with one of the employees
of the church.

The Place and the Boulevard de la Madeleine were quiet and nearly
deserted. The Rue Neuve-des-Capucines was livelier. At the entrance of
the Place Vendôme, I found myself in presence of the national guards,
who did not much resemble those belonging to that quarter. They were
very numerous. Their language was in the main rather noisy than
threatening. The words “citizen” and “republic” were constantly on
their lips. They allowed no one to stop, and showed themselves
severely rigid towards the passers-by that wished to contemplate a
spectacle so new in this pacific and wealthy quarter.

I had not yet arrived at the angle of the Rue Neuve-des-Capucines and
the Place Vendôme, when an outpost of the national guards, arms in
hand, cried to me in somewhat rough tone: “Citizen, no one is allowed
to stop!” It was the very place and the time to stop to accomplish my
holy mission. I explained briefly, but politely, the motive that led
me to the Place Vendôme: it was a question of giving a dying person
the last succor of religion; and, to leave no doubt of the truth of my
statement, I pointed out the lady, bathed in tears, at my side, and
the employee of the Madeleine. “It is impossible, citizen,” was
uttered on all sides, “the _consigne_ has forbidden it.” I asked
to see one of the officers, for I saw plainly I should be obliged to
parley, but, in view of a duty so grave and urgent, I resolved to use
every means. A sergeant presented himself with that important and
somewhat ridiculous air which carries the conviction among the lower
ranks that public affairs could not be sustained without him. I
explained my wish. “You cannot pass.” I mildly insisted. “The
_consigne_ has forbidden it, and to-day he is very rigorous.” I
asked the reason of this exceptional severity. “It is, you see,
citizen, because the bourgeoisie of this quarter have been making a
racket to-day, and this must not be repeated.”

This observation, one of the most characteristic I ever heard in my
life, was made with a seriousness which would have dispelled mine at
another time less distressing to my heart as a priest and a Frenchman.

Convinced that nothing was to be effected with this sergeant, who was
more self-sufficient than wicked, I asked to see the captain. He came
to me with a dry and lofty air that the mildness of my language and
doubtless the sad motive also that led me to the Place Vendôme
speedily modified. After refusing me, and listening to renewed
entreaties, he gave me permission to enter the Place Vendôme, on
condition that I should remain all night. That was the extent of the
right allowed him by the _consigne_. Tired of constantly hearing of a     131
_consigne_ who, according to the graphic avowal of the sergeant, was
only influenced by his dissatisfaction at the racket that the
bourgeoisie of the quarter had been making that day, I replied that I
could not accept the condition, that I was very sorry not to be able
to understand a refusal which affected a dying person and a family in
affliction, and that I would leave the public to judge this fact,
since there was no other authority to appeal to.

These words, uttered with an emotion but little restrained, changed
the mind of the captain, who vainly sought plausible pretexts to
oppose me. He appeared, besides, to be greatly preoccupied with the
command he exercised: others were constantly coming to him for orders,
and it was evident from his embarrassed manner that he had been more
accustomed to receive than to give orders. He ordered one of the
national guards to accompany me to the house of the minister of
justice, not to lose sight of me for an instant, and to bring me back
to the entrance of the Rue Neuve-des-Capucines. Notwithstanding the
pacific character of my costume, I was treated like one of the
suspicious bourgeoisie of the quarter, who could not be pardoned for
having made a racket during the day. The insurgents had strengthened
their position in the Place Vendôme, to prevent henceforth the
manifestations of honest people. They appeared resolved to allow it to
be entered only with extreme circumspection, and by persons who
resided here.

I proceeded, accompanied by my national guardsman, who was armed.

The Place was poorly lighted. We had scarcely left behind us the group
of national guards that barricaded the entrance, than he addressed me
these words in a confused but very respectful tone: “How sad all this
is, monsieur l’abbé, and how wrong not to arrange everything so every
one can remain at home and quietly attend to his business!” I
evidently had with me one of the too numerous workmen of Paris who
love order and peace, but who dare not, or who do not know how to,
resist the bold ringleaders who take them from their work and lead
them astray. The fear of not speaking with sufficient calmness and
caution, while I was at once afflicted and exasperated, induced me to
be reserved. I merely replied that I shared his sentiments, and that
very probably reason would prevail in the end.

Every moment we met armed groups. As far as I could judge, from rapid
glances over the Place, some were discussing with vivacity the events
of the day: others, like mercenaries, without dignity and without
conscience, appeared to have no other care than to smoke and drink.
The insurgents I met did not conceal the suprise that the presence of
a priest in their midst during the night caused them. Those who
thought I had been arrested, and was on my way to the post of the
_état-major_, where I had seen more than one spy or Prussian led
during the siege, did not deprive themselves of the pleasure of aiming
a joke or an insult at me. Those who thought I was going to fulfil the
duties of the holy ministry saluted me with respect. They were far
from resembling in their equipments and deportment the national guards
of the quarter of St. Roch or the Madeleine, but when I compared them
with those I found the next day in the same place, after the criminal
and bloody fusillade upon citizens only guilty of calmly expressing
their love of order and their devotedness to the national assembly,
they were comparatively disciplined and civilized.                        132

The ante-room of the minister of justice’s residence was guarded by
insurgents, who allowed no one to enter or go out without particular
scrutiny. I quickly made known to the leader the object of my mission.
He listened to me with evident curiosity and self-sufficiency, and,
after affecting to consider, he motioned me to proceed. The court was
occupied by another post that watched the entrance to the offices and
hôtel of the minister, and the avenue that led through the gardens to
the Rue de Luxembourg. No light was to be seen in the apartments. A
profound silence reigned everywhere. No other employee remained at the
minister’s than the brother-in-law of the young man to whom I was
carrying the last consolations of religion. He received them with more
calmness and serenity than might have been expected, humanly speaking,
of a young man of twenty-two years of age, when one looks forward to a
long life; but what a double grief for a family to find themselves at
once in the presence of death and a band of insurgents!

A quarter of an hour after, I left the _ministère_ with my national
guard, who treated me with a respect more and more deferential. The
lady who had gone to the Rue de la Ville-l’Evêque to find me was also
struck with his excellent appearance, and commissioned me to give him
a small sum of money. I begged him, as delicately as possible, to
accept it in aid of his family, who might be in need for want of
employment. He seemed very much touched by this generous attention,
and, as much to satisfy my curiosity as to prevent the difficulty of
expressing his gratitude at a time when he was officially charged with
guarding me, I concluded to address him some questions.

“From what quarter of Paris are you?”

“I am from Bercy, monsieur l’abbé. They sounded the rappel this
evening. I set out with my company. They told us we were appointed to
a very important patriotic mission. Arrived at the Place Vendôme, we
were ordered to guard it rigorously.”

“But why so rigorous a guard in a quarter where there are only very
excellent people, who love order and peace above all things?”

“Ma foi, monsieur l’abbé, I know nothing at all about it. Bercy is
perfectly quiet. This quarter is no less so. I do not understand it.
They ordered us to come, and we had to obey.”

“But did you not at Bercy have confidence in M. Thiers as well as we?
Do you prefer Assi, Flourens, Blanqui, and Felix Pyat to him?”

“Our employers have always spoken very highly of him. The good workmen
call him a great patriot, and not a mere pretender like so many
others. He promised us liberty and work, and would certainly have kept
his word. So we have committed a great piece of foolishness in
allowing him to go to Versailles. God grant it may not be for a long

“But what becomes of your work all this time? Do you think this state
of thing favorable to the interests of the workman?”

“Ah, monsieur l’abbé, work is a thing but little thought of now, and
yet the longer we delay resuming it, the more unfortunate we are.
There are among us so many sluggards and madcaps!...”

My excellent guard was explaining to me in his own way how the bad
workmen, who wished in 1848 to obtain the right to labor, had, since
the siege of Paris, wished to retain the right of doing nothing, when     133
I found myself at the spot whence we had set out. Immediately resuming
his most official and patronizing air--“Citizen,” said he to the
patrol that guarded the entrance to the Place Vendôme, “let this
citizen pass!”

I had promised the family of the poor sick man to visit him again in
two or three days. Complicated as the situation of Paris was, and in
particular that of the Place Vendôme, treated and occupied as a place
taken by storm, in defiance of all right and all decency, by the
national guards of the faubourgs in revolt against the laws, I was far
from anticipating that I should hasten the next day to the same place
in the midst of all the horrors of civil war, to carry the
consolations of religion to the honorable inhabitants of Paris,
smitten down without any provocation, without any motive, by the
bullets of their fellow-citizens.



The next day, the twenty-second of March--henceforth one of the
saddest dates in the history of Paris--I was on duty at the church of
the Madeleine--that is to say, appointed to receive, from six o’clock
in the morning till ten at night, those persons who sought the
religious or charitable ministry of the priest, and to afford them all
the satisfaction within the limits of possibility.

As the pacific manifestations on the eve had produced a favorable
moral effect, it was proposed to renew them during the day, as I
learned from some of my friends, known to be devoted to the cause of
liberty and order, so strangely compromised. The aim they had in view
and the means to which they had recourse were not only incontestably
legal, but also in conformity with the interests and dignity of all
the inhabitants of Paris. Therefore, far from concealing them, they
openly discussed them, hoping they would be understood and appreciated
as they deserved to be. They desired to promote, by means of
persuasion and conciliation, respect for order and the laws,
disregarded by the bold ringleaders and a part of the national guards
led astray. In the midst of ruins accumulated by an unfortunate war,
they wished to declare the assembly of the representatives of the
country in session at Versailles to be the sole power charged to watch
over our destinies, that we should rally around them and await their
solution of the inextricable difficulties of the moment. The
inhabitants of the Place Vendôme and the neighboring streets, wounded,
and not without reason, at seeing their quarter invaded and occupied
by the national guards from other quarters, who prevented travel,
terrified their families, and paralyzed all commercial transactions,
proposed to claim their rights, as inhabitants of the first
arrondissement, to become the police of their own quarter. They
violated no right, they were not lacking any propriety, in begging the
citizens of the arrondissements of Montmartre and Belleville, who were
installed there without any notice, to leave it to their own care. Not
only are those who live in the Place Vendôme Parisians as well as the
inhabitants of Belleville and Montmartre, but it was evident to those
who knew Paris that four-fifths of the national guards that held
possession of the Place Vendôme on the twenty-first, and especially on
the twenty-second of March, had never seen Paris three years              134
previously. Paris is rather the theatre than the author of the
revolutions that take place there.

Revolutionists and rioters belong to all parts of France and Europe,
and in disastrous times they hasten to Paris, hoping to catch fish in
the troubled waters.

I have studied all the large cities of Europe from a political and
social point of view. For reasons too extended to be enumerated here,
not one is like Paris, the rendezvous of all suspicious and corrupt
characters--of the unfortunate who are at variance with the laws of
their own country, and of men of no class who are ready to become
revolutionary agents--and these are the worst of all. After the siege
it had endured, the state of agitation and prostration resulting from
so great a struggle, so much suffering, and so many deceptions, could
not fail to attract the leading charlatans and rogues of all parts of
Europe. It is not to the honor of the popular class at Paris, the most
frivolous and the most credulous in the world, that these new-comers
met with a success beyond their expectations, for they became in a
moment our masters. Thanks to this cosmopolitan invasion, and also to
the departure of too large a number of genuine Parisians who feared
the Prussian bombardment less than the mob of international agents,
Paris, the brilliant centre of elegance, art, and of intellect, as
well as a financial and political centre, became, according to the
expressive comparison of the _Times_, an infernal caldron, which
terrified all Europe, and in which mingled and seethed all human

The party that was playing its part at Paris was not Parisian or
French, but exclusively social. It was a flock of birds of prey, a
herd of roaming wild beasts, who had hastened from the four cardinal
points to fall on the capital of France, which a five months’ siege
had weakened. The International agents wished to found the Commune,
and, to realize the idea of the Commune, which especially clings to
locality, home, the fireside, the steeple, the associations and
traditions of domestic interest, they summoned to Paris all their boon
companions of the Old and the New World, and forced the real
inhabitants of Paris to take refuge in the provinces or abroad. It was
a revolting cynicism, pregnant with disaster.

At half-past two, some persons, filled with terror and indignation,
entered the Madeleine to inform me of a sinister catastrophe. The
agents of the pacific manifestation, who had proposed on the eve to
traverse the principal streets of the city, crying, _Vive la
République! Vive l’Ordre! Vive l’Assemblée Nationale!_ had become the
victims of a horrible ambuscade. After passing through the Rue de la
Paix, a large number of respected citizens of Paris, unarmed, and
influenced only by the patriotic desire of securing, by the most
inoffensive means and for the benefit of all good citizens, the
triumph of equity, law, and a spirit of conciliation, had been met at
the entrance of the Place Vendôme by a murderous fusillade from the
insurgent national guards. The reports of the number of the killed and
wounded varied, but it must have been considerable.

At the same time, I saw from the outer colonnade of the Madeleine the
shops hastily shut up and people fleeing in disorder from the
direction of the Place Vendôme. Every face expressed wrath and
consternation. Some national guards of the eighth arrondissement
hastened to rally around the church to watch over the public security.

I made inquiries about the condition of the wounded, and was told         135
they were being carried home, and that several belonged to the parish
of the Madeleine, which includes the Rue de la Paix and the Place
Vendôme. As I did not know the address of the victims, and knew from
an experience of ten years that the members of the parish had the
Christian habit of summoning the priest to the aid of the dying, I
waited with emotion for them to have recourse to my ministry.

At four o’clock no one had come, and I was ignorant of the name and
address of any of the wounded. At half-past four there was a report
that some of the killed and wounded remained on the Place Vendôme, and
that there were detained there some of those engaged in the pacific
manifestation, among others, the father of a young man from the Rue
Tronchet, whose skull had been fractured by a ball, and whom the
insurgents refused to deliver up. Other details were added of such a
revolting character that I could scarcely credit them. I ordered the
Madeleine to be closed--took with me all that was necessary for the
administration of the sacraments, and went by way of the boulevards
towards the Place Vendôme, resolved, as on the preceding night, to
recede before no obstacle to my reaching the victims who might need
religious aid. The Boulevard de la Madeleine, generally so lively and
brilliant, was almost deserted. The inhabitants were inquiring in a
low tone, and in terror, about the incidents of the bloody drama that
had just taken place in the neighborhood. Some soldiers only, who had
joined the insurgents four days previously, were passing along with a
careless and almost satisfied air. If these unhappy men were aware of
the frightful event that then preoccupied all Paris, they only
retained a glimmering of moral sense. Already unworthy to bear the
name of a soldier, they would no longer merit to bear that of man.

At the entrance of the Rue Neuve-des-Capucines, which leads from the
Boulevard de la Madeleine to the Place Vendôme, I was stopped by a
group of people, who from a distance were regarding with mingled
sentiments of curiosity and terror the patrols of the mob scattered
along the street. “Do not go any further, monsieur l’abbé,” cried
several persons to me in trembling voices, more charitable than brave.
“If you go among those wretches, you are lost! We have seen them fire
upon inoffensive men who were bearing away the wounded at the entrance
of the Rue de la Paix.” I made no reply to what was dictated more by
fear than reason, and came to the first patrol stationed before the
Crédit Foncier. All the houses of the Rue Neuve-des-Capucines were
closed, and this street, one of the liveliest of the quarter, seemed
like a tomb. The head patrol, a jolly young fellow, with a face as red
as blood, advanced towards me, and, solemnly raising his sabre to
attest his authority, which I had no intention of disputing, ordered
me to stop. I explained to him, without concealing my sadness, the
object of my mission: “I am going as a priest belonging to the parish
of the Madeleine to see the wounded on the Place Vendôme.” He
immediately motioned with his sabre for me to pass; this was his only
reply. Was he aware of the effect of this sinister beginning of civil
war upon the condition of Paris? I doubt it--to parade and appear
important seemed to be his principal care. The other national guards,
vigilant and with their hands on their loaded arms, resembled
sentinels in face of the enemy, without their discipline and proper

The second patrol, stationed in the middle of the street, allowed me      136
to pass without objection. It was composed, like the first, of
national guards of all ages, but not of all conditions: they were from
the most uncivilized class of the faubourgs. Their accoutrements were
not uniform or neat. Some appeared quite satisfied; they were the
youngest; others had a less blustering manner; but all felt an
instinctive joy to rule over the most brilliant part of Paris, and
inspire the citizens with a lively terror.

Before I came to the third patrol, placed at the opposite end of the
street, I noticed on the pavement many stains of blood. It was in fact
only a few steps distant that, only a short time before, the victims
of the fusillade fell. I will not attempt to describe the anguish that
filled my soul at the sight of this blood of my countrymen, shed by
insurgents without country and without God. In the midst of my great
distress I recalled the sublime cry of Monseigneur Affre: “Let my
blood be the last shed!” I ardently prayed in my turn that the blood
of these innocent and peaceful victims might be the last poured out,
but it was to be feared that the revolutionary and social crisis, that
weighed on Paris like a horrible nightmare, would only end, as it had
commenced, by a terrible effusion of blood.

There was no difference between this patrol and the preceding, except
that it was more actively vigilant. The chief of the national guards
that formed it, and who seemed surprised to behold me, having asked
where I was going, and what I was going to do, sent two men to conduct
me to the post that guarded the entrance to the Place Vendôme. During
the siege of Paris, I one day passed along the formidable defences of
the Point-du-Jour at Auteuil. The consigne there was of a different
degree of mildness and condescension from that at the entrance of the
Place Vendôme, which the insurgents evidently wished to make their
headquarters, and where they were entrenching themselves. The national
guards that defended the entrance were less blustering, but more
numerous and more decided, than those of the evening before. They
allowed me to pass without hindrance; many of them must have felt that
where the dead and dying are to be found is the proper place for a
minister of Jesus Christ. A sentinel was ordered to accompany me to
the Ministère de la Justice, where I intended to go first. He
possessed neither the intelligence nor the politeness of the national
guard that escorted me the night before. He was rather an animated
machine than a man. Not a word, not a gesture, not a change in his
features! After wondering what he was thinking of, I ended by doubting
if he thought at all. I should render him this justice--that, from a
material point of view, he discharged his commission with
irreproachable exactitude.

I experienced an undefinable impression in the Place Vendôme, produced
by a twofold contrast, the remembrance of which will not be effaced to
the latest moment of my life.

This Place, with which Louis XIV. adorned Paris, was first called the
Place des Conquêtes, to recall the brilliant victories which had
secured to France the fine provinces which we have just lost a large
part of, after most lamentable reverses. The sumptuous edifices, built
according to Mansard’s plans, which form the contour, render it in an
architectural point of view the finest Place in Europe. Destined by
Louis XIV. to bring together the royal library and imprimerie, the
academies, the mint, and the hôtel of foreign ambassadors; now            137
inhabited by wealthy families, rich travellers, and some of the
government officials; situated between the garden of the Tuileries and
the Boulevards des Capucines and des Italiens; entered at its two
extremities by the Rues de Castiglione and de la Paix, through which
pour wealthy merchants and elegant promenaders, it became on the
twenty-second of March the theatre of uproar and civil war: it was
covered with blood, and occupied by an armed crowd, in which prevailed
the most sinister faces from the worst quarters of Paris.

The national guards of Bercy that I had seen the night before were
models of civilization and distinction compared with these. Some were
rather boys than men. They appeared to be only sixteen or seventeen
years of age. As proud as they were surprised to carry a gun, they
only sought for an opportunity or a pretext to use it. Those who have
witnessed the revolutions of Paris know that armed children are
capable of atrocious misdeeds. Sprung from the lowest grades of
society, destitute of all moral sense, they care but little what cause
they have to defend or what enemy to attack: their highest ambition is
to display their audacity and to fire off their guns. As I am only
relating the things I witnessed myself, I shall not speak of the
fiendish part taken, according to some spectators, by a boy in the
fusillade which had just shot down too great a number of pacific and
honorable citizens. Many of the insurgents were in a state of
overexcitement, proceeding less from their political and social
opinions than from a too copious absorption of wine and other liquors:
this is on days of revolutionary storms another category of insurgents
capable of everything because they have lost all moral sense. There
was but little care and uniformity about their accoutrements. Some had
on only a part of the uniform of the national guards: others wore a
képi and a blouse. A great number of the képis were not numbered. Here
and there were to be seen some red sashes.

In this nameless multitude might also be remarked men of fifty or
sixty years, whose ferocious and degraded faces excited the worst
suspicions respecting their moral instincts and their previous
relations with the legal authorities. I at once saw that many of them
were foreigners, particularly Italians and Poles. What a contrast
between such insurgents, hardly to be found in June, 1848, in the
lowest parts of Paris, and the imposing architectural splendor of one
of the finest squares in the world! I could not express the effect of
this mingling of poetic beauty and foul deformity upon me.

Another contrast no less sad rent my heart. The side of the Place
Vendôme toward the Rue de la Paix was sprinkled with blood; now and
then the wounded and dead were carried by; and over these spots of
human blood, by the side of these unfortunate victims of civil war, a
great number of insurgents, perhaps the very ones who without any
motive or provocation had shot them down, were laughing, eating,
drinking, and amusing themselves, as if they were celebrating the
happiest event of their lives.

In going to the Ministère de la Justice, I had to pass through several
groups of varied physiognomy. They were generally astonished to see
the ecclesiastical garb among them. I acknowledge that, if I had not
had a mission of sacerdotal obligation to accomplish, I should hardly
have procured them this surprise, notwithstanding my natural love of      138
observation. Some--a small number, however--received me with coarse
insults and horrid laughter. A few steps from the Ministère de la
Justice, a national guardsman, who was talking and gesticulating with
uncommon vivacity, stopped to address me, while shaking his fist at
me, this singular apostrophe: “When shall we be delivered from those
wretches?” I will not relate other pleasantries of this nature of
which I was the butt: this one is only too much. Their authors had
doubtless learned to know and judge the clergy by the violent
diatribes of citizens Blanqui and Félix Pyat.

Others, on the contrary, saluted me with a respect and cordiality
which I was careful to return politely. They were honest workmen who
had doubtless had intercourse with their parish priests, or whose
children attended the catechism classes or the schools of the
religious congregations, and received a benefit which they understood
how to appreciate. There were strange contrasts in this mixture. Not
to forget a single characteristic detail, I caught some observations
that denoted on the part of their authors serious regrets for the
dreadful catastrophe which terrified the whole city.

If, among the insurgent battalions chosen to fire on the inoffensive
inhabitants of Paris, there were some to deplore the horrors of civil
war, how many might not have been found in the other battalions! If
the ringleaders could be separated from those whom they lead, and the
deceivers from the deceived, the number of the latter would be
considerable, and the former somewhat modified. One of the most
serious faults of the workman of Paris is the incredible facility with
which he enters into all the hollow schemes of the rogue and the
charlatan who tempt him, and sacrifices to their mad ambition and
culpable projects his peace, his property, his honor, and his life.

My guide, or rather my guard, appeared insensible to the insults as
well as to the salutations I received on the way. Arms in hand, always
impassible and solemn, it was only now and then he cast toward me an
inquisitorial glance, as if to assert his authority and my dependence.

I made known the object of my mission to the leader of the post at the
Ministère de la Justice. He was a young and well-bred officer. He
listened to me with attention, and replied, after saluting me twice
with a politeness full of respect, that I was at liberty to do all I

I found the sick person I had seen the evening before in the hôtel of
the minister of justice, exhausted by excitement that was hastening
his end. He could see from his sick-bed all that occurred on the
Place. In one corner of the apartment his sister, endowed with the
higher Christian virtues, and an aged lady whom I did not know, but
who was probably their mother, were weeping over the public as well as
their own private woes. I had promised the sick person the night
before to visit him again in three or four days, but as I could not
enter the Place Vendôme without indicating the precise place I wished
to go to, and could not have a better means of ascertaining where the
victims of the fusillade had been transported, I briefly explained the
reason of my unexpected call and gave him some religious
encouragement, which was to be the last. I learned that the dead and
wounded removed from the Place had been carried to one of the
neighboring houses occupied by the administration and the ambulance       139
of the Crédit Mobilier. I hurried thither.

The Ministère de la Justice was as silent and deserted as on the
preceding night. Four sentinels were posted between the court and
garden; a fifth at the door of the hôtel had the air of guarding most
conscientiously an absent excellency.

In going out, I sought with a discreet glance for my solemn guard, to
become anew his prisoner. The officer who had received me a few
moments before informed me he had sent him back to his post. From that
moment I could go where I pleased.

At the Crédit Mobilier I met two bodies that were being carried to
their relatives. I was told that one was M. Molinet, one of the most
pious and exemplary young men of the parish. He had been shot down by
the side of his father, who, notwithstanding his inexpressible grief,
had been torn from the body of his only son and carried as a prisoner
to the staff-officer of the Place. After offering up a prayer for
these two unfortunate victims, I inquired for the apartment to which
the wounded had been carried.

The consternation and terror that reigned among the inhabitants of the
Place Vendôme may be imagined from the sinister events that had
occurred before their eyes, and the dangers of all kinds with which
they were threatened. Stupor was depicted on the faces of the
concierges of the Crédit Mobilier. These good people were hardly
willing to half-open the door of their lodge, and muttered something
vague which was not an answer to my question. At last they sent with
me to the _salle_ of the wounded a charming child of eight or ten
years of age. He examined with more curiosity than fear the strange
features of the citizens of Montmartre and Belleville who occupied the

The number of the wounded in the ambulance was six. They were still on
the litter on which they had been brought. Two infirmarians, who wore
the red cross of the International society, were zealously attending
to them: a _cantinière_ of somewhat free manners also manifested
an equal desire to aid them. The insurgents that frequented the rooms
behaved with propriety; they spoke in low tones, and instead of the
care which they were not fitted to bestow, the most of them manifested
a sympathy mingled with curiosity. Beyond this, their faces displayed
no emotion; my presence did not astonish them; they discreetly retired
when I approached the sufferers. No one appeared to me mortally
wounded. Nevertheless, I administered religious aid to one of them at
his own request, and confined myself to giving the rest as much
encouragement as possible, for which they earnestly thanked me. They
all belonged to the bourgeoisie. The last to arrive lived in the Rue
Meyerbeer, and did not appear to be more than thirty years old. He
told me he was to have set out that very evening to join his wife and
children in the country, but wished before leaving to perform the part
of a good citizen by joining in the manifestation. He had been wounded
three times, but not dangerously.

At the entrance of the room a young man seized with frightful
convulsions had been laid down on the parquet. He was partly dressed
as a soldier of the line, and partly as a national guardsman. He was
doubtless one of the too numerous soldiers who had united with the
insurgents, and been drawn into serving their sad cause. The fusillade
from the ranks of his new colleagues, and the numerous victims they
had just shot down, must have caused a violent fit of remorse. He         140
was not wounded, but only had a sudden nervous attack, that affected
him in a manner painful to behold. He did not appear to understand
anything, and was suffering from contractions and contorsions of a
truly frightful character. I approached him--tried to calm him with
some kind words, and then recommended him aloud to the care of the two
infirmarians of the International society. The national guards who
surrounded him appeared touched to see manifested for one of their
number an interest equal to that I had just shown for the victims of
devotedness to the cause of law and order.

Before leaving the Place Vendôme I wished to ascertain if any of the
victims had been taken to the ambulance of M. Constant Say. This was
one of the six ambulances I was appointed to visit during the siege,
to administer religious aid and awaken the moral sense of the soldiers
who were sick or wounded. This ambulance was kept in perfect order.
More than once, in observing the meals of the wounded, I envied them
the healthful and abundant nourishment served up to them during the
interminable months of December and January. They were treated as real
members of the family, and were truly the spoiled children of the
house. They were daily visited by one of the most celebrated
physicians of Paris, who lavished on them the most intelligent care,
and by the minister of Jesus Christ, who no less kindly spoke to them
of God, their souls, their absent mothers, and of their temporal and
eternal welfare. It could not be otherwise in a family whose extensive
industrial establishment and inexhaustible charity are such a benefit
to the laboring classes of Paris. I had the consolation of seeing all
the soldiers who were taken to this ambulance leave it better Christians
and better Frenchmen.

As to the rest, during the entire siege, the solicitude of the
Parisians for the sick and wounded soldiers was truly admirable, and
the praise I am bound in justice to accord to the ambulance of M.
Constant Say, may be equally given to the rest I was appointed to
visit: the ambulances of M. Frottin, formerly mayor of the first
arrondissement, in the Rue St. Honoré; that of M. Jourdain, a member
of the Institute, in the Rue du Luxembourg; of Dr. Moissenet, a
physician of the Hôtel Dieu, in the Rue Richepanse; of Madame Dognin,
of the Point-du-Jour at Auteuil; and, finally, the ambulance bravely
founded and directed at Grenelle by some laboring women of ardent
faith, and a devotedness that works wonders, and transferred after the
bombardment of Grenelle to the magnificent hôtel of M. le Comte Mercy
d’Argenteau on the Rue de Suresne.

I was also aware that there were still some wounded soldiers in M.
Say’s ambulance. The brutal invasion of the Place Vendôme had
prevented me from visiting them the two days previous. To go there, I
was obliged to cross the entire Place. It seemed more like a field of
battle than a Place. Here were stacks of arms, there were caissons
full of supplies, further on were delegates of the central committee
of the Hôtel de Ville, who where transmitting orders with feverish
haste, and everywhere were the insurgents who had just fired, and who
were ready to take fresh aim.

I had no longer an armed guard to accompany me. During my walk, which
I frankly acknowledge would have seemed much shorter on ordinary
occasions, I was again an object of insult and sarcasms not highly
seasoned with wit from some, of respect and sympathy from others, and     141
of astonishment or indifference from the greatest part. I had never
seen so great a number of persons eating and drinking. Their appetite
only gave out after complete exhaustion of the means of gratifying it.
It is true that, to the demoralized workmen who abound in Paris, the
word riot signifies the time for good eating, and still better
drinking, and no work at all.

Against the railing that surrounds the column were squatting several
national guardsmen, to whom a _cantinière_ dealt out liquor. The
oldest was certainly not eighteen. At my approach one of them, who had
doubtless been a chorister in some church, instinctively made a
respectful bow. A second, who made some pretensions to delicate wit,
pointed at me with his sabre, uttering a laugh more stupid than
malicious. A third, and this became more serious, loaded, or pretended
to load, his musket, which he pointed at me. At the same time the
_cantinière_ encouraged him with atrocious words, that no
delicate ear would pardon me for relating. I had had for seven months
so many occasions to recommend my soul to God, that I thought it
opportune to do so once more. Nevertheless, not to take things too
seriously, I recalled the amusing reply made me by an excellent man,
from the neighborhood of St. Sulpice, who was obliged, after the three
first days of bombardment on the left side by the Prussians, to seek
refuge in the vicinity of the Madeleine. When I approved of his
prudent decision, he replied, “In fact, I could not reasonably pass
every night in recommending my soul to God!”

I arrived at my ambulance without any harm but a momentary fright.
None of the victims of the fusillade had been brought here. I found
my dear wounded ones in a fair way to be healed, but very much
depressed by what was passing around them, and humiliated especially
by the shameful defection of a part of the troops on the deplorable
day of Saturday, the eighteenth.

My sacerdotal mission was ended. In returning across the Place
Vendôme, I was not the witness or the object of any occurrence that
merits attention. The dense line of insurgents that guarded the
entrance of the Place from the Rue de la Paix opened for me to pass.
The patrol, who remembered having allowed me to enter, asked no
questions in permitting me to go out. I met a man in the Rue
Neuve-des-Capucines who was covering a real pool of blood with sand.
There was no change in the manner of the patrols: the street was still
like a tomb. Nearly in front of the Crédit Foncier, a shop-keeper of
respectable appearance timidly opened one of the doors of his shop,
and asked permission to pass from the last patrol toward the
boulevard, which was not more than fifty yards from me. He appeared so
alarmed, and his face was so extremely pale, that the patrol, proud of
the fear he inspired, did not fail to avail himself of so favorable an
opportunity of amusing himself at the other’s expense. He questioned
him with an affected solemnity which would have excited my laughter in
less tragical times, addressed him a long and severe recommendation,
and when the man turned, more dead than alive, toward the boulevard,
the youngest of the band, who hid the malicious hilarity of a
_gamin_ under the gravity of a judge, took his gun, and pointing
it toward the shop-keeper, who happily was not aware of such a salute,
had the air of saying: “If the rest of the bourgeoisie resemble this      142
one, Paris is certainly ours.”

I was as much saddened at the dejected and disconcerted appearance of
most of the inhabitants of this quarter, as I had been alarmed by the
boldness and audacity displayed on the Place Vendôme by the workmen of
the faubourgs, old criminals and revolutionists from all countries,
who held possession of it. There was more stupor than indignation
among the former. They hardly ventured to the doors of their houses,
they spoke in low tones for fear of being compromised. This
unfortunate attitude of the lovers of order only encouraged the energy
and boldness of the enemies of society. I comprehended for the first
time how a handful of factionists had been able in 1793 to terrify and
decimate the better part of the community, who were ten times as
numerous. The very day when the lovers of order will say to those of
disorder, with the same energy and firmness as God to the waves of the
sea, “Thou shalt go no further!” Paris will have no more to fear from
anarchy and revolution, and France will no longer oscillate between
the equally deplorable extremes of despotism and license.

If this simple and impartial account, intended to cast a little light
upon one of the saddest and most execrable episodes of the revolution
of the eighteenth of March, could also have the effect of calling the
more particular attention of the lovers of order and stability, of
whatever nation and party, to the dark aims of the International
league of demagogues who, under the mask of workingmen’s associations,
prudential interests, and mutual protection, aim at the denial of God,
the destruction of family and country, of public capital and private
savings, of the domestic and political hierarchy--in a word, the
destruction of all those principles which are the foundation of
society; and also of thoroughly convincing the better classes of Paris
and all the larger cities of France, that the promoters of disorder
and anarchy, though now recruiting from the lowest social grades of
Europe, are only strong in consequence of their own inaction and
regard for self; that such power is only derived from their own want
of discipline and energy; that they would only have to enroll,
organize, and assert themselves to utterly destroy it--I shall have
realized one of my most ardent wishes, and labored in my sphere of
action for the consolidation of the social edifice and of public
order, so profoundly shaken.

It was nearly six o’clock when I reached home. I had passed a little
more than three-quarters of an hour among the insurgents and the
wounded of the Place Vendôme. God alone knows with what emotion and
earnestness I implored him that I might never be subjected again to
such a trial to my heart as a priest and a Frenchman.

Here ends my first account, drawn up at the end of March. I need not
add that my prayer was not granted. The Commune was founded in blood
and terror, and was to end in a fiendish debauchery of madness and

                          TO BE CONTINUED.

     [41] Here is what, according to the _Paris Journal_ of
     Versailles for the 18th of May, citizen Raoul Rigault wrote
     from the préfecture of police to citizen Floquet, one of the
     unhappy instigators of this pretended compromise:

     “My dear Floquet, you have decided then to set out with
     Villeneuve and the prefect Lechevalier for Bordeaux. We are
     too much united in our sentiments for you not to feel the
     importance of your mission. The league of the republican
     union, in pleading its own cause, pleads ours. As to your
     9,500 francs, I will endeavor to furnish them, though it is
     difficult to procure remittances.”


                         NEW PUBLICATIONS.                                143

    12mo. New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1871.

The great success of the original life of Mother Margaret Mary
Hallahan, foundress of the Third Order of Dominican Nuns in England,
and the edification it has given to thousands of readers everywhere,
have induced her sisters and admirers to prepare an abridged life for
more general reading.

The abridgment is in every respect a creditable performance. In beauty
of diction, as well as in the subject-matter treated, superior ability
in biographical style is very discernible. The paper, printing, and
binding are also of the first class.

All who are interested, either from motives of faith or even of
curiosity, in the surprising revival of the Catholic religion in
England within the last half-century, will be cheered and delighted by
the perusal of this new edition, as it may be called, of the life of
one of the greatest agents in this wonderful work of God. The
cheapness of the work, moreover, puts it within easy reach of all
Catholic readers.

  SCHOOL-HOUSES. By James Johonnot. Architectural Designs by S. E.
    Hewes. New York: J. W. Schermerhorn & Co. 1871.

Undoubtedly the subject treated in this work is one of considerable
importance, involving, as it does, the health and future prospects as
well as the present comfort of the rising generation. No doubt, also,
there is immense room for improvement in the internal arrangements of
the buildings in which so large a portion of the time of the young,
and especially of children, is to be passed; above all, as regards the
points of light, heating, and ventilation. The construction
particularly of country school-houses is also certainly open to change
for the better, and many good suggestions are made and designs
furnished by the authors. Some of these designs, however, strike us as
being unnecessarily ornate. The latter part is occupied with the
questions of furniture, apparatus, grounds, etc., and with many
illustrations of chairs, desks, globes, and other appliances, which
will be found useful and interesting. The book is finely printed, and
beautifully bound.

  OF ADORATION IN SPIRIT AND TRUTH. Written in four books. By John
    Eusebius Nieremberg, S.J., native of Madrid, and translated into
    English by R. S., S.J., with a Preface by the Rev. Peter Gallwey,
    S.J. London: Burns, Oates & Co. 1871.

This beautiful volume forms the first of a series of works, under the
title of “St. Joseph’s Ascetical Library,” undertaken by the Fathers
of the Society of Jesus in England. It is no novelty in itself, though
it will probably be new to almost all who see it in its present form.
The author was born at Madrid in 1590, and died in 1658; and this
translation of his work was made nearly two hundred years ago, in
1673, and has that charm of quaintness and simplicity which it is now
in vain to imitate.

The title might convey the idea that the treatise before us was a very
abstract and mystical one, unsuited to the generality of readers. But
such an idea would be soon dispelled by a glance at some of the
headings of its chapters, such as, “How Incommodious a Thing Sleep
is,” “How Penances and Corporal Afflictions help Us,” and “That we
must rise Fervorously to our Morning Prayer.” It is practical enough      144
for any one, perfectly clear, intelligible, and interesting; and, at
the same time, no one can find in it any want of devotion or

It is divided into four books, as stated in the title; the first,
second, and fourth treating of the purgative, illuminative, and
unitive ways respectively; the third being concerned with “What
Belongs to a most Perfect Practical Performance of Our Actions,” which
illustrates in detail the general principles laid down in what

We are under great obligations to the editors for having brought into
notice, and into general use, as we trust, this treasure of Catholic
piety. It will be of inestimable value to all who desire to lead a
really spiritual life and to practice the “adoration” of which it
treats, which is nothing else than complete self-renunciation and
devotion, in the true sense of the word, to God and to his service.

    Longmans, Green & Co.

We have several excellent biographies of St. Ignatius in the English
language, but the present one is likely, we think, to become the most
popular. It is carefully compiled, written in that literary style and
with those graphic sketches of surrounding circumstances which modern
taste demands, and published in an elegant manner. Its principal
distinctive excellence consists in the portraiture of the early life
of Ignatius as the accomplished, valiant, and Christian knight, whose
noble and chivalrous character formed the basis of his future heroic
sanctity. We welcome any work which may make the illustrious founder
of the Society of Jesus and his Institute better known both to
Catholics and Protestants, and we hope for a wide circulation for this
ably and charmingly written biography.

    Patrick Donahoe.

The burning of the convent in Charlestown, and the accompanying
horrors of that fearful night, are subjects worthy of a graphic
description, well calculated to point a moral and adorn a tale. We
confess our disappointment in this volume, written, no doubt, with a
good design. The conversations are weak and pointless, and too much of
the book is occupied with the irrelevant talk of the “conspirators.”
We protest against the introduction of oaths into story-books. The
interest of the story is marred by these faults.

MR. P. DONAHOE, Boston, announces as in press an account of the
“Passion Play” at Oberammergau, Bavaria, from the pen of the Rev.
George W. Doane, Chancellor of the Diocese of Newark. It will be
dedicated to the Rt. Rev. J. R. Bayley, D.D., Bishop of Newark.

The Catholic Publication Society will publish, early in November, _Mary,
Queen of Scots, and her Latest Historian_, by James F. Meline. This
book will contain the articles which appeared in THE CATHOLIC WORLD on
Mr. Froude, as well as a great deal of new matter. In fact, the
articles as they appeared in THE CATHOLIC WORLD are almost entirely
rewritten, and many new facts produced. It will be a complete
refutation of Mr. Froude’s romance of history.

                      *     *     *     *     *

ERRATUM.--In the article on “The Reformation not Conservative,”
p. 733, 1st column, 16th line from the bottom, for _French_ sovereigns
read _Frank_ sovereigns. Christendom was founded some centuries before
there was a French sovereign or a French kingdom, in the modern sense
of the word _French_, or France. The Franks were a Germanic race, and
the German was their mother-tongue.

                                THE                                       145

                          CATHOLIC WORLD.

                VOL. XIV., No. 80.--NOVEMBER, 1871.

     Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by
  REV. I. T. HECKER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at
                         Washington, D. C.


The question we propose to discuss in this article is opened in the
note we introduce, answering an objection to the infallibility of the
church, made by a lawyer through a third person, and by an elaborate
note from the lawyer in reply, and urging another and, in his
judgment, a still more serious objection. The editor’s note is:

     “The objection of your friend against the _infallible_ Bible
     interpreted by a _fallible_ reason, as a sure rule of faith, is
     unanswerable. Nothing stronger could be said against the
     Protestant position.

     “His objection against the church, _so far as it goes_, if I
     understand it correctly, is also unanswerable. It is quite
     evident that no agglomeration of fallible men can make an
     infallible church, either by the personal authority of the
     individuals or in virtue of their agglomeration. But that is by
     no means the question with us.

     “We deny that the church is simply an agglomeration of men; and
     we deny that the infallibility comes by the authority of its
     members in any way.

     “As Christ is a Theanthropical person, so also the church is a
     Theanthropical society, of which Christ is the head, the Holy
     Ghost the soul, and the regenerated men the body. The
     infallibility comes from the Holy Ghost, through Christ, to the

     “_If it is so_, it is evident that the infallibility will remain
     as long as the union shall last. And in that supposition the
     learned lawyer cannot fail to see that infallibility does not, in
     any way, come to the body by the authority of its members, but
     from God, the only authoritative and absolute power in the world,
     which can bind the minds as well as the wills of men.

     “That is the Catholic question, and the real position we

     “If each man is his own authority, according to the preceding
     remarks in this book (and that is conceded), then an
     authoritative church is impossible, because it presents an
     authority external to me, and then asks me to accept it. I admit
     that, if there is to be _any_ church, it must be of divine
     origin. Even were the Bible inspired and infallible, I, being
     fallible, must interpret it fallibly, and therefore it must be
     the same _to me_ for all intents and purposes as if it were a
     fallible book. The same argument applies to the church as a
     divine, authoritative institution--what is _outside_ of the
     man--that is, the so-called fact is not an authority for him; but
     he is the authority for it; if not an absolute authority, at any
     rate, the only authority possible. The trouble arises from the
     Baconian philosophy, which has attempted to build up a system on
     _facts_ so-called--without rejecting the _authority_ for those
     facts--_as if the authority were in the fact itself_.”

This speaks for itself, and the position it takes is not controverted.    146
But the lawyer says it does not meet the question, that is, we
presume, the question as it is in his mind, though he had not
previously expressed it. He says:

     “The note given me does not meet the question. It is claimed that
     the church is infallible because a divine institution--that is,
     because established by God.

     “Now, admit it to be a divine institution, if it is to be
     presented for our acceptance, it must be for the acceptance of
     our fallible reason.

     “For example, when the missionary carries the church to the
     heathen, does he not present it for their rational acceptance?
     And if so, does he not ask their finite judgment to pass upon and
     accept the infinite and the absolute?

     “Now, the point is this: if the thing or truth presented be
     infinite and absolute, and the person to whom it is presented be
     imperfect, fallible, and conditioned, how can the truth--or the
     church, if you please--appear otherwise to him than according to
     his finite and partial interpretation of it?

     “The question in respect to the absolute is, not whether it be
     _really_ true and absolute or not, but to what extent does the
     normal affirmation go respecting it. In short, must not the same
     argument obtain against the church as against the Bible?

     “It comes to the question of _authority_; and, if all intelligent
     authority resides in _the person_ (and certainly each one must,
     from the nature of his constitution, be his own authority), then
     it follows that no authority whatever can reside in the state,
     the church, or in any mere institution or being _outside_ of the
     person, whether that church or institution assume divinity or

     “The authority is not in the _so-called fact_, but in _the
     person_ to whom the so-called fact is presented, and who is
     called upon to pass upon it.

     “The Baconian system is false, because it makes the so-called
     fact the authority for itself; when plainly the very existence or
     comprehension of the so-called fact depends wholly on the
     _person_ to whom it is presented.”

The objection is, apparently, the objection we ourselves bring to the
Protestant rule of faith, namely, the Bible interpreted by private
judgment. The Bible may be the word of God and infallible, but my
interpretation of it, or my private judgment in interpreting it, is
fallible, and therefore I have in it and with it only a fallible rule
of faith. So the church may be a divine institution, and by the
assistance of the Holy Ghost infallible; but her teaching is addressed
to my intelligence, and must be passed upon by my private judgment,
which is finite and fallible, therefore incompetent to pass upon the
infinite and absolute. Hence, the Catholic rule no more gives
infallible faith than does the Protestant rule. The principle of the
objection the lawyer urges is that authority is intrinsic, not
extrinsic; comes not from without, but from within, from the mind, and
can never be greater than the mind itself; and as that is fallible,
there is and can be no infallible authority for faith or belief. The
objection is simply that an infallible authority for the mind in
matters of faith is impossible, because the mind is not itself
infallible, and therefore incapable of an infallible act or assent.
This, we believe, is the objection in all its force.

The objection rests on two principles, neither of which is tenable:
first, that the mind or intellect is universally fallible; and,
second, that the authority in matters of faith is in the mind itself,
not out of it, and, therefore, belief in anything on extrinsic
authority is impossible.

1. The intellect is not universal or infinite, and does not and cannot
know all things; but it is never false in what it knows, and in its
own sphere is infallible; that is, the intellect is not false or
fallible in what it knows, for every one who knows knows that he
knows. The judgment is false or fallible only when and where, and so
far as knowledge fails. Thus, St. Augustine says,[42] _Omnis qui          147
fallitur, id quo fallitur, non intelligit_. The error is not in the
intellect or intelligence, but in the ignorance or non-intelligence.
Doubtless, we can and do err in our judgment of matters of which we
are ignorant, of which we have only an imperfect knowledge, or when we
undertake from what we do know to judge of things unknown, which is
all that St. Thomas means when he says, “_Falsitas est in
intellectu_.”[43] To deny this is to deny all human knowledge, and to
assert universal scepticism, and then the lawyer could not assert his
objection, and would be obliged to doubt even that he doubts. If the
intellect is universally fallible, we may as well close the discussion
at once, for nothing can be settled. If it, in its own province, where
it really does know, is infallible, then the only question is,
whether, in passing judgment on the facts that establish the
infallibility of the church, the intellect is obliged to go out of its
own province, and judge of matters in regard to which it is
confessedly incompetent and fallible?--a question we shall consider in
its place.

2. We join issue with the lawyer on his assertion that the authority
is intrinsic in the mind itself, not extrinsic, either in the object
or the authority that affirms it. He says in his note that “no
authority whatever can reside in the state, the church, or any mere
institution or being _outside_ of the person, whether that church or
institution assume divinity or not. The authority is not in the
so-called _fact_, but in the _person_ to whom the so-called fact is
addressed, and who is called upon to pass upon it. The Baconian system
is false, because it makes the so-called fact the authority for
itself; when plainly the very _existence_ or comprehension of it
depends wholly on the person to whom it is addressed.” So we do not
know facts because they exist, but they exist because we know them or
judge them to exist! But how can so-called facts be addressed to the
person before they exist? The lawyer goes farther than his argument
against the church requires, and consequently proves, if anything, too
much, and therefore nothing. He makes not only all knowledge, but,
unintentionally, we presume, all existences, depend on their being
known, and therefore makes them purely subjective, and falls into
Fichteism or pure egoism.

The lawyer’s rule excludes not only faith, but knowledge of every sort
and degree; for all knowledge is assent, and in the simplest fact of
knowledge the intellectual assent is given on authority or evidence
extrinsic to the person, though intrinsic in the object. Knowledge is
either intuitive or discursive. In intuitive knowledge, the evidence
or motive of the intellectual assent is intrinsic in the object, but
extrinsic to the assenting mind. The immediate presence of the object
motives or authorizes the assent, and the mind has simply the power or
faculty of apprehending the object, or judging that it is, when
presented; for, without the object affirming its presence to the mind,
there can be no fact of knowledge or intellectual assent. In
discursive knowledge the authority or evidence, as in intuitive
knowledge, is intrinsic in the object, but it is implicit, and can be
placed in immediate relation with the intellectual faculty only by
discursion--a process of reasoning or demonstration. But demonstration
does not motive the assent; it only removes the _prohibentia_, or
renders explicit what is implicit, for nothing can be asserted in the     148
conclusion not already implicitly asserted in the premises; yet the
assent is by virtue of the evidence or authority intrinsic in the
object, as in intuition. All this means that we know objects because
they are and are placed in relation with our cognitive faculty, not
that they are because we know them, or because the mind places them,
or makes them its object. If the lawyer’s rule, that authority is not
in the object but in the mind or person, were true, there could be no
fact of knowledge, either intuitive or discursive, because the mind
cannot know where there is nothing to be known.

Faith or belief agrees with knowledge in the respect that it is
intellectual assent, but differs from it in that it is mediate assent,
by an authority extrinsic, as authority or evidence, both to the
object and to the person. The authority or evidence mediates between
the mind and the fact or object, and brings them together in a manner
somewhat analogous to that in which the middle term in the syllogism
brings together the two extremes and unites them in the conclusion. If
the evidence or the authority is adequate, the belief is reasonable
and as certain as any conclusion of logic, or as the immediate assent
of the mind in the fact of science or knowledge. I am as certain that
there is such a city as Rome, though I have never seen it, that there
was such a man as Julius Cæsar, George Washington, or Napoleon
Bonaparte, as I am that the three angles of the triangle are equal to
two right angles. It is on this principle the lawyer acts and must act
in every case he has in court. He summons and examines witnesses, and
relies on their testimony or evidence to obtain a conviction or an
acquittal, except in a question of law; and then he relies on the
judge or the court. If there is no authority _outside_ the person,
that is, no authority not in his own mind, why does he summon and
examine and cross-examine witnesses or consult the judge? Why does he
not work the facts and the law out of his own “inner consciousness,”
as do most modern historians the facts they give us for history? As a
lawyer, our friend would soon find his principle, if he carried it
into court, operating as an effectual estoppel to the practice of his

The lawyer asks, “When the missionary carries the church to the
heathen, does he not present it for their rational acceptance? And if
so, does he not ask their finite judgment to pass upon and accept the
infinite and absolute?” We are sure our friend would argue better than
this if he had a case in court on which anything of importance
depended. When presented by his brother lawyer opposite with the
decision of the court of appeals barring his case, would he attempt to
judge or pass upon the judgment of the court before accepting it, or
would he not be content with simply verifying the fact that the
decision has been rendered by the court of appeals or court of last
resort? We feel quite sure that, if he were on the defensive, and
adduced the decision of the court of last resort barring the action,
he would be very far from allowing his brother opposite to question
the judgment. Nor would he as a lawyer dream of rejecting the decision
because his own mind had not passed upon its merits; but, when once
assured that the court had rendered it, he would accept it and submit
to it as law, not on his own judgment, but on the authority of the
court itself. All he would allow himself to do would be to verify the
powers of the court, in order to ascertain if it is a court of            149
competent jurisdiction, and to be sure that it had rendered the
decision. The decision itself he would not, as a lawyer, think of
examining any farther than to ascertain its meaning. He would take it
as final, and submit to it as law, whether for him or against him.

The objection fails to distinguish what, in the case supposed, the
heathen are required to pass upon in order to act rationally in
accepting the church. They would be required to pass on the
sufficiency of the evidence of her divine institution and commission
to teach and govern all men and nations in all things pertaining to
the kingdom of God on earth. That evidence, called by theologians
“motives of credibility,” found complete, all the rest follows as a
logical consequence, and there is no calling upon “the finite to pass
upon the infinite and absolute, any more than there is upon the
counsellor to pass upon the merits of the judgment of the court of
final resort after being certified that the court has actually
rendered it. All that one has to believe of the infinite and absolute,
after he has established by evidence appropriate in the case the
divine institution and commission of the church, he believes on the
authority of the church herself.

The missionary, no doubt, presents the church to their rational
acceptance, and must, therefore, present to them the motives of
credibility, or the facts which accredit her as divinely instituted
and commissioned, and these motives, these facts, must be addressed to
their understanding, and be such as their reason can pass upon and
accept or reject. But the question is, Supposing reason has passed
upon these facts or the motives, and found them sufficient to accredit
the church, as a teacher come from God, and commissioned or authorized
by him to teach his word, is not the acceptance of that word on her
authority as the word of God a “rational acceptance,” and all the most
rigid reason does or can demand?

The lawyer says no; and because all authority is in the person, and
resides nowhere _outside_ of him, and therefore it is necessary that
reason should pass upon the contents of the word, that is, upon the
doctrines and mysteries contained in the word the church professes to
teach, which is impossible; for it requires the finite to pass upon
the infinite and absolute, which exceeds its powers; therefore, faith
is impossible. But this simply implies that no belief is admissible
that is not science, and faith must be swallowed up in knowledge, and
thus cease to be faith, before the human mind can rationally accept

The trouble with the lawyer’s objection is that it assumes that faith
is irrational, unless it is science or knowledge. His statement goes
even farther than this. He not only denies that there can be any
rational belief on extrinsic authority, but that there is or can be
any such authority, or that any state, church, or _being_ has or can
have any authority _outside_ of me, or not derived from me. This, as
far as words go, asserts that God himself has no authority over me,
and his word has no authority for my reason or will, not dependent on
me. We do not believe he means this, for he is not divested of the
reason common to all men. He means, we presume, simply that no state,
no church, not even God himself, has any authority on which I can
rationally believe anything which transcends the reach of my reason,
or which is not intrinsically evident to my reason by its own light.      150
But what is evident to me by the light of my own reason, I know, and
not simply believe. As belief is always on extrinsic authority simply
accredited to reason, this goes so far as to deny that any belief is
or can be rational, and that any authority or any amount of testimony
is sufficient to warrant it, which, as we have seen, is much farther
than the lawyer can go in the practice of his profession, or any man
in the ordinary business of life.

We do not think our legal friend has duly considered the reach of the
principle he lays down. Even in the so-called positive sciences, the
greater part of the matters accepted by the scientist are accepted on
extrinsic authority, not on personal knowledge. No geologist has
personally observed all or even the greater part of the facts he uses
in the construction of his science; no geographer, however great a
traveller he may have been, has visited and personally examined all
parts of the globe which he describes; the botanist describes and
classifies more plants, the zoölogist more forms of life, than he has
personally seen, and the historian deals almost entirely with facts of
which he has no personal knowledge. Eliminate from the sciences what
the scientist has not observed for himself, but taken on the reported
observation of others, and from the garniture of every mind what it
believes or takes on extrinsic authority, not on his personal
knowledge, and there would be very little left to distinguish the most
learned and highly educated man from the untutored savage. In all the
affairs of life, we are obliged to rely on extrinsic authority, on
evidence neither in the subject nor in the object, on the observations
and testimony of others, and sometimes on the observations and
accumulated testimony of ages, especially in wise and prudent
statesmanship; and if we were suddenly deprived of this authority
evidence, or testimony, and reduced to our own personal knowledge,
intuitive or discursive; society would come to a standstill, and would
soon fall below the level of the New Hollander, for even he inherits
some lessons from the past, and associates with his observations some
observations of others.

We presume our friend the lawyer means nothing of all this, and his
mistake arises from not sharply distinguishing between the motives of
credibility and the authority, on the one hand, and the authority and
what it authorizes, on the other. The existence of God is a fact of
science, though discursive, not intuitive, science. That God is, as
the theologians say, _prima veritas in essendo, in cognoscendo, et in
dicendo_, is also a truth of science--is a truth we not simply believe,
but know or may know, for it can be proved with certainty by natural
reason prior to faith. God is truth; it is impossible for him to lie,
since he is _prima veritas in dicendo_, the primal truth in speaking,
and can neither deceive nor be deceived, for he is _prima veritas in
cognoscendo_, or the principle of all truth in knowing.

This granted, the word of God must be true, infallibly true. So far we
can go by science or certain knowledge. Now, suppose the lawyer to
have full proof that it really is God’s word that is announced to him,
would he not be bound to believe it true, nay, could he in the
exercise of his reason help believing it true, prior to and
independent of any consideration of its contents, or what it is that
God says? God can neither deceive nor be deceived, therefore his word
must be true, and cannot possibly be false. God’s word is the highest     151
and most conclusive evidence conceivable of the truth of what is
asserted in his word, and, if the truth, then reasonable, for nothing
is more reasonable than truth or unreasonable than falsehood. It
would, therefore, be as unnecessary as irreverent and impertinent to
examine God’s word to see if what he asserts is reasonable before
yielding it our assent. We know beforehand that it is true, or else
God could not affirm it, and that whatever conflicts with it is false
and unreasonable; and the lawyer himself will admit, we presume, that
the highest possible reason for believing is God’s word, in case we
have it. Let us consider so much settled.

The next step is the proof or certainty that what is alleged to be the
word of God really is his word. His word is his revelation. Suppose,
then, that he made his revelation, and deposited it with the apostles
whom he commanded to go forth and teach it to all men and nations. The
apostles would, on this supposition, be competent and credible
witnesses to the fact that God made and deposited his revelation with
them. Suppose, farther, that the apostles transmitted to their
successors, or, rather, that the church is the identical apostolical
body, continued without any interruption or break down to our time,
the church would then be a competent and credible witness to the fact
of revelation and to what is revealed. Being the eye-witness of the
facts which proved our Lord a teacher come from God and authorized to
speak in his name, and the depositary of the revelation, her testimony
is conclusive. She saw with her own eyes the facts, she knows what has
been deposited with her, and the commission she received, and therefore
her testimony or evidence cannot be gainsaid. She is the living and
contemporary witness, and every-way credible, as we have shown in the
article _The Church accredits Herself_.[44]

The infallibility follows necessarily from her commission from God to
teach all men and nations. This commission from God commands all men
and nations in his name to believe and obey what she teaches as his
word. If she could err in teaching, then all men and nations might be
required by God himself to believe error or falsehood, which is
impossible, since God is truth, and can neither deceive nor be
deceived. The divine commission to the church or apostolic body to
teach carries with it the divine pledge of infallibility.

Now, supposing the church to be what she claims to be, reason itself
requires us to accept and obey as the word of God whatever she teaches
as his word, since his word is true, and the highest possible evidence
of truth. Nothing is or can be more reasonable than to believe the
word of God, or to believe God on his word. Equally reasonable with it
is it to believe that what the Apostolic Church declares to be his
word, really is so, if she is instituted and commissioned by God to
keep, guard, teach, interpret, declare, and define it. The only point,
then, to be proved is the divine institution and commission, both of
which, if the apostolic body, she is herself the authority for
asserting, as the supreme court is the authority for asserting its own
legal constitution, power, and jurisdiction. This leaves, then, only a
single point to be proved, namely, the historical identity of the body
calling itself the Catholic Church with the apostolic body with whom
the revelation was deposited.

We need not now go into the historical proofs of the identity of the      152
Catholic Church with the apostolic body, for that is easily done, and
has been done over and over again; besides, it lies on the very face
of history, and Pius IX., the Pontiff now gloriously reigning, is as
easily and as certainly proved to be the successor of Peter as Ulysses
S. Grant is proved to be the successor in the presidency of the United
States of George Washington, the schism of Jefferson Davis to the
contrary notwithstanding. Moreover, if the lawyer doubts, as we
presume he does not, the identity, we hold ourselves ready to adduce
the proofs whenever he calls for them. Assuming, then, the case to be
as stated, we demand what in the whole process of acceptance of the
faith the missionary proposes to the heathen is irrational, or not
satisfactory, to the fullest demands of reason? In fact, the points to
be proved are exceedingly few, and those not above the reach of
private judgment, or difficult. The authority of our Lord as a teacher
come from God was proved by miracles. These miracles the church
witnessed and testifies to as facts, and so far her testimony is
unimpeachable. Their supernatural and miraculous character we can
ourselves judge of. Whether they prove the divine authority of Jesus
or not, is also a matter of which we are competent to judge. His
divine authority proved, his divinity, and all the mysteries of his
person can be rationally accepted on his word, and what his word was,
the church who received it is competent to declare. There really,
then, is nothing to be proved which the church herself does not either
prove or supply the means of proving in order to render belief in what
she claims to be, and in what she teaches, as rational or reasonable
as belief in any well-ascertained fact in natural science. The motives
of credibility which she brings with her and presents to the
understanding of all men who hear her accredit her as the divinely
appointed depositary and teacher of the revelation God has made to
men, and all the rest follows of itself, as in the syllogism the
conclusion follows from the premises.

The lawyer does not admit it, and rejects the whole, because he
rejects all belief on extrinsic authority. But is not this because he
mistakes the meaning of the word _authority_ as used by theologians
and philosophers? We have generally found that the men who object to
belief on authority understand by authority an order or command
addressed to the will, without including anything to convince the
reason or to motive the assent of the understanding. This is not
precisely the theological sense of the term. The theologians
understand by authority in matters of faith authority _for_ believing
as well as an order _to_ believe. It is the reason which authorizes
the belief, and is therefore primarily authority for the intellect,
and furnishes it an ample reason to believe.

Authority addressed simply to the will ordering it to believe, and
giving the intellect no reason for believing, can produce no rational
belief, and induce no belief at all, and this we presume is what, and
all, our legal friend means. Taking authority in his sense, we
entirely agree with him, except a command from God is always a reason
for the intellect as well as an order to the will, since God is
_prima veritas_, and can command only what is true, reasonable, just,
and right. His command is his word, and an order from him to the will
is _ipso facto_ a reason for the understanding, since no higher
evidence of truth than his word is possible. With this reserve, the       153
lawyer is right in his objection to belief on authority, as he
understands it, for there is no belief where there is no intellectual
conviction. But he is mistaken in supposing that theologians mean only
authority in his sense, authority commanding the will, and giving no
reason to the understanding; they mean primarily by authority in
matters of faith or reason authority for believing, and commanding it
only through conviction to believe, which it must do if convinced.

The authority, then, which we assert, is the reason for believing; it
is the _medius terminus_ that unites the credible object and the
creditive subject, and renders the belief possible and an intellectual
act, and so far assimilates it to knowledge. Belief without authority
is belief without any ground or reason for believing, and is
irrational, unfounded, mere credulity, as when one believes a rumor
for which there is no authority. When the authority is worthy of
credit, the belief is warranted, and when it is infallible, the belief
is infallible. In believing what the church teaches me is the word of
God, I have infallible authority for my belief, and cannot be
deceived, be mistaken, or err. This is all so plain, and so fully in
accord with the demands of reason, that we are forced to explain the
repugnance so many people manifest to believing on authority, by
supposing that they understand by authority simply an order of a
master to believe, without accompanying it with anything to convince
the understanding, thus making the act of faith an act not of faith at
all, but of mere blind obedience. This is all wrong. Faith as an
intellectual act cannot be blind any more than is the act of
knowledge, and must have a reason that convinces the understanding.
Hence, the church does not censure unbelief in those who know not the
authority or reason there is for belief, and, if at all, it is only
for their neglect to avail themselves with due diligence of the means
of arriving at belief within their reach.

The authority or command of God is indeed the highest reason the mind
can have for believing anything, and it is therefore that unbelief in
those who have his command or authority becomes sinful, because it
implies a contempt of God, a contempt of truth, and practically says
to him who made us, from whom we hold all that we have, and who is
truth itself, “We _will_ not take your word; we do not care what you
say; we are the masters of our own thoughts, and will think and
believe as we please.” This is not only irreverent and disobedient,
indicating a wholly indefensible pride and self-will, but denies the
very principle asserted by unbelievers in justification of their
refusal to believe at the order or command of authority, namely, that
it is not in one’s power to believe or disbelieve at will, nor as one

These explanations suffice, we think, to show that private judgment or
individual reason is not required by the Catholic to judge “the
infinite and absolute,” or to pass upon any matter that lies out of
the province of natural reason, and exceeds its competence or finite
capacity. It is required to pass only upon the motives of credibility,
or the facts that prove the church is a divine institution,
commissioned to teach all men and nations through all time the divine
revelation which she has received, and of these we are able by our own
light to judge. The authority to teach established, all the rest
follows logically and necessarily, as we have just said, as in the
syllogism the conclusion follows from the premises. The authority
being addressed to the intellect as well as to the will, and a            154
sufficient reason for believing as well as obeying, the lawyer’s
principal objection is disposed of, and the acceptance of the faith is
shown to be a rational acceptance.

But, conceding the infallibility of the church, since her teaching
must be received by a fallible understanding, why is belief on the
authority of the church less fallible than belief on the authority of
an infallible book, interpreted by the same fallible understanding?
You say to Protestants: The Bible may be infallible, but your
understanding of it is fallible, and therefore even with it you have
no infallible rule of faith. Why may not the Protestant retort: Be it
that the church is infallible, you have only your fallible private
judgment by which to interpret her teachings, and, therefore, with
your infallible church have only a fallible faith?

More words are usually required to answer an objection than are
required to state it. We do not assert or concede the fallibility of
reason, intellect, or private judgment in matters which come within
its own province or competence. Revelation presupposes reason, and
therefore that man is capable of receiving it; consequently of
certainly knowing and correctly understanding it, within the limits of
his finite reason. We do not build faith on scepticism, or the
incapacity of reason to know anything with certainty. Reason is the
preamble to faith, and is competent to receive and understand truly,
infallibly, if you will, clear and distinct propositions in their
plain and obvious sense when presented to it in words spoken or in
words written. If it were not so, all writing and all teaching, all
books and all sermons, would be useless. So far the Protestant rule
and the Catholic are the same, with this difference only, that, if we
happen to mistake the sense of the church, she is ever present to
correct the error and to set us right, while the Protestant rule can
give no further explanation, or add a word to correct the
misapprehension. The teachings of the church need to be understood,
but not ordinarily to be interpreted; and, even when they do have to
be interpreted, she is present to interpret them, and declare
infallibly the sense in which they are to be understood. But the
Bible, from beginning to end, must be interpreted before it can be
understood, and, while private judgment or reason may be competent to
understand it when it is interpreted or explained, it is yet only a
fallible interpreter, and incompetent to explain to the understanding
its real sense.

The church interprets and explains herself; there are books, also,
that carry their own explanation with them, and so need no
interpretation or further explanation; but manifestly the Bible is not
such a book. It is inspired; it is true; it is infallible; and is, as
St. Paul says of all Scripture, divinely inspired, “profitable to
teach, to reprove, to correct, to instruct in justice, that the man of
God may be perfect, furnished to every good word and work” (2 Tim.
iii. 16, 17); but it bears on its face the evidence that it was
addressed to men who were already believers, and already instructed,
partially at least, in the truths it teaches or enforces, and that it
was not written to teach the faith to such as had no knowledge of it,
but to correct errors, to present more fully the faith on certain
points, to point out the duties it enjoins, to exhort to repentance
and reform, and to hold up as motives on the one hand, the fearful
judgment of God upon those who disregard his goodness, or despise his
mercy, or abuse his long-suffering, and, on the other, the exceeding      155
riches of divine love, and the great reward prepared in heaven for
those that believe, love, and obey him. No one can read it without
perceiving that it neither is nor professes to be the original medium
of the Christian revelation to man, but from first to last supposes a
revelation previously made, the true religion to have been already
taught, and instructions in it already received. This is true of the
Old Testament, and more especially true of the New Testament; and we
know historically, and nobody denies it, that the faith was preached
and believed, and particular churches, congregations of believers,
were gathered and organized, before a word of the New Testament was

The Protestant, reduced to the sacred text, even supposing he has the
genuine and authentic text, and his private judgment, would be reduced
to the condition of the lawyer who should undertake to explain the
statutes of any one of our states, in total ignorance of the Common
Law, or without the least reference to it or the decisions of the
common-law courts. Now and then a statute, perhaps, would explain
itself, but in most cases he would be wholly at a loss as to the real
meaning of the legislature. Our wise law reformers in this state, a
few years since, seeing and feeling the fact, attempted to codify the
laws so as to supersede the demand for any knowledge of the Common Law
to understand them, and the ablest jurists in the state find them a
puzzle, or nearly inexplicable, and our best lawyers are uncertain how
to bring an action under the new Code of Procedure. The Protestant
needs, in order to interpret the sacred text, a knowledge of
revelation which can neither be obtained from the text itself without
interpretation nor supplied by private judgment. Hence it is that we
find Protestants unable to agree among themselves as to what is or is
not the meaning of the sacred text, and varying in their views all the
way down from the highest Puseyite who accepts all Catholic doctrine,
“the damnatory clauses excepted,” to the lowest Unitarian, who holds
that our Lord was simply a man, the son of Joseph and Mary, and
rejects the church, the mysteries of the Trinity and Incarnation,
original sin, redemption, the expiatory sacrifice, regeneration,
supernatural grace, the resurrection of the dead, the last judgment,
the everlasting punishment of the incorrigible in hell, and the reward
of the just in any heaven above the Elysian Fields of the Greeks and
Romans or the happy hunting-grounds of the poor Indian. Protestants
are able to agree among themselves only so far as they follow Catholic
tradition and agree with the church. The Protestant needs to know the
Christian faith in order to interpret the sacred text and ascertain it
from the Bible, and this he cannot know by his own private judgment or
develop from his own “inner consciousness,” since it lies in the
supernatural order, and is above the reach of his natural faculties.
It is clear, then, that in the Bible interpreted by private judgment
he has and can have only a fallible authority.

It is not because the Holy Scriptures do not contain, explicitly or
implicitly, the whole faith, that, interpreted by private judgment,
they give only a fallible rule of faith, but because, to find the
faith in its unity and integrity in them, we must know it
_aliunde_ and beforehand. This difficulty is completely obviated by
the Catholic rule. The church has in Catholic tradition, which she
preserves intact by time or change, the whole revelation, whether         156
written or unwritten, and in this tradition she has the key to the
real sense of the sacred Scriptures, and is able to interpret them
infallibly. Tradition, authenticated by the church as the witness and
depositary of it, supplies the knowledge necessary to the
understanding of the sacred text. Read in the light of tradition, what
is implicit in the text becomes explicit, what is merely referred to
as wholly known becomes expressly and clearly stated, and we are able
to understand the written word, because tradition interprets it for
us, without any demand for a knowledge or judgment on our part that
exceeds our natural powers. Our judgment is no longer private
judgment, because we have in tradition a catholic rule by which to
judge, and our judgment has not to pass on anything above the province
of reason.

The objection we make to the Protestant rule, it must be obvious now
to our friend, cannot be retorted. The Protestant must interpret the
sacred Scriptures by his private judgment, which he cannot do without
passing upon questions which transcend its reach. The Catholic
exercises, of course, his judgment in accepting the infallible
teachings of the church, but he is not required to pass upon any
question above the reach of his understanding, or upon which, by his
natural reason, he cannot judge infallibly, or with the certainty of
actual and complete knowledge. He is not required to pass upon the
truth of what the church teaches, for that follows from her divine
institution and commission to teach the revelation God has made
previously established. He has simply to pass upon the question, What
is it she teaches, or presents clearly and distinctly to my
understanding to be believed? and, in passing upon that question, my
judgment has not to judge of anything beyond or above reason, and,
therefore, is not fallible any more than in any other act of

There is another advantage the Catholic rule has over the Protestant
rule. In this world of perpetual change, and with the restless and
ever-busy activity of the human mind, new questions are constantly
coming up and in need of being answered, and so answered as to save
the unity and integrity of the faith. The Bible having once spoken is
henceforth silent; it can say nothing more, and make no further
explanations of the faith to meet these new questions, and tell us
explicitly what the word requires or forbids us to believe with regard
to them. Hence, Protestants never know how to meet them. Then new or
further explanations and decisions are constantly needed, and will be
needed to the end of time. Even the explanations and decisions of the
church, amply sufficient when made, not seldom, through the subtlety
and activity of error, and its unceasing efforts to evade or obscure
the truth, become insufficient, and need themselves to be further
explained, and applied so as to strike in the head the new forms of
old error and deprive them of their last subterfuge. These
explanations and decisions so necessary, and which can be infallibly
made only by a living and ever-present infallible authority, can be
only fallibly made, if at all, on the Protestant rule. Even the creed
of the church, though unalterable, needs from time to time not
development, but new and further explanations, to meet and condemn the
new forms of error that spring up, and to preserve the faith
unimpaired and inviolate. How is this to be done infallibly by a book
written two thousand years ago and private judgment, or without the       157
divine and infallible authority of the church?

These remarks and explanations, we think, fully answer the objections
of our legal friend to the belief on authority, and prove that no
attempted retort of the Protestant on the Catholic can be sustained,
or entertained even, for a moment. We have thus vindicated for him the
Catholic rule, and proved that faith on that rule is possible,
practicable, and rational, is reasonable obedience, and by no means a
blind submission, as he probably supposes. What more can he ask of us?
He cannot repeat his charge and say we have not met the question, for
we have met it, at least so far as we understand it, and under more
forms than he probably dreamed of in urging it. The question is one
that meets the inquirer at the threshold, and he can hardly suppose
that we could have accepted the church ourselves without meeting it,
considering it at length, and disposing of it.

Yet there is one thing more wanting. The method of proof we have
pointed out, however sure and however faithfully followed, does not
suffice to make one a Catholic, or to give one true Catholic and
divine faith, or faith as a theological virtue; it only removes the
obstacles in the way of the intellect in believing, and yields only
what theologians call human faith--_fides humana_--which really
advances one not a single step towards the kingdom of God, or living
union with Christ. A man may be thoroughly convinced, so far as his
reason goes, of the whole Catholic faith, and yet, perhaps, never
become a Catholic. To be a Catholic, one must have supernatural faith,
and be elevated by the grace of God in baptism to the supernatural
order of life in Christ. Reason can construct no bridge over which one
can pass from the natural to the supernatural; the bridge must be
constructed by grace. Faith, the beginning of the Christian life, is
the gift of God. The method we have pointed out or the Catholic rule
produces the conviction of the truth of the church and what she
teaches, and shows it to be one’s duty to seek, if he has it not, the
grace that inclines the will, illumines the understanding, and
regenerates the soul.

The way in which to seek and find this grace is pointed out by our
Lord, Matt. vii. 7: “Ask, and you shall receive; seek, and you shall
find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.” The way is the way of
prayer. The grace of prayer, _gratia orationis_, is given unto all
men. All men can pray. He who prays for it shall receive the grace to
seek, and he who seeks shall find, and receive the grace to knock at
the door of the church, which will be opened to him, and he have the
grace to enter into the regeneration, and live the life of Christ. We
have no hope for the conversion of any one who does not pray; and we
have more confidence in the humble prayers of simple, sincere, and
fervent Catholic souls for the conversion of those without than in all
the reasonings in the world, however conclusive they may be. When once
grace has touched the heart, all clouds vanish of themselves, all
darkness is dissipated, all obstacles disappear, we know not how, and
to believe is the easiest and simplest thing in the world. To believe
is difficult only when one persists in relying on his own strength and
will accept no aid from above. Let those, then, who have faith pray
unceasingly for those who have it not.

     [42] Lib. lxxxiii. quæst. xxx.

     [43] _Vide Summa_, q. xvii. a. 3 in c.

     [44] THE CATHOLIC WORLD for May, 1871, first article.


                        THE HOUSE OF YORKE.                               158

                            CHAPTER XV.


Madame Swetchine says: “The wrongs which the heart resents most keenly
are impalpable and invisible.” We may parody this, and say, with equal
truth, that the troubles most difficult to bear are frequently those
which, to indifferent observers, seem scarcely worth mention. There is
dignity, and a certain stimulating excitement, in great affliction and
great wrong; but a petty persecution, which we would fain treat with
contempt, but which, in spite of us, pierces with small, envenomed
points to our very hearts, is capable of testing our utmost endurance.
Who does not know how one malicious, intriguing woman can poison a
whole community, break friendship that would have stood the test of
death, and destroy a confidence that seemed as firm as the hills? The
smiling malice, the affected candor, the smooth insinuation, the more
than infantine innocence--happy he who has not learned by bitter
experience these tactics of the devil’s sharpshooters!

Of such a nature was the earlier stage of the persecution suffered by
the Catholics of Seaton. Servants were daily insulted by mistresses
less well-bred than themselves. They had to swallow a gibe with their
Friday’s eggs or fish; they were entertained with slanderous stories
regarding the priest they loved and reverenced. This was, of course,
without provocation. Who ever knew an Irish servant-girl who attacked
the religion or irreligion of her employers? Workingmen could not go
through the streets to and from their work without being forced to
listen to revilings of their church. This was carried to such an
extent that they soon found themselves obliged to relinquish their
open-air lounging-places, where they had smoked and talked after the
day’s work was done, and shut themselves into their houses. Nor were
they allowed to remain in peace there. Nearly all the Irish lived on
one street, running from the bridge up the west side of the river, and
called Irish Lane. When it was found that they would not come out to
be insulted, the mob that gathered in the streets every evening
marched up this lane, calling out to the Irish, challenging, taunting
them. But not one word or act of retaliation could they provoke to
give them an excuse for the violence which they were thirsting to
commit. Father Rasle had given his people stringent orders to remain
in their houses, and make no reply, no matter what was said to them,
and to defend themselves only if their houses were broken into. They
obeyed him with astonishing docility.

When, later, the people of Seaton found themselves covered with
disgrace before the country for their outrages on Catholics, they
strove to throw the odium on “a few rowdies,” or on workingmen from
other towns employed in the Seaton ship-yards; and in a sketch of the
town in the _History of Maine_, written since that time, the Catholics
are accused of being themselves the cause of their own troubles. Both
these statements are false. In the town-meeting, which endorsed and       159
even suggested every outrage that was committed, ministers and
town-officers made inflammatory speeches from the same platform with
any ignorant adventurer who might hope to raise himself to notice by
reviling the church. Those of the townspeople who were not active
members of the mob were, at least, passive lookers-on; and when, at
length, acts of violence began, some of the most prominent citizens
went to see the windows of the Catholic church and of the priest’s
house broken, as they would have gone to any other amusing show. But
we anticipate.

The prime instrument in this movement was the Seaton _Herald_, which
Carl Yorke had left in a sinking condition. The Know-Nothings, wanting
an organ, bought it for a song, and put into the editorial chair a man
well fitted for the work. Under such superintendence, the paper rose
to an infamous popularity. It was no longer a question of religious
freedom, and law, and order, but of common decency. Every week the
names of quiet, respectable people were dragged into its columns, that
festered with lies--their names only enough veiled to escape the law,
but not enough to conceal the identity. In a city, there is some
escape from this disgusting notoriety--one can hide from it; but in a
small town there is no escape. Everybody is known to everybody, and
one lives as in a glass case.

Mr. Yorke looked over one of these papers--“looked holes through it,”
Clara said--then threw it into the fireplace, dropped a lighted match
on it, and watched its burning with his nostrils compressed, like one
who smells a noxious scent. “Don’t send another number of your
disgraceful paper to me,” he wrote to the editor; but vainly, for the
paper came as before, and was regularly taken in the tongs and put
into the kitchen fire, except when Betsey or Patrick slyly rescued it
for their own private reading.

“I don’t care for their lies,” Patrick said, when Mr. Yorke reproved
him; “but I want to know what they mean to do. If a pack of thieves
were planning to break into your house, sir, wouldn’t you stop to
listen to their conversation?”

The Catholic children had also their cross to bear. The teachers of
the public schools, anxious to have their part in the “great work,”
were zealous in enforcing the Bible-reading, and careful to see that
no Catholic child omitted the doxology which Martin Luther chose to
add to the “Our Father” of the Son of God.

Suddenly an outcry was raised by the Know-Nothings. The pretext they
had longed and worked for was given, and great was their joy. The
incident was simple enough. The boy who lived with Father Rasle was
found by his teacher to have a Douay Bible. He was ordered to take it
away and buy a Protestant Bible. “I shall not buy you a Protestant
Bible,” Father Rasle said. “Use your own, or go without.” The child
was threatened with punishment if he did not bring one. The priest
immediately removed him from school, fitted up the building formerly
used as a chapel for a school-house, and employed a young Catholic
lady, recently come to town, as teacher. The Catholic children gladly
left the schools, where they had, perhaps, suffered more than their
parents had elsewhere, and placed themselves under the care of Miss
Churchill. How beautiful, how strange it was to kneel down and say an
Our Father and a Hail Mary at the beginning of their studies! How
delightful to go out at recess and play without being assailed by         160
blows or nicknames! How proud they were when Father Rasle came in to
give them his weekly instruction in religion! It was quite different
from their accustomed ideas of school-life.

Mrs. Yorke was much disturbed by this arrangement. “Edith will have to
give up her new friend,” she said decidedly. “I honor Miss Churchill
for acting up to her principles, even when it is sure to bring her
into a disagreeably conspicuous position; but there is nothing that
obliges us to share her danger. When a person comes out of the ranks
for conscience’ sake, let her stand alone, and have the glory of it.”

Edith objected at first, but her aunt insisted, and the girl soon saw
that, though it went against her feelings, it was right to obey.

“We are not Catholics, my dear,” Mrs. Yorke said; “but it is our duty
and wish to protect you from insult. We have suffered in doing so. You
know we have given up going to meeting, the sermons were so pointed,
and given up the sewing-circle, because we could not go without
hearing something offensive, and your cousins find it unpleasant to go
into the street even. As to your uncle, his defence of the religious
rights of your church exposes him to actual danger. Our life here is
nearly intolerable, and this will make it worse if you and Miss
Churchill continue to visit each other.”

Fortunately, Miss Churchill anticipated this, and herself put a
temporary end to their acquaintance--“till better times,” she wrote.

“She has behaved well,” Mrs. Yorke said, after reading the note. “And
now, Charles, I wish that you would show a little prudence, and let
events take their course without interfering. Why should you say
anything? It does no good.”

“From which motive would you wish me to be silent,” her husband asked
quietly--“from cowardice or selfishness?”

She made no reply, save to wring her hands, and wish that she had
never come to Seaton.

“Now, Amy dear, listen to reason,” her husband said.

“You know, Charles, it is very disagreeable to have to listen to
reason,” she objected pathetically.

He laughed, but persisted. “I have heard you say many a time that
disinterested and intelligent men were to blame in withdrawing from
public affairs, and leaving them in the hands of dishonest
politicians. You said, very sensibly, that, if such men were not
strong enough to prevent abuses, they should at least protest against
them, and let the world see that patriotism was not quite dead.
Perhaps, you added, such a protest might shame others into joining
you. Oh! you were eloquent on that subject, little woman, and quoted
from _Tara’s Halls_. The idea was that even the indignant breaking of
a heart in the cause of truth showed that truth still lived, which was
some good. What do you say, milady? Was it all talk? Are you going to
fail me? ‘I appeal from Philip drunk to Philip sober.’”

Mrs. Yorke was smiling, and her face had caught a slight color. The
repetition of her own sentiments had encouraged her, as the
recollection of our own heroic aspirations often does help us in
weaker moments.

His wife pacified, Mr. Yorke went out to work off his own irritation.
He would not have had her know it, but he had been attacked in the
street that very day when stopping to speak to Father Rasle. The
priest seldom went into the street unless absolutely obliged to, and      161
would gladly have avoided subjecting any one to annoyance on his
account; but Mr. Yorke would as soon have denied his faith as have
shrunk from stopping to greet the priest cordially--would have so
greeted him, indeed, if a hundred guns had been aimed at him for it.
But it was not pleasant. He was a fastidious gentleman, accustomed to
respect, and the impertinence of the rabble was to him peculiarly
offensive. He had come home fuming with anger, which had not abated
while restrained. Fortunately, he found something to scold at the
minute he went out. A grapevine, which he had coaxed to grow in that
unaccustomed country, had this year put forth its first clusters; by
some mistake, Patrick had clipped the leaves off, and left the green
bunches exposed to the sun.

“Pat, what fool told you to do that?” his master demanded angrily.

“Yourself, sir!” answered Patrick, without flinching. He had his cause
of annoyance also.

Mr. Yorke denied the charge with emphasis:

“It is no such thing, you--you vertebrate!”

Patrick drew himself up with an air of dignified resolution. “Sir,” he
said, “I’ve done my duty by you, and you’ve done your duty by me, and
I’ve taken many a sharp word from you, and made no complaint. But I’m
an honest man, if I am not rich nor learned, and I won’t stand and let
any one call me such a name as that.”

Mr. Yorke laughed out irrepressibly. “Well, well, Pat,” he said, “I
beg your pardon. You’re not a vertebrate.”

“All right, sir!” Pat answered cheerfully, and went about his work

Mr. Yorke, his good humor quite restored, went into the house again.

“Poor Pat!” Edith said, a little zealously, when the others smiled
over the story.

“We are not scorning him for his ignorance, my dear,” her uncle
replied. “With Charles Lamb, ‘I honor an honest obliquity of
understanding,’ and I also honor an honest ignorance of books; but
sometimes they are amusing.”

“What did I hear you saying to Mr. Yorke, Pat?” Betsey asked the man
that evening. “It seemed to me that you were impudent.”

“The fact is, I was really mad,” Patrick owned. “I’d been downtown,
and there I came across the editor of the _Herald_, and the sight of
him roiled me, especially as he grinned and made believe bless
himself. I’d like to meet him alone in a quiet bit of woods. I’d soon
change his complexion to as beautiful a black and blue as you ever
saw--the dirty spalpeen, with his eye like a buttonhole!”

Betsey sat on the door-step, and looked up at the stars. “If I’d had
the placing of ‘em,” she remarked presently, “I’d have put ‘em in even
rows, like pins in a paper. It would look better. They’re dreadfully
mixed up now.”

Patrick looked into the skies a little while, but his mind was on
other things than the marshalling of stars into papers of pins. “I’m
sorry Mr. Yorke went to that town-meeting to-night,” he said.

Mr. Yorke was, in fact, at that moment rising in the town-hall to
speak. The Rev. John Conway had uttered a bitter tirade against the
Catholic clergy, with a fierce recapitulation of the affair of Johnny
O’Brian, the priest’s boy, and his Douay Bible. Dr. Martin had
followed with cooler, but not less bitter, denunciation, and another      162
reference to Johnny O’Brian. A Portuguese barber had made an idiotic
speech, and various town-officers, and prominent Know-Nothings, all
more or less illiterate, had spoken, and all had seasoned their
discourse with Johnny O’Brian. Finally, the Rev. Saul Griffeth had
held his hearers spell-bound while he described, in glowing phrases,
the inevitable and complicated ruin of the country in case Catholics
should be admitted to equal rights, or any rights at all, and had
painted a dazzling picture of the country’s future glories should
Catholics be excluded. And here again the perennial Johnny O’Brian

In the midst of a cold and threatening silence, Mr. Yorke got up.
Never was his voice more rasping, his mouth more scornful, his glance
more full of fire. “It was happy,” he said, “for one man that the
Reverend Mr. John Conway was not Calvin; for, instead of being content
to burn Servetus, he would first have tortured him, till even the
flames would have been a relief. As for the Reverend Mr. Griffeth’s
companion pictures of the country’s future, they were daubs such as no
sensible man would receive as true representations, and the young man
who painted them probably believed in them no more than he had
believed in the precisely contrary views which he had expressed within
a few years in the speaker’s own hearing. With regard to the other
orators, he did not know what that illiterate and idiotic Portuguese
barber had to do with the town affairs of Seaton, and he congratulated
the rest on the possession of Johnny O’Brian, who had certainly been a
godsend to them. So long as a shred of that devoted child was left,
they would have something to say. But the reasoning in the most of the
speeches to which he had listened had reminded him of the Latin of
Sgarnarelle, _le médecin malgré lui_. They had put their premises in
the middle ages of Europe, and their conclusion in a little New
England town of the nineteenth century. ‘_Voilà ce qui fait que votre
fille est muette._’ What, in fact, are we here to talk about?” He then
went on to state his own views.

It is said of the French legitimists under the first empire, that in
their scorn of the emperor, and their determination to regard him as a
foreigner, they used to pronounce his name so that it seemed to be a
word of twenty syllables. Mr. Yorke had that faculty. His enunciation
was clear, and the letter _r_ very prominent, and the mere pronouncing
of a name he could make an insult. At first his manner had commanded
silence--no one liked to be the first to hiss; but it became too
scathing presently, and when one gave the first faint sound of
disapproval, the storm broke out. He tried again and again to speak,
but they would not hear him. Shouts and jeers arose, and cries of “Put
him out! Down with him!”

“Touch me if you dare!” he said, facing them, and lifting his cane.
They stood aside, and he walked out, and went home, not very well

                            CHAPTER XVI.


Mr. Yorke went home from that first town-meeting, and opened his
Bolingbroke to look for a sedative. He found this: “The incivilities I
meet with from opposite parties have been so far from rendering me        163
violent or sour to any, that I think myself obliged to them all. Some
have cured me of fears, by showing me how impotent the world is;
others have cured me of hope, by showing how precarious popular
friendships are. All have cured me of surprise.”

Mr. Yorke readjusted his glasses, and read the passages a second time;
but it was not the sedative he wanted. There was something the matter
with Bolingbroke; his was a worldly and selfish philosophy; and it
was, moreover, a discouraging one; for the reader wished to believe
that it was possible to awaken and keep alive in the popular mind an
enthusiasm for justice. Mr. Yorke was not aware that in this warfare
he had drawn nearer to God, and that what he missed in his old
favorite was that final, heavenly motive which, running like a golden
chain through the simplest human actions, strings them into jewels,
lacking which the noblest human thoughts and deeds crumble like sand
on the sea-shore.

Closing his book with a feeling of disappointment, his thought glanced
down to later times, and he remembered a noble sentiment uttered by
one whom he admired, indeed, but half-unwillingly--one of the purest
and most heroic men of our time, a man who lacks nothing but faith.

“With God, one is a majority!” said Wendell Phillips.

The thought came down on Mr. Yorke’s heart like a hammer upon an
anvil, and sent sparks up into his eyes and brain.

“I take back all that I have said against that man,” he exclaimed,
starting up and walking to and fro. “A man who has a vision of
absolute honesty cannot help being impatient of policy. Strong
conviction never is, never can be, tolerant.” He ran his fingers
through his hair as he paced the room, and combed it up on end. He
would have liked to go directly back to the town-hall, and perhaps
would have done so but for the probability that it was now dark and

“It is not pleasant to be insulted by such people,” he muttered; “but
it would be still less pleasant to think that the rascals could
silence me. I will be heard at the next meeting,

    ‘Though hell itself should gape,
     And bid me hold my peace.’”

It was some time before Mr. Yorke had the opportunity he desired,
though scarcely a day passed in which he did not speak some word for
the truth. There was no other town-meeting that summer. The people
contented themselves with the weekly scandalous battery of the
_Seaton Herald_, and with a small domestic persecution. A few pious
church-members were especially active. This was a kind of missionary
labor which suited them well, for it gave the pretext of zeal to their
bigotry and uncharitableness. If a lady could have persuaded her Irish
servant-girl to eat meat on Friday, she would have gloried in the

“I will not eat of flesh on the day when the flesh of Jesus Christ was
hacked and mangled for the sins of the world,” said one faithful girl.

“But nobody knows on what day of the week he died,” the mistress
urged. “That is one of the lies of your priests. Now, Bridget”--laying
a gold half-eagle on the table--“this money shall be yours if you will
eat that piece of meat.”

The servant looked at her mistress with that dignity which a scorn of
meanness can give to the lowliest. “Mrs. Blank,” she said, “you remind
me of the devil tempting our Saviour when he was fasting.”

The temptation and the occasion were trivial, but they called out the     164
spirit of the martyrs.

Cold weather seemed to cool the zeal of the Know-Nothings; but with
another spring it kindled again, making the Catholic school its
principal point of attack. Anonymous letters were written to the
teacher, threatening her if she did not give it up. The _Herald_
contained, week after week, insulting and scarcely veiled references
to her; and the children could not go through the streets unmolested.
But no notice was taken of these annoyances, and the school prospered
in spite of them. The children came unfailingly, not, perhaps, without
fear, but certainly without yielding to fear. They were deeply
impressed by the position in which they found themselves. All their
childish gayety deserted them. They gathered and talked quietly,
instead of playing; they drew shyly away without answering when the
Protestant children attacked them. “Keep out of their way, and never
answer back,” was the charge constantly repeated in the ears of these
little confessors of the faith, and they obeyed it perfectly. Dear
children! may they never lose in later years that faith by which they
suffered so early in life. Herewith, one who watched and admired their
constancy sends them loving greeting.

When the first examination for prizes took place in this school, Mr.
Yorke was present, and made an address; and when it was over, he and
Father Rasle walked away together.

“I am obliged to go away, to be gone a month,” the priest said. “I
must go to-night. But I do not like to leave my flock to the wolves.
There is no help for it, though. The bishop wishes to see me at
Brayon, and I must visit the Indians on Oldtown Island.”

“I advise you, sir, to go as quietly as you can, and let no one see
you go or know that you are going,” Mr. Yorke said.

Father Rasle looked surprised. “Why, you do not imagine that any
person would molest me?”

“I do not imagine, but I am sure that the Know-Nothings would do
anything,” was the reply. “It is not safe to give them an opportunity
for mischief.”

Still the priest looked incredulous.

“I cannot see why they should touch me,” he said. “I have done nothing
to provoke them. They insult us, they tell lies, and I do not resent
it. Do you know the stories that have been brought to me this week? I
find them amusing.” He laughed pleasantly. “See how they represent the
church! A Catholic man, they say, wanted to steal a hundred dollars.
Now, to take so much at once would be a mortal sin; but to steal ten
cents would be only a venial sin. So my brave Catholic steals ten
cents, and, after a week, ten cents more, and so on, till he has the
hundred dollars. By this means, he secures his money, and is guilty
only of a thousand venial sins, which he gets forgiveness for by
giving the priest fifty dollars. That is one of Mr. John Conway’s
stories. Here is another that was published in the _Herald_, with my
name and the others in full. You know that Mrs. Mary O’Conner’s
husband lately died in California. Well, the _Herald_ says that the
poor widow came to me, weeping and lamenting that she had not even the
consolation of seeing her husband’s grave; and I told her that, for
thirty dollars, I would have him buried here. She had saved thirty
dollars, earned by washing, and she brought it to me. Three days
after, I told her that her husband’s body had been miraculously
brought, and I pointed out the spot where it was buried, down here        165
behind the church. But I warned her that she must not dig there, as it
would be a sacrilege, and that, if she did, the body would disappear.
Here’s another: Patrick Mulligan confesses some sin to me, and, for a
penance, I tell him to give himself twenty-five blows with the
discipline. Patrick goes home, gets ready for his penance, and
suddenly remembers that he has no discipline. It is late at night. He
puts his head out the window, and sees that Mrs. Mahony, next door,
has forgotten to take in her clothes-line, and a fine new clothes-line
it is. Pat blesses the saints, creeps down-stairs, steals the
clothes-line, and, going back, cuts it up into a beautiful discipline.
After he has piously beaten himself, he burns the cord all up, that he
may not be known as a thief, goes to bed with a clear conscience, and
sleeps the sleep of the just.

“Now, sir,” the priest concluded, “it is not likely that I am to be
attacked for such stories as that. Of course, no sensible person
believes them; or, if people should doubt, they can easily find out
the truth.”

“The truth, my dear sir, is precisely what they do not wish to find
out,” Mr. Yorke replied. “They want to be exasperated, and, since you
will not afford them a pretext, they will welcome any lie, and no
questions asked. Moreover, you are not to think that such slanders
originate with the low only, and influence only the low. I came upon a
book the other day written by Catherine Beecher. You have heard of the
Beechers, of course? The title was _Truth Stranger than Fiction: a
Narrative_, she calls it, _of Recent Transactions involving Inquiries
in regard to the principles of Honor, Truth, and Justice which obtain
in a distinguished American University_. That university is in
Connecticut; and the affair was one which created a good deal of stir
among the Protestant clergy a few years ago. Miss Beecher seems to
prove clearly in her book that certain eminent doctors of divinity,
and professors, with ladies of their families, ruined the reputation
of a distinguished and innocent woman. But what does Miss Beecher
herself do, in the preface to this very book wherein she appears as
the champion of ‘honor, truth, and justice,’ spelt with capital
letters? She goes out of her way to speak of the Catholic clergy, and
asserts that, since their ministrations are efficacious, no matter
what their characters may be, ‘there is no special necessity, on this
account, to limit admissions to this office to those only who are
virtuous and devout.’ Now, the sentence is artfully worded to evade
the charge of slander; but almost all non-Catholics interpret it, as
the writer wished they should, to mean that, in ordaining a Catholic
priest, it is not considered of any consequence whether he is a man of
good character or not. It has been so interpreted by every person whom
I have asked to read it. I give you another instance: Doctor Martin
took upon himself to send Edith some anti-Catholic books, which I
returned to him without letting her see them. I glanced into one, and
found it divided into paragraphs, each containing a charge against
your church, illustrated by an anecdote. I read one paragraph, headed
_A Church without a Holy Ghost_. Of course, you were charged with not
believing in sanctification; and the anecdote was of a man who became
a Protestant after having been a Catholic forty years. When his new
teachers told him of the Holy Ghost, he exclaimed, ‘Holy Ghost! What
is that? I have been in the Catholic Church forty years, and I never      166
heard of a Holy Ghost.’ Now, sir, this, of course, seems to you
idiotic; but a Protestant doctor of divinity keeps such books, and
gives them to people to read, and repeats such falsehoods in his
sermons. You see what you have to expect.”

“Shall I, then, publish a card denying the truth of these stories?”
Father Rasle asked, with an expression of face which showed his
distaste for the task.

“No one will read it if you do,” was the reply. “You must leave all to
time. At present, for you to be accused is to be condemned. Who was
it--Montesquieu?--who says, ‘If you are accused of having stolen the
towers of Notre Dame, bolt at once’? That is your case. Whatever they
may charge you with, consider yourself convicted.”

They had by this time reached the priest’s house, a little cottage
close to the corner of the two streets. Mr. Yorke declining an
invitation to enter, they leaned on the gate a few minutes to finish
their talk.

“You must not judge our country by what you see here,” Mr. Yorke said.
“What you complain of is merely the abuse of a good gift. A priest of
your church has expressed himself very well concerning these
difficulties. ‘It always pains me, in such periods,’ he says, ‘to hear
men express doubt concerning our institutions. As for me, I would
rather suffer from the license of freedom than the oppression of
authority. War is better than a false peace; riot better than
servitude; heresy better than indifference. But none of these things,’
he adds, ‘is to my liking. And may the good God preserve us from them
all!’ That was Father John, an American priest.”

“Ah! I know him,” Father Rasle said brightly. “I happened to travel
once in his company. We were in a steamboat, and some minister entered
into controversy with him. Catholic Christianity degrades the man, the
minister said. The Catholic cannot hold any communication with God. If
he should be cast away on a desert island, he would be without God.
All must come to him through the church. He has in himself no power to
reflect the divine motions. ‘You mistake,’ says Father John; ‘and I
can show by a familiar figure; Suppose that every man in the world
should insist that his timepiece was correct, and should refuse to
regulate it by any other. Of course, the chronometers would all wag
their several ways, no two alike, and there would be a ceaseless
wrangling as to what was the time of day, and every man would think
that he carried the sun in his pocket. To the dogs with the meridian
and the almanac! my watch is right! That is Protestantism. Now, the
Catholic has his spiritual dial also; but since he knows that it is a
fallible instrument, he keeps it regulated by the great clock of the
church. The consequence is truth and harmony. Every Catholic
conscience ticks alike; and, when the meridian-gun of the great
regulator is fired, every man says, ‘It’s twelve o’clock. Amen!’”

Mr. Yorke’s warning was well-timed, for the event proved that Father
Rasle would scarcely have been allowed to leave the town without
molestation had it been known that he was going. No one knew it,
however, but the priest’s housekeeper, Mr. Yorke, and the man who
drove him over to Brayon that night.

“I do not think that any precaution was needed,” Father Rasle said to
his companion, as they drove through the dewy woods by starlight. “But
since it was as easy to come away quiet, why, I have. I have no wish      167
or right to throw my life away.”

Mr. Yorke did not know what had happened till Patrick told him the
next morning. The crowd had gathered in the streets, it appeared, and
taken their usual promenade up Irish Lane, with the usual result. No
one came out or answered them, and they could not see a face in the
windows, even. But if the patience of the Irish was not worn out, that
of their persecutors was. Since they could not provoke an attack, they
would make one. From Irish Lane they had marched to the priest’s
house, arming themselves with stones and brickbats.

“There isn’t a whole window left in the house, sir,” said Patrick;
“and there’s a stone lying on Father Rasle’s bed, where it was thrown
through the window, that would have killed him if he had been there,
as they thought he was.”

We trust that certain expressions which Mr. Yorke made use of on
hearing this story will not be remembered against him on the day of
final reckoning. They were not pious expressions, nor mild, nor,
indeed, very polished ones; but they were strong. He put on his hat
with an emphasis which left a large dent in the crown, refused to take
any breakfast, and started for the town.

“What does he mean to do?” cried his wife, wringing her hands. “I must
go after him. Oh! if Carl were here. Girls, it is of no use to oppose
me. I must know what goes on.”

The breakfast was left untouched, and the whole household gathered
about the mother, coaxing and soothing her. Patrick should go down,
they said, and keep his master in view.

“What protection would an Irish Catholic be to him?” cried the lady.

Betsey would go, she declared, standing with arms akimbo and her
fierce head raised. She would like to see the man that would stand in
her way when she was roused!

But, no; Betsey was too pugilistic. If Mr. Yorke were to see her, he
would be irritated. Some one more conciliating and politic was wanted.

Clara cut the matter short by appearing in walking dress. She would go
down and see what the trouble was, and send a messenger home

Meantime, Mr. Yorke was in no danger whatever. People were, indeed,
more good-natured than usual after the success of the night before. He
encountered mocking smiles, but no threats. His first visit was to one
of the selectmen. “What are you going to do with the rascals who broke
Father Rasle’s windows, last night?” he demanded, without any ceremony
of greeting.

The man assumed an air of pompous indifference. “I do not propose to
do anything,” he said. “If they were brought before me, as a justice,
I should try them. But I am not called on to take any step in the

“Perhaps you were one of them,” Mr. Yorke said bitterly.

The man’s face reddened. “I shall not take any notice of your
insults,” he said. “It is well known that those windows were broken by
a few rowdies who cannot be found out. The town is not responsible for
them. And even if they were known, the feeling of the community is
such that they would not be punished. People are so much excited
against the abuses of popery, and the interference of the priest in
our public schools, that they are willing to see every Catholic driven    168
out of the town.”

If there was ever a moment in Mr. Yorke’s life when he regretted being
a gentleman, it would be safe to say that this was that moment. To
talk with such a man was folly. But if some muscular Christian had
entered the scene opportunely, and applied to the town-officer’s back
a score or so of such logical conclusions as he was fitted to
understand, or had enlightened his cranium by propounding to it an
argument from an unanswerable fist, Mr. Yorke would, doubtless, have
left the office with a smile of serene satisfaction, and a conviction
that the dramatic proprieties had been sustained. No such person
appearing, he went away with anything but an amiable expression.

His next visit was to the Rev. John Conway. The minister had just
finished his breakfast, and came into the room with a comfortable,
deliberate air, rather exasperating to a man who was not only
indignant, but fasting. His guarded look showed that he expected an

By an effort, Mr. Yorke greeted him courteously, then began: “I come,
sir,” he said, “to ask you to raise your voice and use your influence
to put a stop to such outrages as were committed last night, and bring
the perpetrators of that to punishment.”

Mr. Conway seated himself with dignity, cast down his eyes, puckered
his mouth accurately, put the tips of his right-hand fingers to the
tips of his left-hand fingers in an argumentative manner, and spoke
slowly and solemnly:

“I am sorry that any violence has been done. But when a community
becomes incensed by encroachments which threaten their most sacred
interests, and when they find that the laws are not stringent enough
to afford them security from an insidious foe, we cannot expect that
they will act with that calmness and deliberation which is to be
desired. I deprecate--”

“You are not in your pulpit preaching to blockheads!” Mr. Yorke burst
forth. “I came here to talk common sense.”

A cold glimmer showed under the minister’s lower eyelids, and a flush
went over his face; but he had more self-control than his visitor, or
he had not that sense of outraged justice and decency which, to that
visitor’s mind, made forbearance a vice, consequently he said nothing
for a moment. There was, indeed, no more to be said. Mr. Yorke rose
and went to the door, but stopped there. Though appeal was vain,
warning might not be.

“I warn you, sir,” he said--“I, a Protestant--that your course is not
only dishonest, but impolitic. You are working so as to secure the
final triumph of those you hate, and to bring about your own ruin.
These anti-Catholic mobs are not Protestant, except as they protest
against all religious restraint. They hate Catholicism most, simply
because it is the strongest religion. You ministers think, perhaps,
that you use them; but you mistake. They use you, and they despise
you. They speak you fair now, because you stand between them and the
law and give them a certain respectability. Indeed, their only power
is derived from you. But when they shall have crushed Catholicism, if
they ever do, they will have the same weapons you have placed in their
hands against you. Do not hope that by the course you are taking you
are going to make Baptist, or Congregational, or Methodist
church-members; you are going to make infidels.”

A sense of the utter uselessness of his mission had restored Mr. Yorke    169
to calmness. He spoke firmly, but without any excitement, and, having
ended, left the house, and walked quietly homeward. Clara, coming down
East Street, and looking anxiously right and left, saw him, and dodged
out of sight. With her foot propped on a door-step, she made a
writing-desk of her knee, hastily pencilling a line to her mother.
While she wrote, three several families peeped and wondered at her
through their blinds. She looked about for an Irish boy--saw one, and
sent him with her message.

“Run like the wind till you come in sight of the house,” she charged
him, “but walk slowly up the avenue, or they will think that you bring
bad news, and be frightened.”

“All right, mamma!” Clara had written. “Everybody I meet is as quiet
and innocent-looking as a cat that has been stealing cream. I saw papa
this minute; I am going up to see Hester, and will be back before

Mrs. Yorke kissed and feasted the boy who brought the news; Melicent
searched for old clothes, and sent him home with garments enough to
last him a year, and both nearly cried over him, “Poor little
persecuted dear!” Betsey bestowed on him a pie, and the two Pattens,
having nothing of their own to give, stole each of them a cucumber,
which they slyly slipped into his pocket. People who lived with the
Yorkes always thought as the Yorkes did. There was never more than one
party in their house. Their domestics were partisans, their dependents

Edith went out into the garden, and gathered some flowers for the lad,
talking with him meanwhile. It was a calm June day--after a
rain-storm. The sky had started to clear away--got so far that there
was nothing left but a pearly fleck of cloud that just netted the
sunshine--then had forgotten all about itself. A lovely, dreamy
softness overhung the scene, and the drops of rain that lay on every
leaf and flower shone, but did not flash.

The boy gazed at Edith with admiration. Her head was bare, and she
wore a blue dress, with loose sleeves, and a little crisp white ruffle
close around the throat. She stood on tiptoe, and stretched her arms
to reach a branch of red roses. As she caught it, a shower of drops
fell over her head and face. “_Asperges me!_” she whispered.

“Oh! she’s real pretty,” the boy said afterward to his mother. “She
has dimples in her elbows just like baby.”

When the wreath was made, Edith hung it round the child’s neck, his
arms being full, and walked down to the gate with him. “Try to be a
little saint, and not be angry, no matter what may be said to you,”
she said. “If you are afraid, say the ‘We fly to thy patronage, O holy
Mother of God,’ and she will take care of you. Good-by, dear.”

She leaned on the gate, and looked after him. Her cheeks were as red
as the roses she had gathered, and her expression was not, as
formerly, one of sunny calmness. She was as quiet in manner and speech
as ever, but it was the quiet of a strong and vivid nature fully
awake, but not fully satisfied, perplexed, yet self-controlled. So
much had happened to her in the last year! She had been called away
suddenly from childhood, and study, and vague, bright dreams to
confront a positive and quite unexpected reality. Unless she should
make a vow never to marry, then she was to marry Dick Rowan, that was
her conclusion; and having once made up her mind in that respect, she     170
thought as little about it as possible. Perhaps her only definite
thought was that Dick might have waited awhile before speaking, and
let her study more; for study had now become impossible. She wanted to
be in continual motion, to have work and change. A deep and steady
excitement burned in her cheeks, her eyes, her lips. Her piety,
instead of being tender and tranquil, had grown impassioned. To die
for the faith, to suffer torments for it, to be in danger, that seemed
to her desirable. She almost regretted that she had home and friends
to bind her. If she were still with Mrs. Rowan, in the little house
that was under that clay-bank, then she would be free, and perhaps
they would kill her. She had scarcely been to Mass that year without
thinking how glorious it would be if a mob would break in and kill
them all. Her imagination hovered ceaselessly over this subject.

Seeing her uncle coming, she waited for him. “We must make up our
minds that we have not seen the worst that they will do, little girl,”
he said. “There is no law.”

She smiled involuntarily.

“Why, are you pleased at that?” he exclaimed.

“There might be a worse fate than dying for one’s faith, Uncle
Charles,” she said, clasping her hands over his arms.

He laughed, and patted her cheek. “Is that your notion?” he asked. “If
it is, remember that I have a word to say about it. I shall fight hard
before you are made a martyr of. I see what you have been
reading--Crashaw’s _St. Theresa_:

    ‘Farewell, house, and farewell, home:
     She’s for the Moors and martyrdom.’

Do I guess and quote rightly, mademoiselle?”

She only smiled in reply. But well she knew that she had been reading
from a deeper book than Crashaw.

A few nights after, the Catholic school-house was blown up with
gunpowder, and left a perfect wreck. “Of course!” said Mr. Yorke.

“The teacher has taken the children into the galleries of the church,”
Patrick said.

“The church will be destroyed, then,” replied his master.

It was not destroyed altogether at once, however, but every window in
it was broken. This was done in broad daylight, just after a summer

Mr. Yorke put himself before the mob, entreating them to forbear, even
trying to push back the foremost ones, but without avail. “Don’t
listen to him! His niece is a Catholic,” they cried. “To the church!”

Two or three gentlemen drove up in their buggies, and sat at a safe
distance while the work of destruction went on, and several women
lingered on the outskirts of the crowd. In a neighboring street, out
of sight, Edith Yorke stood with Clara, and listened to the sound of
breaking glass. For a moment, natural indignation overcame piety in
her heart. “Oh! if I were a thousand men on horseback,” she exclaimed.
“I’d like to ride them down, and trample them under foot!” Then the
next moment, “Oh! how wicked I am!”

“You are not wicked!” Clara said angrily. “I won’t have you talk such

Clara was in that state of mind when she must scold somebody.

Of course the authorities took no notice of this affair. The teacher
had the glass reset, and continued her school. Mr. Yorke wrote to
Father Rasle, advising him not to return to Seaton for a while, and a
lull succeeded.

And now the Yorkes took breath, and felt not quite alone, for Carl was
coming home, and Dick Rowan would soon be there, and Captain Cary was
coming down.

                          TO BE CONTINUED.



Since the days of St. Francis of Assisium, whose life in the
thirteenth century was one constant succession of marvels, the
occasional appearance upon favored individuals of the stigmata,[45]
and the occurrence of ecstatic visions, have excited the deepest
interest in devout minds.

To the eye of faith, these departures from the ordinary laws of
nature, like the miracles which God has vouchsafed in all ages of the
church, have seemed fresh and brilliant illustrations of this divine
power. To the purely scientific mind they have presented inexplicable
phenomena, which, being irreconcilable with natural laws, have been
either openly derided or attributed to pious fraud.

Nor can the physiologist be harshly blamed for scepticism in this
direction, for history teems with the records of epidemics of
religious enthusiasm, in which fanaticism had led its victims to claim
repeated ecstatic visions of God, and to be the recipients of
supernatural revelations. The descriptions transmitted to us of the
Pietists and Illuminati in Germany, of the French and English Shakers,
the Welsh Jumpers, and many others of the sects to which the
Reformation gave birth, abound in instances of these ecstatic

The visions of Swedenborg, as related in his _Arcana Cœlestia_, and in
the numerous biographies[46] of this extraordinary person, are well
known; and among similar claimants to supernatural experience,
Arnold’s description of John Engelbrecht[47] is one of the most
curious and interesting.

In Hecker’s _Epidemics of the Middle Ages_ is given a full account of
the “Convulsionnaires of St. Médard,” so-called from the cemetery of
St. Médard in Paris, where a noted Jansenist deacon was buried in
1727. The fanatical excitement of his followers first showed itself in
pilgrimages and reported miraculous cures at his grave, to which they
gradually flocked in great numbers, many becoming convulsed with
terrible contortions, jumping, shouting, rolling on the ground,
spinning around with incredible velocity, running their heads against
walls, while others preached fanatical harangues or pretended to be
gifted with _clairvoyance_. For more than fifty years these scandalous
exhibitions continued, Convulsionism growing into a distinct sect in
spite of the efforts of the government to suppress it, until swept out
of existence by the greater excitement of the French Revolution.

In many of these cases, the supposition of intentional fraud was
doubtless well founded; in others, the ecstatics were themselves the
unconscious dupes of their own fanaticism. To appreciate the cautious
scrutiny with which the church, however, sifts pretensions of this
nature in any of her children, the reader need only consult the lives     172
of such saints as have been thus favored.[48]

The psychological condition or state which is somewhat vaguely termed
ecstasy has always possessed peculiar interest both for the theologian
and the physician; and, although numerous definitions of it have been
attempted, it is extremely difficult to convey to the general reader a
clear idea of its distinctive nature. The word itself usually
signifies a condition in which the mind and soul is transferred, or
placed out of its usual state.

St. Augustine called it “a transport, by which the soul is separated
and, as it were, removed to a distance from the bodily senses,” and,
following this definition, Ambrose Paré, the father of French surgery,
terms it “a reverie with rapture of the mind, as if the soul were
parted from the body.” St. Bonaventure, the contemporary and
biographer of St. Francis of Assisium, says that ecstasy “is an
elevation of the soul to that source of divine love which surpasses
human understanding, an elevation by which it is separated from the
exterior man.” St. Thomas Aquinas, Cardinal Bona, and other
theological writers give similar definitions; while among medical
authorities, Briquet, J. Franck, Bérard, Thomas King Chambers,
Guislain of Brussels, Clymer, Gratiolet, and many others describe its
symptoms and discuss its pathological relations.

Well-marked ecstasy and the stigmata have but seldom been united in
the same individual, and still more rarely have these extraordinary
manifestations been subjected to the searching tests of science.

It will not, then, be amiss to present the readers of this magazine
with a brief description of the most notable illustration in recent
times of these marvellous phenomena, as the case has acquired a
European celebrity, attracting the scrutiny of many savants, and
forming the subject of an interesting memoir[49] by a professor in the
Belgian University of Louvain. From his description of the facts,
which he was officially appointed to investigate in their scientific
bearings, we shall condense the following account.

In the rich and industrial province of Hainault, in Belgium, is
situated the village of Bois d’Haine, about midway between the towns
of Charleroi and Mons. It is mainly composed of cottages occupied by
workmen in the neighboring manufactories; and in one of the poorest of
these Louise Lateau, the subject of this notice, was born January 30,

She is the youngest of three children, all daughters; and their
parents were poor working people, strong and ordinarily healthy, and
never subject to any nervous hæmorrhagic disease. The mother is still
living and in good health; the father died during an epidemic of
small-pox at the age of twenty-eight. Louise, then two and a half
months old, contracted this disease from her father, but made a rapid
recovery. The family continued to struggle on in poverty, the
children’s food being poor and scant--“plusque frugal,” says Dr.
Lefebvre--but they nevertheless grew up robust and healthy. When only
eight, Louise was placed in the temporary care of a poor old woman in
the neighborhood, while the latter’s son was engaged in outdoor work.
A little later she was sent to school for five months, learning her       173
catechism and a little reading and writing. In her twelfth year,
having made her first communion, she entered the service of her
great-aunt, who lived at Manage, near Bois d’Haine, in a certain
degree of comfort. In this position she displayed great activity and
devotion to her duties, giving herself up day and night to the service
of her relative, who died in a year or two. She then entered the
service of a respectable lady in Brussels, where she remained only
seven months on account of an illness, the nature of which is not
described; after this she obtained another place in Manage, where, as
before, she left behind her the reputation of devoted courage, of
patient toil, humble and quiet piety, and charity for the poor.

About the beginning of 1867, she became more feeble in health without
being exactly ill or obliged to suspend her customary work. She lost
appetite and color, suffered from severe neuralgic pains in the head,
and her skin assumed the greenish-white hue that always indicates
impoverishment of the blood. This had been aggravated by a severe
attack of quinsy; and on several occasions, during the early part of
April of this year, she spat blood, the source of which (whether from
lungs or stomach) could not be decided.

For an entire month she now became constantly weaker, taking almost
nothing during this time but water and the medicines prescribed for
her. The exhaustion increased to such a degree that her death was
thought imminent, and on the 15th of April the last sacraments were
administered. She now suddenly improved, and so rapidly that, on the
21st of April, she was able to walk to Mass at the parish church,
three-quarters of a mile distant. This apparently remarkable cure was
the first incident that attracted public notice to her case; crowds of
people coming to see her as an object of curiosity.

This period may be viewed as her turning point from girlhood into a
woman; and, at her then age of eighteen, she is described as being
slightly below the middle height, with full face, very little color, a
fine delicate skin, light hair, clear, soft blue eyes, a small mouth,
and very white well-shaped teeth.

Her expression is intelligent and agreeable, and her general health is
good, and free from any scrofulous or other constitutional taint. She
has always worked hard, and exhibited considerable physical endurance.
Mentally she is represented as unemotional, lacking in imagination, by
no means bright, but of good, strong common sense, artless,
straightforward, and devoid of enthusiasm. Her education is limited,
although she has improved the elementary instruction received during
her brief school term, speaking French with ease and some degree of
purity, reading with difficulty, and writing very little, and
incorrectly at that. Her moral character is honest, simple,
transparent. Dr. Lefebvre and others, who questioned her about her
ecstatic visions, repeatedly tried to test her sincerity, but never
succeeded in making her contradict herself or tend in the least degree
to exaggeration: nor could she ever be induced by her young friends to
discuss her stigmata or visions, upon which she was equally reticent
with her friends and her family. Of a naturally gay and happy
disposition, she has shown in various circumstances much patience,
determination, and courage. Amidst many domestic anxieties and
troubles, often losing her rest day and night during the illness of       174
her relatives, and falsely accused by her mother (who seems to have
been a person of difficult temper) of being the cause of all the
family’s misfortunes, she remained invariably calm and cheerful.
Another of her most striking traits was her charity for the poor;
“poor herself, she loved to relieve the poor,” and many instances are
narrated of her devotion to the sick and helpless during the cholera
that raged at Bois d’Haine in 1866. From her infancy almost she was
exceptionally devout, and her piety was always practical, and devoid
of affectation and display. In her interior and religious life, as in
her domestic duties, she was simple, earnest, and discreet.

A recollection of these details of her character and antecedents is
necessary for the proper appreciation of the phenomena now to be
described. These are of two distinct kinds, having no connection but
their accidental association in the same individual; and that they may
be more clearly understood, they will be considered separately, first
the stigmata, then the ecstatic trances, and, thirdly, the nature of
the evidence upon which the extraordinary facts rest.

                         I.--THE STIGMATA.

The first occurrence of the bleeding was noticed by Louise on Friday,
the 24th of April, 1868, when she saw blood issuing from a spot on the
left side of the chest. With her habitual reserve, she mentioned it to
no one. The next day it recurred at the same spot; and she, then also
observed blood on the top of each foot. She now confided it to her
director, who, although thinking the circumstance extraordinary,
reassured her and bade her keep the facts to herself. During the night
preceding the second Friday following, May 8, blood oozed from the
left side and from both feet, and toward nine o’clock in the morning
it flowed freely from the back and palm of each hand. At this juncture
it seemed impossible longer to keep the matter secret, and her
confessor directed Louise to consult a physician.

Recognizing the medical character of the case, the periodical
bleeding, and the ecstatic trances which subsequently occurred, the
religious authorities felt constrained to place its investigation in
the hands of a medical expert, and for this purpose called in the aid
of Dr. Lefebvre. A more judicious choice could not have been made, as
this gentleman had long devoted himself to the study of nervous
affections, and had passed fifteen years in medical charge of two
hospitals for the insane, and in lecturing upon mental diseases in the
University of Louvain.

Of the minuteness of his examination, and of his credibility as a
witness, each reader can judge for himself.

If, during the course of the week, from Saturday to Thursday morning,
the hands and feet be examined, the following facts are revealed: On
the back of each hand there is an oval patch about half an inch (two
and a half centimetres) long, of a more rosy hue than the rest of the
skin, dry and glistening on the surface. On the palm of each hand a
similar oval patch was seen, equally red, and corresponding exactly
with the site of that on the back. On the sole and back of each foot
are found similar marks, having the form of a parallelogram with
rounded angles, nearly three-quarters of an inch (three centimetres)
in length.

On examining these spots with a magnifying-glass of twenty diameters,
the epidermis (or superficial layer of the skin) is found to be thin      175
but unbroken, and through it the cutis (or true skin) can readily be

The latter looks perfectly natural, except that the papillæ, or little
elevations in which terminate the nerves of touch, are slightly
atrophied and flattened, this giving rise to the glistening appearance
of the surface. When any one of the stigmata has not bled for a week
or two, the reddish discoloration disappears, and the papillæ resume
their normal appearance. No permanent marks remain upon the forehead;
and, except on Friday, the bleeding points cannot there be
distinguished. From a natural feeling of delicacy, the chest was only
examined during the ecstasy.

The first symptoms announcing the approaching bleeding usually appear
about noon on Thursday. Upon each of the rosy spots on the hands and
feet, a _bleb_, or little bladder, is seen to rise and slowly develop.
This exactly corresponds, when fully formed, with the size of the
patch; and is filled with a transparent serous fluid, sometimes of a
reddish tint in those on the soles of the feet and the palms of the
hands. The bleb consists of the epidermis detached and elevated from
the true skin by the accumulating serous fluid. No swelling or redness
is seen in the zone of skin immediately surrounding the bleb.

The bleeding nearly always begins between midnight and one A.M. on
Friday, and it does not occur in all the stigmata at once, but in each
successively and in no regular order. Most commonly the flow begins
from the side of the chest, then in succession from the stigmata on
the hands, feet, and forehead. A rent occurs in the raised cuticle,
which is sometimes longitudinal, sometimes crucial or triangular: the
serous fluid then escapes, and is immediately followed by blood,
which oozes from the exposed papillæ. Usually the flow of blood
detaches and washes away the shreds of epidermis, and the bleeding
surface is left uncovered; but sometimes on the palms of the hands and
the soles of the feet, where the epidermis is thicker, the blood
collects and clots in the bleb.

At each of his Friday visits, Dr. Lefebvre examined the stigma on the
chest, which lay in the space between the fifth and sixth ribs,
external to and a little below the centre of the left breast.[50]

At the first examination, which was made August 30, 1868, the bleeding
point showed no trace of a previous vesicle; the cuticle was not
detached, nor was the skin discolored, and the blood was seen to ooze
from three little points almost imperceptible to the naked eye, and
about one centimetre apart. In three subsequent examinations a vesicle
had formed like those on the hands and feet; it had burst, and the
blood oozed from a circular spot of the raw skin nearly a quarter of
an inch in diameter.

Upon four different occasions, blood was observed to be flowing from
the head. It was difficult to ascertain the condition of the skin
under the hair; but on the forehead no vesicle appeared, nor was there
any apparent change in the color of the skin. The blood was seen to
issue from twelve or fifteen minute points arranged in circular form
upon the forehead. A bandage, of the breadth of two fingers, passing
around the head equidistant from the eyebrows and the roots of the
hair, would include the bleeding zone, which is slightly puffy and
painful upon pressure. On examining these points with a magnifying        176
lens, most of them looked like minute cuts in the skin, of triangular
shape, as if made by the bite of microscopic leeches: others were
semilunar in shape, and some quite irregular.

The quantity of blood that flows through the stigmata each Friday is
variable. During the first months of the flow and before the
commencement of the ecstatic attack, it was abundant, and often lasted
twenty-four hours--from midnight to midnight--and it was estimated
that as much as one litre, or seven-eighths of a quart, was discharged
from the nine wounds. An exact estimate of the amount was difficult,
from the fact that most of the blood was absorbed by the cloths about
the chest and limbs. But, as the result of his personal observations,
Dr. Lefebvre states that at his first visit, August 30, 1868, both the
duration and the quantity of the flow had already begun to diminish:
beginning at midnight, it stopped about four or five o’clock the next
afternoon; yet he counted on that day fourteen large linen cloths (the
largest being twenty inches by eight, and the smallest twenty inches
by six) completely saturated. Besides this, the left foot was still
enveloped during the ecstasy, and there was a pool of blood on the
floor as large as two hands. He thinks he rather understates the
amount of blood then lost if he estimates it at two hundred and fifty
grammes (a half-pint). This, however, he gives as the mean quantity
lost, it being sometimes more and sometimes less.

Sometimes the bleeding ceased about midday, and two Fridays passed
without any hæmorrhage, the ecstasy occurring as usual. On one of
these occasions the stigmata remained unchanged, but on the other the
usual vesicle formed, yielding a serous discharge of a delicate rose
tint, but no blood. After this the usual bleeding resumed its regular
course every Friday, and the bloody chaplet on the forehead, which at
first appeared exceptionally, was now displayed each week.

The blood, which was carefully examined, had neither the scarlet tint
of arterial nor the dark purple hue of venous blood, but was of a
violet red color, like that of the capillaries or minute vessels which
unite the veins and arteries. It was of natural consistence, and
clotted readily upon the cloths and upon the edges of the wound. With
two of his colleagues who were expert in microscopy, Dr. Hairion,
professor of hygiene and dermatology (the theory of skin diseases),
and Dr. Van Kempen, professor of anatomy, Dr. Lefebvre made several
careful microscopic examinations of the blood, which showed a
perfectly transparent plasma or blood fluid, with the red and white
corpuscles of ordinary blood in proper proportion.

The stigmata are manifestly painful; for, although the girl was
extremely reluctant to speak of it, Dr. Lefebvre was satisfied, by
careful observation of her attitudes and expression before the
ecstasies began, that she suffered acutely.

The bleeding stopped at different hours, as has been stated. On the
following day--Saturday--the stigmata were quite dry, with little
scales of dried blood here and there on their surface. Not a trace of
suppuration ever occurred from the wounds; and the girl, who a few
hours ago had much difficulty in using her hands or in standing on her
feet, is busily engaged with her morning household duties, or walking
a mile and a half to her devotions at the parish church.

                     II.--THE ECSTATIC TRANCES.                           177

The weekly ecstasies of Louise Lateau began on Friday, July 17, 1868,
thirteen weeks after the bleeding was first noticed, although the
curate of Bois d’Haine, M. Niels, had noticed before this some
fugitive attacks of unconsciousness. He discreetly avoided speaking of
them, however, and was careful not to discuss them even with Louise
herself. No details of these transient attacks, which generally
occurred during some of the great religious festivals of the previous
year, are given by Dr. Lefebvre, as he had no satisfactory evidence of
them, and was unwilling to trust the observations of others. The
marked ecstatic trances recurred every Friday after the date
mentioned, generally about eight or nine o’clock in the morning, and
ended about six in the afternoon, although sometimes lasting an hour
longer. Their duration is therefore from ten to eleven hours without
interruption; and they generally begin while the subject is occupied
with her devotions, although sometimes when she is in the midst of
conversation, and occasionally while engaged at her work.

On Friday morning, Louise is accustomed to pass the time in prayer,
the tender and bleeding condition of the wounds on her hands rendering
work impossible. Her prayers are of the simplest character, consisting
generally of the rosary. Seated on her chair, her hands wrapped in the
cloths, and her manner calm and serene, suddenly her eyes become
fixed, immovable, and the trance has begun. From his notes made on the
spot, upon one of these occasions, Dr. Lefebvre transcribes the
following description: “It is half-past seven in the morning. I have
been talking to Louise upon common topics, about her occupations, her
education, her health. She has answered my questions simply,
precisely, laconically. Her appearance is quiet and tranquil, her
color natural, her skin cool, and the pulse seventy-two in the minute.
After a while her conversation flags, and she answers more slowly. I
suddenly notice that she has become immovable, her eyes fixed and
turned upward, and a little toward the right. The ecstasy has begun.”
It is worth observing that the instant the eyes become fixed in
contemplation, the ecstatic state has commenced; after this the girl
answers no questions, and is quite insensible to external influences.

Dr. Imbert-Goubeyre, professor in the medical school of
Clermont-Ferrand, has also witnessed the commencement of the ecstasy
under like circumstances. His description is unnecessary.

Lastly, the ecstasy may begin while she is at her daily work. On
August 13, 1869, Mgr. d’Herbomez, the venerable Bishop of British
Columbia, went to see Louise Lateau, reaching her house about eight
o’clock in the morning. She was at work on her sewing-machine,
although her hands and feet were bleeding freely, and the blood
trickled down from her forehead, cheeks, and neck upon the machine,
which she evidently worked with the utmost pain. While the prelate was
speaking to her, the noise of the machine suddenly stopped, for she
had at once passed into the trance. A number of distinguished
ecclesiastics, among them Professor Hallez of the Seminary of Tournay,
have witnessed a similar onset of the attacks.

When once established, the course of the attack is thus described.
During most of the trance, the girl sits on the edge of her chair, as
motionless as a statue, with the body bent slightly forward; the          178
bleeding hands enveloped in cloths and resting upon her knees, the
eyes wide open and rigidly fixed as described. The expression of the
face is that of rapt attention, and she seems lost in the
contemplation of some distant object. Her expression and attitude
frequently change, the features sometimes relaxing, the eyes becoming
moist, and a smile of happiness lighting up the mouth. Sometimes the
lids droop and nearly veil the eyes, the brow contracts, and tears
roll slowly down the cheeks: at times again she grows pale, her face
wears an expression of the greatest terror, while she starts up with a
suppressed cry. The body sometimes slowly rotates, and the eyes move,
as if following some invisible procession. At other times she rises
and moves forward, standing on tiptoe with her hands stretched out,
and either clasped or hanging open like the figures of the _Orantes_
of the catacombs; while her lips move, her breathing is rapid and
panting, her features light up, and her face, which before the ecstasy
is quite plain, is transfigured with an ideal beauty. If to this be
added the sight of her stigmata: her head encircled with its bloody
chaplet, whence the red current drops along her temples and cheeks,
her small white hands stamped with a mysterious wound from which
bloody lines emerge like rays--and this strange spectacle surrounded
by people of all conditions, who are absorbed in respectful attention
and interest--some idea may be gained of what Dr. Lefebvre often
witnessed at Bois d’Haine.

About half-past one o’clock, she usually falls on her knees, with her
hands joined and her body bent forward, while her face wears an
expression of the profoundest contemplation. She remains in this
attitude about half an hour, then rises and resumes her seat. About
two o’clock the scene changes. She first leans a little forward, then
rises--slowly at first, then more quickly--and, as if by some sudden
movement of projection, falls with her face to the ground. In this
position she lies upon her chest, the head resting upon the left arm,
her eyes closed, her mouth half-open, her lower limbs stretched out
and covered to the heels by her dress. At three o’clock she makes a
sudden movement: her arms are extended at right angles with the body
in cross-like fashion, while the feet are crossed, the right instep
resting on the sole of the left. She maintains this position until
about five o’clock, when she suddenly starts up on her knees in the
attitude of prayer. After a few minutes of profound absorption, she
resumes her chair.

The ecstasy lasts until about six or seven o’clock, the attitude and
expression of face varying according to the mental impressions, when
it terminates in an appalling scene: The arms fall helpless alongside
of the body, the head drops forward on the chest, the eyes close, the
nose becomes pinched, while the face assumes the pallor of death: at
the same time the hands become icy cold, the pulse is quite
imperceptible, a cold sweat covers the body, and the death-rattle
seems to be heard in the throat. This condition lasts about fifteen
minutes, when she revives. The bodily heat rises, the pulse returns,
the cheeks regain their color, but for some minutes more there hangs
an indefinable expression of ecstasy about the face. Suddenly the
eyelids open, the features relax, the eyes look familiarly at
surrounding objects, and the ecstasy is over.

If the different phases of the paroxysm be carefully watched, it is
evident that the intellect, far from being dormant, is very active;       179
although the girl is quite unconscious of what is passing around her,
she remembers perfectly all her subjective sensations. Although
extremely reluctant to discuss the subject, she was ordered by her
spiritual directors to answer Dr. Lefebvre’s questions, which she
did--briefly, but distinctly--to the following effect:

When her ecstasy begins, she says she finds herself suddenly plunged
into a vast flood of light; figures more or less distinct soon appear,
and several scenes of the Passion then pass successively before her.
These she minutely but briefly describes--with the appearance of the
Saviour, his garments, wounds, crown of thorns, and cross. He never
addresses her a word or even looks at her. She describes with the same
clearness and precision the characters that surround him--the
apostles, the holy women, and the Jews.

Dr. Lefebvre has given a lucid exposition of the state of the
different organs during the several stages of the ecstasy, as well as
of the chief points of interest of the paroxysm. During the first
period--from eight o’clock in the morning until two in the
afternoon--Louise remains sitting in her chair, and her organic and
functional condition changes but little. The skin is cool; the face
retains its usual color; respiration is regular, and so calm that
close attention is needed to note the chest movement; the pulse is
soft and regular, beating about seventy-five in the minute.
Occasionally the heart-beats are more rapid or slower than usual, and
the face flushes or becomes suddenly pale: these functional
modifications accord with the play of the features, and are evidently
the result of the varying impressions of the mind.

From midday on Thursday, when she dines more sparingly than usual,
until eight o’clock on the Saturday morning, she tastes absolutely no
food or drink of any kind. She feels no need of either, and her
stomach would not retain it if taken; for, several times, when ordered
by her physician to take certain nourishment on Fridays, it has been
swallowed without resistance, but at once rejected. In spite of this
complete abstinence from drink, the tongue was always moist: the great
excretions of the body were suspended. Careful attention was directed
to the condition of the nervous system, and especially to sensation
and motion. To the touch, no tension or spasmodic contraction is
perceptible in any of the muscles, and the girl executes no movements
but those required for the action of the scenes at which she assists.
Thus, at times, she sits up straight, her hands either clasped or
hanging loosely, her lips relaxing into a smile, or her face drawn
into a frown. If her limbs be moved by a bystander, the result varies;
sometimes they preserve the position given, as, when her arms are
lifted up, they may retain the new position for nine or ten minutes,
and then slowly relapse to their former place. But, if she is lifted
to a standing position, great muscular relaxation is evident, and as
soon as the support is withdrawn she falls back into her chair. One
peculiarity should here be noted: if any effort be made to change her
position during prosternation, when the arms are extended and the feet
crossed upon each other, a decided resistance is perceptible, and the
extremities immediately resume their position.

The exercise of the special senses is completely suspended, as was
tested by experiment. The eyes are widely open, the pupils dilated,
the lids quite immovable, except when the conjunctiva[51] is touched,     180
which produces a slight winking or contraction of the lids. A bright
light or other object may be suddenly passed without effect before the
eyes, which gaze vacantly into space.

The sense of hearing is equally blunted, and insensible to ordinary
sounds. On several occasions, a person standing behind her has shouted
loudly into her ears without exciting the least evidence of being
heard. Except upon the conjunctiva, as mentioned, general sensibility
seems to be completely in abeyance. Numerous experiments were made to
test this fact.

For instance, the mucous membranes of the nose and ears were
repeatedly tickled with a feather without exciting any reflex
contraction; a strong solution of ammonia held under the nose produced
no effect. The skin, being less sensitive than the mucous membranes,
was pricked with a needle, and a pin thrust through a fold of skin on
the hands and forearm; the point of a penknife was also driven into
the skin until it bled freely, without producing the faintest muscular
contraction or indication of sensibility.

A still more decisive test was made with an electro-magnetic
battery,[52] the electrodes of which were placed on the front of the
forearm where the skin is very thin and sensitive, and the strongest
possible current passed through the muscles for more than a minute by
the watch without eliciting the least evidence of pain, and the
electric brush was equally powerless. The poles were likewise applied
to different parts of the face, and violent and prolonged contractions
of the facial muscles induced, but without the slightest winking or
other sign of sensibility or suffering.

Such is the condition of the organic functions during the first part
of the ecstasy, but some modifications are observed during the second.
Thus, while lying prostrate on the floor, the pulse becomes almost
imperceptible, and an ordinary observer would fail to detect it at
all, although Dr. Lefebvre was sure it never ceased to beat fully. Its
frequency was at the same time greatly increased; so that, when it
could be counted, it often rose to 120 or 130 in the minute. The
movements of respiration now become more and more feeble, and the
closest attention is needed to make sure that they exist, the
rhythmical motion of the little shawl that covers her shoulders being
often the only appreciable evidence that they are not totally

Another remarkable fact, which is contrary to the general physical
rule, is that the rate of the pulse and that of respiration are
directly in an inverse proportion; both Dr. Lefebvre and Dr.
Imbert-Goubeyre having proved that, while the pulse rose from 90 to
130 per minute, the respirations (normally averaging 20 to 25) sink to
18 or even 10 in the same period. In proportion as the pulse and
breathing become feeble, the skin loses its natural temperature, and
is bathed in a cold sweat. As was stated, reaction occurs in ten or
fifteen minutes; the pulse regains its force and normal frequency,
respiration increases, and the natural standard of bodily heat is
restored. The ecstatic thus passes at once from her trance into her
ordinary life without any intermediate stage of transition. No
headache, stiffness of the joints, or other discomfort is complained
of; the intellect is perfectly clear, the expression serene, the face     181
calm, and the body active. At this moment the pulse has been found
regular, soft, and from 72 to 75 per minute; respiration of natural
strength, and 22 per minute, and the skin perfectly natural.


The suspicion of fraud seems never to have been entertained by the
people who surrounded Louise Lateau. Her straightforward character,
her simple and unostentatious piety, and her heroic acts of charity to
the poor seemed to them the antithesis of hypocrisy. Of the likelihood
of intentional deception each reader will judge for himself from the
sketch we have given of her history. Dr. Lefebvre, however,
acknowledges without hesitation that when he first visited her he was
sure a pious fraud was being attempted which the eye of science would
at once detect. Considering that he knew nothing of her and her
antecedents, this suspicion, he says, “was natural, legitimate,
necessary even; but it soon disappeared in presence of the facts.”

If only the stigmatization be considered, the supposition is
untenable, when it is remembered that she was constantly watched by
her friends, neighbors, and visitors. How, under such circumstances,
could she possibly buy and use the blisters, caustics, or other means
of producing the bleeding wounds? But, granting she had all these at
her command, how could the ignorant peasant girl--even though aided by
two or three accomplices--produce a result which the physician with
all the resources of science cannot effect? For it involved the
necessity of causing a bloody discharge from nine or ten points of the
body, and of sustaining this for a half-day or even longer under the
very eyes of witnesses who prevented any repeated irritation of the
bleeding surfaces. But when the ecstatic trance is borne in mind, the
impossibility of imposture is still more evident. How can we conceive
that a young girl, brought up in the hardships of manual work,
deprived of all instruction, who has read nothing, and seen nothing,
could each week, during an entire day, play the part of a consummate
actress; that she could simulate not only the abolition of sight and
hearing, but complete insensibility to the most exquisitely painful
tests; that she could control functions which are essentially beyond
the power of the will, as circulation, bodily temperature,
respiration; or that she could suspend those excretions which are at
once the most humiliating and the most irresistible evidence of human

If, then, the problem at Bois d’Haine presented only one
difficulty--the stigmatization or the ecstasy--it would be next to
impossible to explain it on the supposition of fraud. But this
difficulty is incomparably greater when we consider these two
extraordinary facts in association. To suppose that both the ecstasy
and stigmatization were fraudulent would involve the manifest
contradiction of admitting that the hæmorrhage, which required a
frequent movement to sustain it for ten, fifteen, or twenty hours,
could be maintained during the prolonged immobility of the trance. No
one, however dextrous, could play this double _rôle_ for eighteen
months[53] without detection, although constantly examined by all
kinds of people--many of them filled with scientific distrust, and
among them more than one hundred physicians. As an example of the         182
uncertainty of her privacy, Dr. Lefebvre states (in a note) that, on
the 11th February, 1870, he was unexpectedly passing through the
neighborhood, and, as it chanced to be on Friday, he thought he would
stop and see Louise. He knocked at the door--was at once admitted, and
went straight to her little room without stopping to speak to the
family. It was a quarter to four in the afternoon, and she was
completely alone, lying prostrate on the floor, with her arms extended
as described, and insensible to all that was passing around her. The
bleeding limbs were wrapped in the usual cloths, of which he counted
nine. The blood which trickled from her forehead was dried; and,
lifting up her little white cap, he noticed the circle of bleeding
points on her forehead, which presented the usual appearance. The feet
had not been bleeding; on the right hand the flow was just stopping,
while on the left the blood was still distinctly flowing from both
stigmata. Having ascertained these points, he quietly left the cottage
without her having been aware of his visit.

As a general answer to the objection of insincerity, Dr. Lefebvre
appeals to both moral and physical proofs. As the most convincing of
the former class, he cites the general good repute of Louise, which
was never doubted, even by those who most resolutely questioned the
nature of the phenomena she presented: her brave and humble life, her
contempt for presents or money, her simplicity and avoidance of all
parade; her extreme anxiety to conceal the first evidence of the
stigmata even from her own family. If, as occasionally happened, money
or presents of any kind were offered to her mother or sisters, their
wounded pride was unmistakable; and when the Archbishop of Malines,
after a long examination of Louise, once asked the family if they had
no request to make of him, they only entreated that they might be
relieved of visitors and left undisturbed.

To meet the physical objections raised to the theory of the stigmata,
he tried the effects produced by cupping, caustics, and various
blistering agents. The first of these has little or no force; for,
besides the difficulty of exhausting the air under a cup upon the hard
and uneven surface of the back of the hand, it is necessary to cut the
skin to make the blood flow, and, when the amount drawn to the surface
flows out, the bleeding ceases at once.

Caustics produce a destruction of the skin at the point to which they
are applied, and after five or six days an eschar is detached, leaving
a sore but not a bleeding surface; or, if bleeding exceptionally
occurs, it ceases very soon, and the healing process is slow and
always followed by an indelible scar. This in no respect accorded with
the facts observed.

The blistering hypothesis seems less improbable, as this class of
irritants produce a special form of inflammation of the skin, during
which the epidermis is raised from the derm by an exudation of serous
fluid. As this process much more resembled the vesicles that preceded
the stigmatic bleedings, it was examined with greater care. The
characteristic odor of cantharides or ammonia was never perceived, nor
could the peculiar spangles of the Spanish-fly ever be detected with a
magnifying lens. Litmus paper, moistened and applied to the wounds,
gave no evidence of the application of acids. In addition to this,
there was no inflamed areola around the stigmata, as is common around
the edge of blistered surfaces, and their development was not
simultaneous, but successive; and more than once, in Dr. Lefebvre’s       183
presence, the ampulla or vesicle ruptured spontaneously, and the flow
of blood instantly began in its usual quantity.

When, however, the vesicle produced by a blister is ruptured, the raw
skin is exposed, but never under any circumstances emits a flow of
blood. To prove this in the most conclusive manner, the following
experiments were instituted:

On Friday, Nov. 27, 1868, Dr. Lefebvre, who usually adopted the wise
precaution of taking with him two or three of his colleagues or other
respectable physicians on his visits to Bois d’Haine, in the presence
of Drs. Lecrinier and Séverin, applied strong aqua ammonia to a spot
about half an inch in diameter upon the back of the left hand,
alongside of the stigma, which was then bleeding freely. A narrow
strip of sound skin was purposely left between the two. In about
twelve minutes a well-developed circular vesicle was obtained, filled
with transparent serum. On the hypothesis of fraud, this should have
burst spontaneously; but, as it did not do so, it was ruptured and the
cuticle torn off, thus exposing two raw surfaces side by side, upon
the same hand, and involving the same tissues. The two spots were
carefully watched; the stigma continued to bleed freely for two hours
and a half longer, while the blistered surface during this period did
not yield a single drop of blood. For a half hour it exuded a little
colorless serum, after which its surface dried up; on rubbing it with
a coarse towel, a little rose-colored serum escaped and soaked into
the cloth, but ceased the instant the friction was stopped.

The second experiment, which was still more decisive, was by means of
what he calls “the glove test” (_l’épreuve des gants_).

On Wednesday, February 3, 1869, Dr. Lecrinier, M. Niels, the curate of
Bois d’Haine, and M. Bussin visited the cottage, and took with them a
pair of thick, strong, well-stitched leather gauntlets. After
carefully examining her hands, and satisfying themselves that no
vesicle or abnormal redness existed, they asked Louise to put on the
gloves, which fitted her exactly. A strong wristband being then
wrapped five times around the wrist, so as not to leave the smallest
interspace between the glove and the skin, it was tied in a double
knot, the ends cut short, covered with melted sealing-wax, and
impressed on each side with a special seal. To prevent the wax from
scaling off from friction or any chance blow, the seals were enclosed
in little bags (_bourses en toile_). The gloves were the same for both
hands, except that on the right glove the thumb and forefinger were
cut short to allow the girl to continue her usual sewing. On the next
Friday morning, before seven o’clock, Dr. Lefebvre met by appointment
at the cottage Mgr. Pouceur, vicar-general of the diocese of Tournay,
and two well-known Belgian physicians, Drs. Moulaert, of Bruges, and
Mussely, of Deguze. After each one had satisfied himself of the
integrity of the seals, and that it was impossible to slip an
instrument of any kind between the glove and the skin, the strings
were cut and the gloves removed.

They were full of blood, which also covered the hands. When this was
washed off, the stigmata were found just the same as on other Fridays;
on the palm and back of each hand the epidermis had been detached; it
was torn, and the surface of the skin left raw, and each of the
stigmatic spots continued to bleed as usual. Of the feet, which had
not been subjected to any test, the right was bleeding freely, while      184
the left was dry.

Lest some subtle doubter might object to this experiment that, by some
indiscretion on the part of the examiners, the girl might perhaps have
discovered their intention, and applied her secret irritant to the
hands before their arrival, Dr. Lefebvre resolved to repeat the test
with still more conclusive precautions.

The gloves were therefore again applied on a Tuesday with the same
care as before, and the next day were removed for a few moments, and
the hands found in a perfectly healthy and natural state; they were
then re-applied as before. On Friday morning, they were taken off
before a new set of witnesses, when the stigmata of both hands were
found bleeding freely as usual.

In his appendix, Dr. Lefebvre states that this glove test was
suggested by Mgr. Pouceur, who superintended the theological part of
the inquiry at the request of the Bishop of Tournay, and to whose tact
and intelligent liberality he pays the highest compliment.

These experiments, and the inferences that they logically involve,
convinced Dr. Lefebvre that the hypothesis of fraud in the production
of the stigmata was untenable.

It would be easy to show by similar proofs that the ecstatic trances
could not have been feigned. But for our purpose it will suffice to
recall the reader’s attention to the numerous trials that were made to
test the subject’s sensibility to external impressions. Those made
with the electric current alone are decisive upon this point, for it
may fairly be said that the strongest and most resolute man could not
possibly resist some exhibition of feeling while a powerful magnetic
battery was contorting his muscles.

In a subsequent part of his volume, Dr. Lefebvre enters into an
exhaustive medical study of the facts observed, the discussion of
which would be out of place in this magazine. He shows conclusively
that, although they have some points in common, the ecstatic trances
essentially differ from hysteria, catalepsy, and other allied
disorders of the nervous system; while animal magnetism in its various
subdivisions of “Braidism,” hypnotism, and electro-biology is equally
powerless with somnambulism or the theory of spiritualism to unravel
the phenomena presented by this simple peasant girl of Bois d’Haine.

The reader who desires to pursue this inquiry is referred to Dr.
Lefebvre’s work (pp. 162 _et seq._) and to Fournier’s article
entitled “Cas rares” in the fourth volume of the _Dictionnaire des
Sciences Médicales_, which is replete with curious information upon
the subject of the stigmata.

So convincing are the statements of Dr. Lefebvre, who never descends
into the advocate or mistakes his own theories for facts, that the
case he narrates has been accepted in good faith, and republished
within the present year by two of the leading journals[54] of this
country and England.

In one of these, Dr. Day, of London, discusses the probable cause of
the phenomena with considerable liberality, while the learned Clymer
contents himself with reporting the extraordinary facts.

     [45] It is scarcely necessary to explain to Catholic readers
     that this expression is applied to the marks of the five
     wounds upon our Lord’s body, as described in the Gospel, and
     illustrated in all representations of the crucifixion.

     [46] Among others, White’s _Life and Writings of Emmanuel
     Swedenborg_. 1867.

     [47] _Observations, etc., upon Insanity._ London. 1806.
     Cited by Clymer.

     [48] See among others, Salvatori’s _Life of Veronico
     Giuliani_, pp. 100-108, and the exhaustive _Christliche
     Mystik_ of Görres, in which is given a full account of
     Maria Mörl, the “Ecstatic of the Tyrol.”

     [49] _Louise Lateau de Bois d’Haine: sa Vie; ses Extases; ses
     Stigmates. Etude Médicale._ Par le Dr. F. Lefebvre,
     Professeur de Pathologie Générale et de Thérapeutique.
     Louvain. 1870. 12mo, pp. 360.

     [50] For the unprofessional reader, it may be proper to state
     that this point is just external to the usual position of
     the apex of the heart.

     [51] The thin, transparent membrane that covers the eyeball, and
     is reflected upon the inner surface of the lids. It is one
     of the most delicate and sensitive portions of the body.

     [52] This test is often applied for the detection of feigned
     convulsions, etc., by criminals and other malingerers; its
     efficacy will be appreciated by any one who has tried to
     hold the poles of a powerful battery.

     [53] That is, from July, 1868, to April, 1870, when Dr.
     Lefebvre’s book was published. In a subsequent letter dated
     January 13, 1871, to Dr. Day, of London, he states that her
     condition is in all respects unchanged.

     [54] _The Journal of Psychological Medicine_, New York,
     Oct., 1870. _Macmillan’s Magazine_, London, April, 1871.


                THE LEGENDS OF OISIN, BARD OF ERIN.                       185

                        BY AUBREY DE VERE.


Among the mountains and on the wild shores of Western Ireland are
still recited, in the Gaelic, to eager listeners legends relating to
Fionn Mac Cumbal and his son Oisin, known to the English reader
chiefly under the names of Fingal and Ossian. Some of these
“rhapsodies” have been recently published, with an English version, by
the Irish “Ossianic Society,” and others by Mr. Hawkins Simpson, in a
valuable volume called _Oisin, the Bard of Ireland_. Many poems on the
same subject are included also in _The Dean of Lismore’s Book_, a work
consisting of ancient Gaelic poetry, selected from a MS. collection
made about A.D. 1514, by Sir James MacGregor, Dean of Lismore, an
island in Argyllshire. The early Irish settlements in Western Scotland are
largely referred to by the chroniclers and archæologists of Scotland.
W. F. Skene, Esq., in his learned Introduction to the Dean’s book,
informs us (though for Scotland, also, he claims Ossianic poetry)
that, during the four centuries in which the great Celtic house of the
“Lord of the Isles” held sway, there existed “not only a close
political connection between the Western Highlands and Islands and
Ireland, but the literary influence was equally close and strong; the
Irish sennachies and bards were heads of a school which included the
Western Highlands, and the Highland sennachies were either of Irish
descent, or, if of native origin, resorted to bardic schools in
Ireland for instruction in the language and accomplishments of their
art.” ... “The oldest of the Gaelic MSS. preserved in the library of
the Faculty of Advocates belongs to this period. They are all written
in the Irish character; the language is the written language of
Ireland; and they contain numerous specimens of the poetry of these
Irish masters.”

Among the Ossianic poems still chanted in Ireland, not a few consist
of dialogues between Oisin and Saint Patrick. They descend from a very
remote antiquity, though they have been much modified in the course of
ages. The bard, last of his race and clan, is represented as the guest
of Saint Patrick in one of his convents. He accepts the Christian
faith, though with misgivings, for he fears that he is thus false to
the friends of his youth, and now and then his wrath blazes out
against the monks, who have no faith in the chiefs of Inisfail. The
saint beguiles his outbreaks by praying him to sing the old glories of
the land.

Fionn, the father of Oisin, was the great commander of the Irish
Feine, a standing army elected from all parts of the country, and
invested with privileges which made it almost a kingdom within a
kingdom. Individually, he belonged to the Feine of Leinster, the
celebrated “Baoigne Clan.” Alarmed by the regal attributes assumed by
Fionn, all the provincial kings of Ireland banded themselves together
against him, and the battle of Gahbra, near Tara, in Meath, was
fought, A.D. 286. In that battle almost all the chiefs of both sides
perished, including Oscar, Oisin’s son, who commanded the Feine. Oscar
is always represented as the gentlest, not less than the bravest of
the Feine--the Hector of the Irish Troy.

Fionn and Oisin flourished, despite these poetic disputations, nearly
two centuries before the time of Saint Patrick! Some have supposed,
accordingly, that the Patrick of the Ossianic poems was some precursor
of the Irish apostle. But the chronological discrepancy would probably
have proved no counterweight to the strength of that instinct which
made the national imagination insist on connecting the heroic with the
saintly period of Ireland. A theme full of pathos and interest was
presented by the blind old warrior bard, divided between his devotion
to his father and his son on the one hand, and his reverence, on the
other, for the teachers of the better faith--between old affections
and new convictions--patriotic recollections and religious hopes.



                   [FROM ANCIENT IRISH SOURCES.]

          When Patrick the faith to Oisin had preached,
            He believed, and in just ways trod;
          Yet oft for old days he grieved, and thus
            Stormed oft at the saint of God.

         “Woe, woe, for the priestly tribe this hour                      186
            On the Feine Hill have sway!
          Glad am I that scarce their shapes I see;
            Half-blind am I this day.

         “Woe, woe, thou Palace of Cruachan!
            Thy sceptre is down and thy sword,
          The chase goes over thy grassy roof,
            And the monk in thy courts is lord!

         “Thou man with the mitre and vestments broad,
            And the bearing of grave command,
          Rejoice that Diarmid this day is dust!
            Right heavy was his clinched hand!

         “Thou man with the bell! I rede thee well,
            Were Diorraing living this day,
          Thy book he would take, and thy bell would break
            On the base of yon pillar gray!

         “Thou man with miraculous crosier-staff,
            Though puissant thou art, and tall,
          Were Goll but here, he would dash thy gear
            In twain on thy convent wall!

         “Were Conan living, the bald-head shrill,
            With the flail of his scoff and gibe,
          He would break thy neck, and thy convent wreck,
            And lash from the land thy tribe!

         “But one of our chiefs thy head had spared--
            My Oscar--my son--my child:
          He was storm in the foray, and fire in the fight,
            But in peace he was maiden-mild.”

          Then Patrick answered: “Old man, old man,
            That pagan realm lies low.
          This day Christ ruleth. Forget thy chiefs,
            And thy deeds gone by forego!

         “High feast thou hast on the festal days,
            And cakes on the days of fast--”
         “Thou liest, thou priest, for in wrath and scorn
            Thy cakes to the dogs I cast!”

         “Old man, thou hearest our Christian hymns:                      187
            Such strains thou hadst never heard--”
         “Thou liest, thou priest! for in Letter Lee wood
            I have listened its famed blackbird!

         “I have heard the music of meeting swords,
            And the grating of barks on the strand,
          And the shout from the breasts of the men of help
            That leaped from the decks to land.

         “Twelve hounds had my sire, with throats like bells,
            Loud echoed on lake and bay:
          By this hand, they lacked but the baptism rite
            To chant with thy monks this day!”

          Oisin’s white head on his breast dropt down,
            Till his hair and his beard, made one,
          Shone out like the spine of a frosty hill
            Far seen in the wintry sun.

         “One question, O Patrick! I ask of thee,
            Thou king of the saved and the shriven:
          My sire, and his chiefs, have they their place
            In thy city, star-built, of heaven?”

         “Oisin, old chief of the shining sword,
            That questionest of the soul,
          That city they tread not who lived for war:
            Their realm is a realm of dole.”

         “By this head, thou liest, thou son of Calphurn!
            In heaven I would scorn to bide,
          If my father and Oscar were exiled men,
            And no friend at my side.”

         “That city, old man, is the city of peace:
            Loud anthems, not widows’ wail--”
         “It is not in bellowings chiefs take joy,
            But in songs of the wars of Fail!

         “Are the men in the streets like Baoigne’s chiefs?
            Great-hearted like us are they?
          Do they stretch to the poor the ungrudging hand,
            Or turn they their heads away?

         “Thou man with the chant, and thou man with the creed,           188
            This thing I demand of thee:
          My dog, may he pass through the gates of heaven?
            May my wolf-hound enter free?”

         “Old man, not the buzzing gnat may pass,
            Nor sunbeam look in unbidden:
          The King there sceptred knows all, sees all:
            From him there is nothing hidden.”

         “It never was thus with Fionn, our king!
            In largess our Fionn delighted:
          The hosts of the earth came in, and went forth
            Unquestioned, and uninvited!”

         “Thy words are the words of madness, old man,
            Thy chieftains had might one day;
          Yet a moment of heaven is three times worth
            The warriors of Eire for aye!”

          Then Oisin uplifted his old white head:
            Like lightning from the hoary skies
          A flash went forth ‘neath the shaggy roofs
            Low-bent o’er his sightless eyes:

         “Though my life sinks down, and I sit in the dust,
            Blind warrior and gray-haired man,
          Mine were they of old, thou priest overbold,
            Those chiefs of Baoigne’s clan!”

          And he cried, while a spasm his huge frame shook,
            “Dim shadows like men before me,
          My father was Fionn, and Oscar my son,
            Though to-day ye stand vaunting it o’er me!”

          Thus raged Oisin--’mid the fold of Christ,
            Still roaming old deserts wide
          In the storm of thought, like a lion old,
            Though lamblike at last he died.

     [55] The substance of this poem will be found among the
     translations of the Irish Ossianic Society.


                           LUCAS GARCIA.                                  189



Lucas, who could neither do nor remedy anything, suffered fearfully
from the presence of his sister so near him. Happily, in two days the
general left for Sevilla.

But from the hour when she met her brother and he refused to recognize
her, Lucia’s existence was changed. To her, in the flowery butterfly
life into which, at seventeen, she had been almost forced by
circumstances, the encounter with Lucas had been like the striking of
a bark indolently voyaging, without patron and without compass, to the
breath of light and laughing breezes, against the first rock of firm
land: the shock had been terrible. In perplexity she asked herself,
“Where am I? Whither am I going? Who is this that flatters and
shelters me? Who he that rejects me?” In terror she gazed around her:
all seemed new and strange, all odious and reprehensible. In her
memory--oh! that she had consulted it before!--she found the words her
brother had said to her at parting: “Never turn from the right path,
though it be steep and sown with thorns. Always look straight before
you, for he that does not do this never knows where he will stop.”
Lucia’s wretchedness was augmented by the seeming impossibility of
escape from the position in which she found herself. Could she turn
back without either encouragement and support, while, by continuing in
sin, she would have both? Her natural want of energy made it the more
difficult for her to return to the right path, with no help but his
who never fails those who seek him with faith and without fear or
faltering. The tears she shed tarnished her beauty, and the sorrow
that preyed on her heart robbed her manners--hitherto so gay and
caressing--of their charm. All this at first annoyed Gallardo, then
offended, and finished by exasperating him. Violent scenes took place
between the lovers; these introduced discord; and discord, when once
it has burst its primitive embankments, filters through whatever
others may be raised to contain it.

When the general was recalled to Madrid, expecting to be employed, and
thinking that his stay would not be long, he resolved to leave Lucia
in Sevilla. She allowed him to go without opposition, for so weary was
she of the life she led that any change seemed preferable. She was,
besides, very far from possessing the brazen and insolent courage that
women of her condition are wont to acquire, and that causes so many of
them, when they have ceased to be objects of passion, to be dreaded by
the men around whom they have coiled themselves like horrible snakes;
making miserable Laocoons of the victims, who often marry them through
fear, where before they would not do it for love, and thus render the
latter part of their career as ridiculous as the beginning was

A worthy manner, truly, in which to fill up a man’s existence!

The stay at court, however, of the _young_ general, as the papers
styled Gallardo, was prolonged. He alternated in various combinations     190
of second-class political intrigues, and allowed himself to be made
the conceited tool of one of them, under the full persuasion that he
had become the imposing leader of a party.

The general now began to think, with excellent reason, very sound
judgment, and profound calculation, that it was time for him to be
more considerate. The reader will pardon us the expression, which, in
his case, meant to enter upon a life of usefulness and devotion to the
interests of the country--without sacrificing his own, it will be
understood. Influenced by these grave considerations, our young leader
subscribed to newspapers, bought books and read some of them, though
he soon forgot precisely which he had read and which not; wrote a
memorial on river navigation, and another upon the _Renta del
Excusado_;[56] made short speeches as a preparation for longer ones,
which succeeded very well and met with the entire approbation of his
hearers; and, in the time it takes to say a devout _amen_,
exchanged the rakish air of the young blood for the pompous tone of
the prominent and influential citizen.

Our friend, as may be seen, had reached his apogee: in confirmation of
which--among other sacrifices made to seriousness--he had procured a
good cook, and loosened the lacings of his stays.

Nevertheless--since there is a difference between a serious man and a
moral one--our hero maintained a sort of toned-down dissoluteness
behind the scenes, where he and his intimates entertained themselves
in conversations tissued with a variety of subjects, such as the
discourse _A_ and the scandal _B_; the concordat and the theatre royal;
the ministry and the _danseuse_; the bishop and the prima donna; the
crown and cards; erected a throne to Tauromaquia; proposed an
apotheosis of industry; and passed a vote of censure upon the luxury
of novenas.

“Look here, _little one_!” said to him just such another “_little
one_” at a breakfast party--where champagne was made to represent the
tone of good society that the greater part of the guests lacked--“what
has become of _La Lucia_?”

“She was not very well, and I left her in Sevilla,” responded the

“Doesn’t it strike you that she is losing her varnish?”

“At twenty-one, man?”

“It is not singular,” remarked the elegant son of a capitalist (the
youth had been educated in France). “At that age, one who lives fast
is _sur le retour_.”[57]

“The existence of _camellias_ is like that of roses,” quickly added
another, whose Christian name of Bonifacio they were in the habit of
contracting into _Boni_.

Having constituted himself an inseparable copy of the engrafted
Parisian, and not wishing to fall behind his model in anything,
_Boni_ never allowed the capitalist to express an idea without
instantly reproducing it in different words, always endeavoring to
surpass the original in elegant Gallicisms; in scepticism of the most
material, and cynicism of the most approved kind, and in extreme
affectation of the fashionable foreign mannerism.

“You ought to place this Lucia _dis_-lucent among the number of the
thousand-and-one Didos,” said the would-be Gaul.

“Lay her aside with last year’s _modes fanées_,”[58] the copy hastened
to add.

“I cannot do that,” said the general.                                     191

“Stale Spanish morality!’” exclaimed the capitalist, bursting into a
laugh. “Does the fair creature expect to find an Amadeus of Gaul in a
general of the age of enlightenment?”

“Or a Pastor Fido in one who aspires to become a father to his
country?” put in _Boni_.

“The fact is,” replied our friend, “that in my connection with Lucia
there have been exceptional circumstances.”

“Tell them to us, little one,” said his intimate. “The romantic tale
will flavor the coffee.”

The general related all the preliminaries and particulars of his
relations with Lucia.

“Don’t you see, general,” said the imitator of the tone Parisian,
“that it was all a farce, very well got up, by those _fourbes rustics_
to set you on; alarm you; interest you in the girl, and oblige you to
take her?”

“That it was all an intrigue of _las étage_?” added the copy of the

“_Apropos_ of impositions,” said the capitalist, “I must tell you what
happened to me yesterday. A fellow came into my office--”

“Don’t omit,” said _Boni_, “that you were counting an immense sum of
money at the time, for that is what heightens the joke.”

“He asked me,” continued Creseus, “if I would lend him two doubloons.
I told him that it cost me the greatest pain to be obliged to refuse,
but that I had not sixpence by me.”

“If I had not wished to give, I would have sought another reply,” said
an old general--uncle to ours--who had lost a leg in the battle of

“General,” replied the narrator, “among us, _I have not_ is
synonymous with _I will not_; even sucking-babes understand it.”

“A synonym which Huertas has omitted, but which is known in these
days, even in the Batuecas,” chimed the repeater.

“It could not have existed when he composed his work,” said the

“The fellow,” proceeded the narrator, “begged and implored, lowering
his demand to the most insignificant sum. I was as inexorable as
destiny.” And the millionaire cast around him a look worthy of Cato.

“He was, then, in real need, and not an impostor?” questioned the old

“O sir!--general rule--every one that asks is an impostor.”

“Unless he is an intimate friend,” said _Boni_, speaking this time
with unaccustomed personality.

“_Ma foi_,”[59] answered the Gaul_ish_ Spaniard, “I except no one.
Seeing that he was not going to desist, and always with the amiability
and delicacy that must be used in such cases--”

“_Sans doute_, the same as in affairs of honor,” said the bad copy of
a worse original.

“I told him that, since his necessity was so extreme, I would venture
to lend him--not money, for I had none--but something that would be of
more use to him in his circumstances. The imbecile thought, perhaps,
that it was going to be my signature.”

“Your signature! What one might call the only and unique _sanctum
sanctorum_ of the disciples of Mercury. A thing so sacred!”

“My dear _Boni_,” said his friend, “_veuillez ne pas m’interrompre_?[60]
The fellow’s countenance lighted up. I believe, upon my word, that he
had not eaten in three days. Laughing within myself, although my face     192
denoted the gravest sympathy for his situation, I led him to a closet,
took out a case of pistols, which I opened, and, handing him a weapon,
said, as I bowed his dismissal, ‘Here is a remedy for all your
troubles.’ My mendicant turned upon his heel and left; and you may be
sure that I have rid myself of him, _une bonne fois pour toutes_.”[61]

Boni’s mirth was overpowering.

Gallardo and the rest of the Spaniards were silent.

“You must positively put this joke into some paper,” said the
capitalist’s admirer, between his paroxysms of laughter.

“_Mon cher, à quoi bon?_”[62] responded the hero of the anecdote, with
an air of modesty.

“To show people how to get rid of impostors,” answered Boni; “to
furnish a specimen of your humor--to let it be seen that you are as
richly endowed by nature as by fortune--to give circulation to an
entertaining item--and to--”

“And could a paper be found that would print such an iniquity as an
entertaining item!” shouted the old general, no longer able to contain
his wrath. “Is it the mission of the press to propagate such ideas and
sentiments? God help us, sirs, if there is no one left in Spain
capable of a blush! Can the press parade infamy shamelessly, and no
one be found to repudiate the impudence that relates such a scandal in
terms of laudation; or appeal from it to the noble and generous
instincts, and sense of public decorum, of good and true Spaniards?
Have we become as positive as the written law? In former times,
gentlemen, not all gave, but the few that denied did not boast of
their refusal. Charity made men sorry to say no, even to impostors,
and, having said it, they would have been silent about it for shame.
Avarice was looked upon as one of the disgraceful vices which respect
for public opinion required to be kept out of sight.”

“Uncle, for God’s sake!” entreated Gallardo.

“For God’s sake what, nephew?”

“Speak with more moderation.”

“When I do, look towards Antequera for sunrise.”

“Don’t feel apprehensive, general,” said the capitalist, “_Je sais
vivre_.[63] I respect your family, and know how to make allowance for
gray hairs and the ill-humor of advanced age.”

“Yes,” instantly added the speaking shadow, “_carte blanche_ belongs
to ladies, children, and--”

He was going to add _old men_, but a look from the general silenced

“No, nephew, don’t be apprehensive,” said the latter. “The weapons of
a gentleman are for nobler uses than the punishment of insults.”

“Come, let us talk of something else,” said Gallardo’s intimate,
anxious to change the subject, but glad in his heart, as were all the
other guests, of the lesson the braggart had received from so worthy
and authorized an antagonist.

“It is not possible, Gallardo, that you will allow Lucia to be an
irredeemable lien upon you. Let me tell you, my boy, that it would be
a pretty piece of folly on your part to create an obstacle to your
future establishment.”

“I don’t see that--in order to be a deputy, senator, or--”

“Oh! you’re on the wrong tack. Your political ideas absorb all your
thoughts; but I have been told--by one of her friends--that the
daughter of Don Juan de Moneda,[64] the banker, is quite smitten with     193
your person.”

Gallardo straightened himself, and caressed his curled locks.

“Her mother is completely taken with the title of Marquis de Monte
Gallardo, which they say you are about to receive, and her father with
your capacity.”

“We are even there,” said the general, “for I am as much impressed
with his. To buy--”

“But,” proceeded the friend, “he is equally so with your sash and
rent-roll. Here, boy, is an opportunity to settle in life.”

“Really, I hardly know the kind and amiable young lady who has been so
condescending as to think of me!” drawled the extremely flattered
Gallardo, privately resolving to tighten his stays again.

“She is very beautiful,” affirmed his friend, “and you must know that
she rides like a Cossack.”

“Oh! Athenaïs la Moneda has the most elegant figure and complexion--so
pale!--and the fiercest glances” (he meant haughtiest) “of all the
belles of Madrid. She is delicious!” exclaimed the Parisian.

“She has the neck of a swan, with such _serpentine undulating_,” said
Bonifacio, quite at a loss for another comparison.

“The most desirable _parte, ma foi_! Her father is worth forty
millions, and she is the only daughter,” continued the capitalist, who
did not allow his appreciation of beauty to interfere with his
devotion to dollars.

“You ought to improve your opportunity, and marry at once,” advised
the friend. “These girls with forty millions are more capricious than
the wind. They change oftener than weather-cocks, and do just as they
please; for millionaire fathers who know only the Castilian have the
highest consideration for daughters who have learned French from Sue’s
novels, and Italian at the opera.”

“An heiress’s whim is like a flash of lightning. In losing time, you
expose yourself to a--”

“To a deception,” said the capitalist, concluding the sentence.

“To a _disabusement_,” said the copy, thinking, with profound
satisfaction, that he had, for once, surpassed the original.

“What is your opinion of all this?” asked Gallardo of his uncle, with
a laugh, intended to appear jesting, but which betrayed his interior

“Yes, give us the benefit of your wisdom,” said the capitalist,
covering his ill-humor with a tone of light irony. “In matrimonial as
well as martial councils, the Nestors should be heard.

    ‘_La face des vieillards est pleine de majesti:
      Leur voix sur l’existence a des secrets intimes._’”[65]

“_Une vieux de la vieille_,”[66] confirmed _Boni_, “is a California of
experience; a barometrical and chronometrical counsellor; a universal
grammar bound in gold; a--”

“Hush, _Boni_!” whispered the capitalist in the ear of his friend, who,
less accustomed to champagne than the others, began to feel its
emancipating influence.

Meantime, the old officer stroked his gray moustache in silence.

“Well, what do you think, general!” questioned Gallardo.

“I think that you ought to marry.”

“_C’est clair_,” said the Parisian.

“It is clear,” repeated _Boni_--“as clear as detestable water;
and they think of bringing it into Madrid! Will spend millions to do

“_Taisez vous, mon cher_,” entreated the model, in a low tone.            194

“I am not in the humor,” replied the copy, in excellent Spanish.

“Of course he ought to marry,” said all the rest.

“Let us understand each other, gentlemen,” said the old general. “I
think, Gallardo, that you ought to marry, not the mushroom of the
millions, but Lucia.”

These words were received with clamorous disapprobation.

“You take advantage of your _rôle_ of Nestor, general,” exclaimed
the capitalist.

“The hero of former times dotes--I would say _radote_. I propose a
vote of censure!” hiccoughed the copy.

“S-s-s, Boni. _Le vous en prie!_[67] Do you want to get another
broadside from the disabled old pontoon? Don’t provoke him, for the
next time neither prudence nor contempt will enable me to keep my
temper,” murmured his patron.

“The general is jesting. A gentleman of his fine delicacy cannot mean
to counsel one, in Gallardo’s position, to marry a woman of light
reputation,” said Gallardo’s friend.

“I do it because I have delicacy--a plant that strikes so deep when
once it has taken root, that neither the silver plough nor the golden
spade which cultivates the field of ideas of the present day can turn
it out. I counsel a man who has done a wrong to repair it. I advise
one who has been the ruin of an honest girl to become her defender.
And the more public he has made her position, the more he is bound to
set her right in the eyes of others. If the future looks smiling, I
counsel it all the more earnestly, that the past may not reproach him.
In my days, gentlemen, marriages were not discussed in semi-public
meetings. The only counsellors were, according to the circumstances,
the heart, the honor, and the conscience. But,” added the old man,
rising, “my sentiments are as much out of harmony with yours, as my
person is out of place in a reunion of gay young men. Gentlemen, I
salute you. Nephew, good-by. Do not ask me to your brilliant wedding
if you marry with the million-heiress of the caprices. If with Lucia,
I will be your groomsman.”

With these words the noble veteran took his leave.

“Style of an epic poem,” said the pseudo-Parisian.

“Tone of an _elegiac lyric_,” stammered the copy. “One would think the
governor had been drinking some kind of palate-skinning Catalan wine,
instead of the excellent, exquisite, delectable, delicious--”

“Enough, _Boni_,” interrupted his friend, indicating to him with his
foot the urgent necessity of more discretion.

“The general has, so to speak, one foot in the grave, and, naturally,
all looks to him _de profundis_ color,” observed Gallardo’s intimate.
“But we live in a positive age, and must conform to the step of its
march; to do otherwise would be to make ourselves antiquated and

Days followed days, each one bringing to our hero its business,
novelty, interest, and forgetfulness of those that had preceded it.
Lucia, in the meantime, saw her means of subsistence failing without
informing him; for, with the reawakened sentiments of duty and shame,
came the comprehension of her guilty dependence, and sense of the
double humiliation of soliciting and receiving. She had lived for some
time by the sale of her valuables, but this resource was almost

“What is to become of me?” she questioned, with more of weakness than     195
inquietude, more inertia than anguish, as she sat one day alone, her
head drooping upon her breast. “In forgetting how to work, I have been
like the sailor that forgets in a calm how to handle the ropes. What
shall I do when all is gone? What can he who has brought me to this be
thinking of?”

Her questionings were interrupted by the entrance of the woman of the
house with a letter.

“It is from Madrid,” she said, with a fawning smile. “I’ll bet that
the general tells when he is coming, and confirms the report of his
appointment as captain-general of this province.”

Lucia opened and read the following epistle:

“DEAR LUCIA: Nothing can last for ever. Mature age brings serious
ideas; the life of a man, obligations, circumstances, compromises, and
position, duties, which force us to make, in favor of reason and
morality, sacrifices that are not the less painful because they are

“My family has undertaken to negotiate a marriage for me, which will
assure me a certain and brilliant future; and matters have proceeded
so far that I cannot oppose myself to the arrangement without
offending a powerful and respectable family, compromising my own, and
causing grave inconveniences, inconveniences which you would be the
first to deplore.

“I believe that you will understand the necessity of my establishing
myself in life, and will feel neither surprised nor pained. I am
equally persuaded, having noticed for a long time how unhappy you
seemed at my side, and how little pleasure my presence gave you, that
you will not miss me. It may be that another already occupies in your
heart the place that once was mine. If you will be happier with him
than you have been with me, I trust that I have enough philanthropy to
rejoice in your good fortune.

“Adieu. It is likely that we may not meet again; but, believe me, I
shall never forget you; and, if I can serve you in any way, command

“Well,” asked the woman, eagerly, “does he say anything about coming?”

“No,” answered Lucia, with the tears raining down her cheeks, “he says
that he is not coming.”

Lucia did not feel for Gallardo that which can properly be called
love; but, during four years, her naturally affectionate heart had
attached itself to him, and could not but be wounded by the cold
insensibility with which he had abandoned her.

The harpy’s face, manner, and tone changed at once; for this grief
confirmed her suspicions. Lucia’s lover had cast her off.

“Madam,” she said, “certain exigencies, in which I unfortunately find
myself, have obliged me to introduce a rule into my house, requiring
my boarders to pay in advance. All the rest have agreed to it, and I
trust that you will do the same.”

“No, madam,” replied Lucia, “for I am going away to-morrow, and so
shall have to give you only what is already due.”

The poor forsaken girl went out that night and sold her wardrobe to a
pawnbroker. After satisfying her creditor, she had enough left to pay
some wine-carriers for a ride upon one of their mules as far as Jerez,
and from there she meant to go to Arcos on foot. At dawn, on the
following morning, she passed through the Carmona gate, casting a
long, sad look upon the sleeping city--the city that the Bitis serves
as a page; La Giralda for insignia, and the verdure of its orange         196
groves for adornment; the city that is at once gay as a village maiden
and imposing as a queen; beautiful as a young girl, and full of wisdom
and memories as a matron; graceful as the Andalusian of to-day, and
chaste and noble as the Castilian dame of olden time.

Lucia found herself in Jerez alone and without resource, but, by favor
of her good angel, met Uncle Bartolo at the inn where she alighted.
The visible presence of the former would not have rejoiced her more
than did the sight of this old friend of her family, to whom she told
the whole of her sad story, adding that now she knew not what to do,
since she dared not seek even a servant’s place.

“My daughter,” said the old guerilla, “you grew vain in the fiend’s
own house of _Leona_, and forgot that wings were given to the ant for
its destruction. If you had shown that wretch a repulsive face, he
would not have ventured to do what he did. What motive, will you tell
me, could a _You Sir_ have for playing clucking fox to a little
country girl, but to make of her a mark for shame?

“However,” he continued, seeing that Lucia’s tears began to flow, “far
be it from me to hack at the fallen tree, or double the burden of the
ass that is down. The baptism of repentance opens the fold, and your
repentance is sincere, because you return to poverty, when, if you had
chosen otherwise, profligates would not have been wanting, in the
great city, to complete your ruin. Come with me, and I will talk to
Lucas. It is his duty to take care of you.”

“He will never forgive me, Uncle Bartolo!” exclaimed Lucia sadly. “He
has said that he had no sister, and no one can make him say the

“True,” replied the guerilla, “the Garcia heads are harder than
anvils. I learned that by experience when your father--Heaven rest
him!--married _La Leona_. But this is another thing, for,
notwithstanding that your father did so badly, Lucas has turned out
well. And it is a great deal easier to yoke two that are united by
blood than to unyoke two that the devil has united. We will see, God
helping us, and, in the meantime, you shall come to my house; there is
no great abundance, but good-will is not wanting.”

The next day saw Uncle Bartolo and Lucia travelling along the road
which we described at the commencement of our story; Lucia mounted
upon a little ass, and the agile good old man following on foot. At
nightfall they reached Arcos.

Alas! for the one who, returning to his native place, instead of
experiencing pure happiness, feels his heart torn by grief and shame;
finds his parents dead, the house where he was born the property of
strangers, and sees, in the looks of neighbors, cold disdain instead
of the joyful smile of recognition and welcome!

Uncle Bartolo took Lucia to his own house, and, while they were
preparing supper, went himself to that of Lucas, who, on receiving his
discharge, had returned to Arcos and to his post among the
day-laborers, and had, by his aptness and diligence, won so much
credit that several profitable jobs and positions had already been
offered him. As will be supposed, he had found his father’s house
sold. But as his kinswoman still lived in it, he hired his former
habitation, and she assisted him.

Uncle Bartolo entered, just as Lucas had finished his supper.

“Sit by, Uncle Bartolo,” said the young man.

“No, thank you. May what you have taken profit you! Will you have a       197

“It wouldn’t come amiss.”

Uncle Bartolo handed Lucas a paper cigar, lighted his own, and, with
characteristic bluntness, plunged into his subject.

“Lucas, man, will you tell me why you never speak of your sister? Does
it appear to you that a sister is a patch sewed on to be ripped at

Lucas, disagreeably surprised, contracted his brows as he answered:

“I have no sister, Uncle Bartolo.”

“What! what do you say?”

“I have already said it. ‘In my manse they bestow but one loaf.’”

“Go a-walking with your grand talk! I’d like to know what right you
have to deny your sister, even though her life has not been what it
ought to be?”

Lucas had turned pale, and his beard trembled with repressed

“Uncle Bartolo,” he replied, affecting an air of indifference, “the
saying is, ‘He that goes away is not counted.’ Let us drop this

“I don’t feel disposed to; you may as well understand that. And now,
let me tell you that this face of a judge, though it may be the
correct one to show to a sinner, is not by any means the one to show
to a penitent. Do you comprehend? Your poor little sister is penitent;
and you know that

     ‘He who sins and mends,
      Himself to God commends.’”

“I have said that I had no sister.”

“Don’t be stubborn, for God’s sake! Look here now, soul of an ape! How
can you say you have no sister, if he has given you one? Lucas, I have
come, and I shall not go away until you forgive Lucia.”

“Uncle Bartolo, don’t pledge yourself to what you cannot accomplish.”

“You are your father’s own son--the one and the other harder-headed
than oxen. Juan Garcia and Lucas Garcia: there’s a pair fit for a

“Why fall upon me, sir, in such a shower of sarcasms? Is it necessary
to give so many punches to say that the bull is coming?”

“Because he comes with a purpose, and, ‘when things come with a
purpose, more than the ass may fall to the ground.’ I tell you only
the pure truth, and you, with your devil’s motto of ‘few words and bad
ones,’ what you say has neither form nor sense! But to come back to
the subject, for I don’t let go the handle this way when I am
defending the right. As I was going to say, your stubbornness is worse
than your father’s; because it is not so bad to be determined upon
marrying one’s girl as to be determined not to forgive one’s sister.
It’s better to do more than your duty than to do less. If your father
lacked puncto, you have half a share too much. Your mother committed
your sister to you; and you are disobeying the last will of her that
bore you!”

“She committed my sister to me, but not the kept miss of a villain.”

“You are soaring as the eagle, which is a royal bird; you pronounce
your sentences like a judge of the Audiencia, and make yourself
believe that you are wiser than the Regency. But you are greatly out
of the way, my son. It ill becomes you to go before God in casting out
your sister; your own mother’s daughter, when her misfortune was
partly your fault.”

“Mine, sir?”

“Yes, yours; for you threw off the burden like an untamed colt; cast
behind you the trust you received from your mother, and, without          198
commending yourself either to God or the devil, shouldered your gun
and made off; knowing that for six years, walled up in a uniform, you
must lose sight of your charge; knowing, besides, that you were
leaving her in a house where wickedness was well established. And so
what happened, happened. The past is past, and can’t be mended now;
but after this, do you think it is right, Christian, that your sister
should have no one to turn to when she leaves her sinful life?”

“She ought to have remembered in time that every uphill has its down.”

“But, my son, is not this to

    ‘See the ulcer, see the woe:
     Shut the purse, and naught bestow’?

This is to have bowels of a pagan toward a poor creature that they
pushed and pushed--a child that did not know what they were doing.”

“Uncle Bartolo, ignorance does not take away sin.”

“Do you think, if you had had your evil hour--suppose it for instance,
only--and had robbed or done something that had dishonored you, and
had gone to your sister, that she would refuse to own you? I’ll be
bound she wouldn’t!”

“Well, I should have acted badly. But the case is impossible, for it
would have been my care not to put myself in her way. ‘He that touches
his own with his leprosy, gives it to them, and does not cure

“Lucas, my son, the sentence says, ‘Act with good intention, and not
with passion!’”

“And the proverb says that ‘blood boils without fire,’ Uncle Bartolo.”

“Lucas, for the love of the Blessed Virgin! How can he who shows no
mercy hope for the mercy of God? Do a good deed, and, when you lie
down, though it be upon a mattress of rushes, you will sleep without
bad dreams, and as sweetly as if it were a bed of feathers!”

“You are wasting words, Uncle Bartolo. Even if I am condemned for it,
I will not hear that vile thing spoken of, and so--stop!”

“Go to, then, _Cain_!” exclaimed the good old man as he rose to leave,
“and God set a mark on you as he did on the cruel brother that he
cursed! I’d rather have her, with her sin and her repentance, than
you, with your virtue and your pride.”

To paint the grief of the wretched Lucia when Uncle Bartolo informed
her of the no-result of his mission, would be impossible.

“Holy God!” she exclaimed between her sobs, “only with thee shall I
find mercy! Ah! how I loved this brother in the days of my happy
childhood, when I was innocent, and he was all my consolation! Then he
could not do enough to please me, and used to swear never to abandon

“Come, come, dry your tears, my daughter,” said Uncle Bartolo. “‘The
frightened partridge is the first to get skewered.’ What do you want
of an unnatural, without bowels of compassion? You have me, and the
roof of my house is not so small that it cannot shelter you. What I
have you shall share, and you can help my poor Josefa. She has become
a potsherd, and don’t get much rest, for ‘woman’s work is done and to
be done again.’”

When the other inmates of the house slept, Lucia kept lonely vigil,
and wept the things that had formerly made her happiness--her poverty,
her innocence, and her brother’s affection. Wandering in the vast
field of her recollections, she found both affliction and consolation
in recalling all the particulars of her simple life; every proof of       199
tenderness that she had received from her brother; every hope,
withered or dead. With the deepening silence and shadows of the night,
her anguish increased. “What shall I do? What shall I do?” she cried,
wringing her hands. “I cannot be a burden to this good old man! I
cannot stay in this neighborhood, for my own brother’s rejection of me
will encourage others to outrage me! What shall I do? I must beg if I
cannot find work! Where shall I go? Wherever God may lead me!”

Without waiting for daylight, and silently, in order that her
departure might not be perceived by her protector, Lucia opened the
door, and stepped into the street.

But she could not leave, for ever, a place so dear to her, without
lingering for a moment before the adjacent house. It was the one in
which her mother died; its roof had sheltered her tranquil infancy: in
it she was leaving the brother that she still loved, in spite of her
guilt and his inhumanity.

Lucas was not asleep. Exasperation, a disquieted conscience, and heavy
heart had driven repose from him.

All at once, he was startled by the tones of a sweet and tremulous
voice near to the street door, singing the romance that he had taught
his sister when she was a child. He sprang from the bed, moved by an
irresistible impulse, but instantly covered his ears with his hands as
if to shut out the sound.

The voice sang:

    “Praying in God’s name, sister,
       And for his sweet mother’s sake,
     Give my little children bread,
       And his word in payment take.”

Struggling with mingled emotions of rage and grief, Lucas seated
himself upon his couch, and beat upon the ground with his feet.

The voice, becoming all the while more low and quivering, proceeded:

    “He takes a loaf, and breaks it,
     But throws it down again,
     For blood run out of the bread.”

The brother’s heart was choking him, yet, still resisting, he covered
his now tear-stained face with both hands. But when the voice, broken
by sobs, continued,

    “And she that, without pity,
     To a sister refuses bread,
     To God’s Mother doth refuse it”--

he rushed to the door, and, dashing it open, ran out; and Lucia, with
a cry of joy, threw herself into his extended arms.

The next day, Uncle Bartolo remarked to his wife:

“When the devil enters into one, he locks all the doors behind him.
But until the last hour, his divine Majesty keeps a postern open in
the sinner’s heart.”

     [56] Name given to the subsidy formerly levied by the
     King of Spain for carrying on wars against the infidels.

     [57] On the wane.

     [58] Faded fashions.

     [59] In faith.

     [60] “Will you please not interrupt me?”

     [61] Once for all.

     [62] What for, my dear?

     [63] I know how to behave.

     [64] Don John made of Money.

     [65] “The aspect of the old is full of majesty:
           Their words are laden with the secrets of existence.”

     [66] An old soldier of the olden time.

     [67] “Hush, I beg of you.”


          THE LIQUEFACTION OF THE BLOOD OF ST. JANUARIUS.                 200

                               NO. III.

But this is far from being the general rule. In 1543, the diary
mentions the presence of Muleasses, Bey of Tunis, a Mohammedan, and
records his expression of astonishment at what he beheld. On several
other occasions, Mohammedans were witnesses of it; some became
Christians. Protestant travellers from England, Denmark, Sweden, and
Germany have written accounts of what they themselves saw. On four of
the six occasions when the writer of these lines was present, he can
bear personal testimony to the presence of Protestants.

It is narrated that the liquid blood has been known to solidify
instantly, whenever the reliquary passed into the hands of a
particular canon, in his turn of office, to be presented by him to the
people, or when certain persons approached to venerate and kiss it,
and would as quickly liquefy again when they withdrew. A notorious
case is mentioned by the Bollandists, and by other authorities, of a
prince, whose name, for family reasons, was not given--for the matter
was published in his lifetime. At his approach the liquid blood used
to become solid. His personal character left no doubt on the minds of
the Neapolitans why this happened.

We have already spoken of the notable differences of color, on various
days, or parts of the same day. The diary registers them as _bright_,
_beautiful_, _vermilion_, _rubicund_, or as _dense_ or _dark_, or
_blackish_, or _ash-colored_, or, again, _pale_ or _yellowish_.
Sometimes the whole mass was of one uniform tint. Sometimes there were
several tints in different parts, as in 1748, when, as we saw, one
portion was blackish and the other ash-colored, the vial being then
full, and the blood liquid, as afterwards appeared.

Again, the liquid blood is sometimes quite quiescent, yielding,
indeed, to every movement of the ampulla, as water would, but when the
ampulla is at rest on its stand, remaining in it as tranquil as water,
with a level and smooth surface, and without the least indication of
internal movement. Yet often it gives forth a froth or foam, which
covers a part or all of the surface, which stains the glass dark or
vermilion, and the remains or traces of which may be noticed on the
mass when indurated afterwards; that is, if this foaming has continued
until a solidification on the altar, or until the reliquary is locked
up in the evening. Very often this foaming will cease after lasting
half-an-hour or an hour. Its ending and disappearance is as fitful as
its beginning.

Sometimes the motion is greater, and of a different character--an
ebullition or boiling, as the Italians call it. Portions of the liquid
blood are thrown up a quarter of an inch, or more. Sometimes this
bubbling has been very violent, some of the liquid being thrown up
into the neck of the ampulla to the very top.

On December 16, 1717, it is recorded that, before the liquefaction
took place, and while the blood was still hard and solid, “an
exhalation was seen to rise from the hard mass, like to a little cloud,    201
and to ascend to the top of the neck.” On 24th September, 1725, “the
blood was taken out hard, and immediately liquefied; and three or four
times, of itself, it moved round in a circle within the ampulla,
although the ampulla was then in its place on the altar, and

It is needless to cite any more of the thousand-and-one items of such
character scattered through the diary. They all show the sincerity and
good faith of the writers, and the care with which the minutest facts
were observed, and accurately recorded on the day of their occurrence.

Next to the occurrence of the liquefaction, the most important fact,
in our judgment, is the frequent change of volume which the mass
undergoes while liquid. We say while liquid, for we do not discover,
either in the diary or in our researches elsewhere, any indication of
such a change taking place while the blood is in its solid condition.
But, while liquid, such changes are so frequent and so great that the
diary, as we saw, noticed their absence or _quasi_-absence, during one
octave, as something remarkable. The blood is said to be at its
ordinary or normal level when it fills about four-fifths of the space
in the ampulla, or vial. It has been known to sink below this, but
very rarely. Ordinarily it is oscillating in volume, sometimes
reaching the neck, or entering it so high as to leave only a thread of
light, or even filling the neck up to where it enters the mass of
soldering. The extreme distance between the two levels is about an
inch and a half, and the volume must increase over twenty per cent. in
order to rise from the ordinary level so as to fill completely the
ampulla. The days are comparatively rare when some change of volume
is not seen, either by increase or by decrease. The change is
generally gradual, yet such as may be watched and followed. Sometimes,
however, it is quite rapid in the ascent or the descent, or in
its alternations of rising and falling; sometimes almost
instantaneous--_in un colpo, in un tratto_.

These ordinary oscillations or changes of volume, which occur at any
time, may be looked on as the usual and minor form of one general and
striking trait or mode of action. When the increase is carried to its
utmost extent, the vial is seen to be completely filled; and this
fulness, in turn, presents many variations to be studied. We may
divide them into two classes. The first embraces all those cases in
which the fulness terminates, and the blood commences to diminish in
volume, at any time before the close of the octave; we may call these
completed periods. The second embraces all those in which the fulness
continues to the end, so that, on the last day of the octave, the
blood is replaced in its closet still completely filling the ampulla;
these we call incomplete periods.

To the prior class belong, first, all those many instances in which
the blood swelled up and filled the ampulla and commenced to sink
again in volume on the same day, whether after a few moments or after
several hours of fulness. Again, the diary records _three_ cases
in which it so rose one day and sank the next; _four_ cases in which
it rose one day and sank the second day after, keeping the ampulla
completely full for the entire intermediate day; _six_ cases in which
there were two such intermediate days; _two_ with three, and _four_
with four such intermediate days of complete fulness. We have thus
nineteen cases recorded in the diary, to which we should add,             202
perhaps, an equal number for the first category. A complete period, so
to call it, of the fulness may vary, therefore, from a few moments to
five consecutive days.

The second class comprises ninety-four instances of fulness opened and
not completed during the octave. The varieties in these are even
greater than in the former class. In _nineteen_ cases the fulness, or,
at least, its last phase, commenced on the closing day; in _five_
cases, on the day before; in _nine_, on the third last day; in
_eleven_, on the fourth; and in _twenty-two_ on the fifth day,
counting from the closing of the octave; in _twenty-six_ cases, the
fulness began on the sixth day; and in _two_ cases, as far back as the
seventh day, counting from the close of the octave. We have here
twenty-eight of these incomplete periods, longer than the longest of
the closed or complete periods, just mentioned, still further
complicating any question as to the lengths of these periods of

Whenever, during an octave, the ampulla is locked up at night
_full_, it will be found _full_ the next morning. When it is locked up
at the close of an octave in that state, it will be found in the same
at the first opening of the next celebration, months afterwards. We
said that the mass changed its volume only when in a fluid condition.
We may now venture to add that such changes take place only in public,
and never while the blood is closed up in the closet, or
_armoire_. In examining the diary very carefully, we find that, in the
vast majority of cases, the level of the mass as stated when taken
out--whether it be at the ordinary level, or somewhat elevated, or
very high, or full--perfectly agrees with the level at which it was
stated to stand when last put up, whether the day before or at the
close of the preceding octave. In a number of cases, indeed, the diary
is silent or obscure on the point; but its language often seems to
imply this fact, or to take it for granted. Nowhere does it state the
reverse in general terms; and we cannot find a single instance
recorded which establishes the contrary. The blood is always found at
the level at which it stood when last put up.

These ninety-four unclosed periods were, therefore, prolonged to the
next festival, when the ampulla was taken out still _full_. Some of
these periods had just commenced on the last day; others had lasted
six full days after the day of their commencement. Is there any marked
difference in their closing? Not in the day; for they all, with three
exceptions, closed on the first day of the incoming octave, if they
had run over to May or September, or on December 16, if that was the
next exposition. In regard to time, there is no rule. The most
numerous class, containing twenty-six instances, varied from
_immediately_ to _nine hours and a half_; nine times the liquefaction
occurred in less than one hour, and nine times it delayed more than
three hours--the other eight times it lay between the two. The
twenty-two cases of the next highest class present the same
diversities of time, from _immediately_ to _nine hours and a half_.
Nine instances were under an hour, eight were over three hours, the
remaining five lay between the two divisions.

The more those periods of fulness are examined, the more clearly does
it appear that they follow no system, and can be classified or
accounted for by no law. We see the mass swelling and increasing its
volume and filling the ampulla, and continuing to fill it for some        203
moments, or hours, or days. We can note the facts; but why this
increase? why does it rise so high? why to-day, and not yesterday, or
to-morrow? why so long, or not longer? Physical science is as utterly
unable to answer these questions as it is to assign a cause for the
liquefaction itself, or for the various and varying phases of the
blood of St. Januarius.

As was stated in our preceding article, the Neapolitans hold that the
proximity of the relics of the head and the reliquary with the vials
of the blood to each other, is ordinarily the sufficient and
determining cause of the liquefaction. Their whole ritual of the
expositions is based upon this principle. The separation of the
relics, or their _quasi_-separation, by a veil thrown over the
reliquary of the blood, is ordinarily sufficient to terminate the
liquefaction and to indurate the blood anew. But, on the other hand,
the diary records a number of instances in which the blood, having
been found hard, liquefied at once, even before the reliquary was
placed near the bust. Several times, too, it has liquefied in the
streets, while carried aloft in the afternoon procession of the vigil
in May towards Santa Chiara or a _seggia_, although the bust had
already been carried thither in the forenoon. So, too, a liquefaction,
partially commenced in the _Tesoro_ chapel or in the cathedral, has
often continued or been completed during the outdoor procession
through the streets, on the festival of the patronage, in December.

Another cause or condition, perhaps as important as the proximity of
the relics, is, in our judgment, the strong faith and the earnest
devotion of the attendants--a faith and devotion in which the
Neapolitans, clergy and people, are not surpassed. It was, perhaps,
for this reason, that in the extraordinary expositions of which we
have spoken, the liquefaction so often occurred quickly, and, as the
Neapolitans would say, _Il miracolo era bellissimo_. The devout
strangers to whom the favor was granted brought to it faith and piety.
On the few occasions when it was tardy--on none did it entirely
fail--there may have been too strong an ingredient of mere profane
curiosity. Kings, and princes, and nobles of high worldly standing
have often visited Naples, and sometimes sought and obtained this
favor of an extraordinary exposition of the relics in their presences,
that, apart and with less danger of any intrusion on their personal
dignity or comfort, and in the company of their chosen attendants
only, they might have an opportunity of witnessing the miracle at
their ease. This was the length of their privilege. As for the
liquefaction itself, they had to wait as others waited, and, perhaps,
because they did not pray as others prayed, they were sometimes

In 1702, Philip V., King of Spain, to whom Naples was then subject,
visited the city, reaching it on the afternoon of Easter Sunday. On
Easter Tuesday, April 18, he was present at a Pontifical High Mass
celebrated in the cathedral. After that long ceremony, his majesty
passed into the _Tesoro_ chapel, where there was to be a special
exposition of the relics, that he might venerate them and might
witness the liquefaction. “The blood was brought out hard; four Masses
were celebrated in succession (about two hours); but the saint was not
pleased to work it. The king departed, and the Masses continued. At
the sixth Mass, and as the king had entered his carriage at the
cathedral door, the blood liquefied. The king returned at 22 o’clock,
and kissed the relics in the hands of his eminence in the _Tesoro_.”      204

However, the diary mentions that he did witness the liquefaction
itself at the next regular day in May, with all the people.

Other instances are given in which viceroys and nobles and princes
waited until they were tired out. Soon after their departure, when the
faithful and fervent people might freely crowd the chapel and pray,
the liquefaction would occur.

It is impossible to exaggerate the firmness of their faith or the
depth and tenacity of the affection of the Neapolitans for this
_their_ miracle. Whatever else happens to their fair city, nothing
must interfere with their devotion to St. Januarius and the proper
celebration of these festivals--neither wars nor pestilence, nor
eruptions nor earthquakes, nor change of rulers. Once a battle raging
in the streets prevented an outdoor procession. But, within the
cathedral, there was a procession through the aisles and nave, and all
things else went on as usual.

Oddly enough, the greatest disturber, to judge by the simple-minded
writers of the diary, has been--rain. Not that the weather has any
direct influence on the liquefaction or its circumstances. Quite the
contrary. The blood liquefies all the same, and with as many attendant
variations, whether the day be fair or rainy, whether the season be so
dry that the farmers are complaining of drought, and prayers have been
ordered for rain, or whether it has been raining incessantly for weeks
and months, to the injury of the crops, and in the churches they are
praying for fair weather; in summer, when the sun is pouring down his
almost tropical beams; and in winter, when the procession is confined
to the cathedral because it is too cold to go out into the streets,
or because the ground is covered with snow. These meteorological
changes have no apparent influence on the liquefaction or its
characteristic circumstances.

But at Naples they sometimes have terrible deluges of rain--steady
downpourings such as one may witness only within or close to the
tropics. Sometimes these have come on just at the hour to interfere
with the grand afternoon procession of the vigil in May, forbidding
it, or ludicrously disarranging it, and forcing monks, friars,
priests, seminarians, canons, and people alike to break the ranks and
seek immediate shelter in the neighboring shops and houses. However,
come what might, at the worst, his eminence, or the highest
ecclesiastical dignitary present, with a few attendants of waterproof
hearts, would carry the relic, in a sedan chair or a carriage, it
might be, to the appointed place. Is it not all punctually set down in
the diary; at what corner, or in what street, the procession was
broken up, and who then carried the relic on, and whether still on
foot or in a carriage, and how many courageously accompanied him? We
may be sure that on arriving at their destination they never failed to
find the church, despite the rain, and despite the absence of
fashionable ones, filled by devout souls, who loved their saint more
than they feared even such weather.

Passages in the extracts we have made from the diary, and many other
passages we might quote, indicate the feelings of alarm which fill the
hearts of the Neapolitans when the liquefaction fails to occur, or is
attended by circumstances which they traditionally dread. St.
Januarius is their patron saint. This ever-recurring liquefaction is,
in their eyes, a perpetual and miraculous sign or evidence of his care    205
and protection. When it occurs regularly, when the liquefaction is
complete and the color of the liquid blood a bright vermilion, and
when there are no sudden disturbances and only slight variations of
level, the Neapolitans are happy. “It is a blessed octave.” They think
they have evidence that all will go well with them. If, on the
contrary, the hard mass does not liquefy at all, or if the liquid
blood appear turbid, dark or ash-colored, or if it rises and falls
rapidly, or if it presents other unusual and sinister appearances,
their hearts sink, and they are filled with alarm and anxiety. They
fear that this is an indication of the displeasure of heaven, and that
the chastisements they deserve for their sins may soon come on them.
We once heard a learned Neapolitan enlarge on this theme, and cite
various instances in the history of his city in which he showed a
remarkable coincidence, at least, between such facts of the
liquefactions and the occurrence of wars, pestilence, famine, and
disastrous earthquakes, or of other signal chastisements from heaven.
We were not sufficiently conversant with the history of Naples either
to controvert his statements or to allege other facts to the contrary.
It is a subject on which one might go astray, almost as easily as if
he undertook to interpret the Apocalypse. But our friend professed to
have the history at his finger-ends, and certainly was himself
thoroughly convinced of the truth of his opinion.

Travellers are accustomed to tell amusing stories of the impatience
and irreverence of the Neapolitans during the exposition, whenever
there is an unusual delay in the liquefaction. They charge them with
addressing the saint alternately in expressions of religious homage
and of bitter reproach, praying and beseeching him one moment and
apostrophizing him the next in slang terms of vituperation. Such
travellers, we may be sure, are either drawing on their own
imagination or on the store of anecdotes they have heard from others.
They usually know little of Italian, and are utterly ignorant of the
peculiar dialect of the Neapolitan people--almost a language in
itself. The only possible excuse for making such a charge would be a
stranger’s misconception or misinterpretation of the demonstrative
gestures they indulge in when deeply moved, and his utter ignorance of
the words they are uttering. We opine, however, that the motive,
generally, is a wish to parade droll and amusing statements, even if
they be neither witty nor true.

We have been assured by many respectable clergymen of Naples, who, of
course, know their own people, and often have to chide them, that
there is not a word of truth in this charge.

The clergy and the laity of Naples, of all classes, learned and
unlearned alike, believe most steadfastly and earnestly in the
miraculous character of the liquefaction of the blood of St.
Januarius. Many strangers who have seen it and have examined it
critically have come to the same conclusion. Although the church has
not spoken authoritatively on the matter, still the consensus of so
many learned, intelligent, and pious persons who have so accepted
it--the fact that during so many centuries it has stood the test of
time, and that science has not been able to explain it away or to
reproduce it artificially--and the very character of the liquefaction
itself, with its attendant circumstances, so clear, so plain, and so
decisive--all leave no room for reasonable doubt.

To complete our statement, we must, perhaps, go still further back,       206
and inquire how it has come about that a portion of the blood of a
Christian bishop, beheaded in the year 305, under Diocletian, and in
virtue of edicts by that emperor for the suppression of Christianity,
should, after the lapse of so many centuries, be now found in a glass
ampulla, or vial, at Naples. To some, this primary fact may, at first
sight, appear as strange and as extraordinary, if not as
unaccountable, as the subsequent liquefaction itself.

To an Italian Catholic, indeed, a doubt on this head would scarcely
present itself. The usages and the thoughts of his ancestors in the
faith have come down to him so naturally that they form, as it were,
part of his being. He thinks, and feels, and knows as his fathers did
before him. In such cradle-lands of Christianity, and among a people
that has never swerved from the faith since the early ages of the
church, there is what we might term an inherited Catholic instinct, a
readiness and a correctness of Catholic thought in religious matters,
which those of other lands that received the light of Christianity
only at a later period, and consequently have not such a bond of
ancestral connection with the Christians of the days of persecution,
can only reach by study and cultivated piety. However, even a moderate
acquaintance with the usages and customs of those early ages will show
in many instances that what some have considered peculiar national
traits of perhaps later growth are in reality deeply rooted in the
customs of those ancient times; and that many a point, often set down
as a fond fancy or a singular product of superstition, is firmly
established as a truth, by historical research into their records.

This is the case with the question before us.

As we study the daily life of those early Christians, passed under
circumstances so very different from those of our modern life, and
strive to realize to ourselves their thoughts and aspirations, their
motives and modes of action, nothing stands out in bolder relief than
their exalted conception of the honor and glory of martyrdom. In the
exquisite pages of _Fabiola_ and of _Callista_, the learned Cardinal
Wiseman and Dr. Newman have made these early Christians live again
before us; and we catch some insight into their enthusiasm on this
subject. To them, a martyr, dying for the faith of Christ, was--and
truthfully--a hero of the highest grade. _Greater love than this no
man hath, that a man lay down his life for his friends._ John xv. 13.

They could never sufficiently honor him. For, honor him as they might,
all they could do would fall infinitely short of the honor which God
had already bestowed on his soul in heaven, and that which he would
bestow on his body in the resurrection. A martyr’s blood, in their
view, stood next in rank to the blood of the Saviour.

Their daily life made martyrdom the prominent subject of their
thoughts. Day after day, they saw their brethren seized, imprisoned,
tortured, and put to death for the faith. Each day, any one of
themselves might be seized and led to martyrdom. The greatest of all
triumphs, and the surest passport to everlasting bliss, was to
persevere unto the end in that conflict; the greatest of all
misfortunes was to fail and renounce or deny the faith for fear of
death. Each one strove to hold himself ever ready for the trial. Their
pastoral injunctions; their mutual exhortations; their most precious      207
literature--the _Acta Martyrum_; the ornamentation of their chapels
and crypts, still visible in the frescoes of the catacombs; the site
of their chosen sanctuaries, amid the tombs of their martyred
brethren; the very altars at which they worshipped; the tombs of their
more glorious martyrs--everything co-operated to keep alive this high
esteem of martyrdom, and to stir up their hearts to courage, and even
to a yearning for so glorious a crown, and so happy an ending of this
life of trials and sorrow.

While a confessor of Christ, as they called him, lay still in chains,
they used every means to enter the prison and to visit him--sometimes
availing themselves of legal rights, sometimes under various pretexts,
sometimes by bribery; when these would all fail, then by stealth and
at every risk. For he was to be strengthened by the sacraments and
encouraged by their words, or they were to be strengthened by his
example; and especially they would not lose the opportunity of
commending themselves to his prayers, and of seeking the blessing of a
chosen friend of God.

When he was led forth to trial, or to torture, or to death, they would
glide in among the crowd pressing around him, that he might be cheered
and sustained by the sight of Christian faces or by their outspoken
exhortations, and that they might catch and embalm in their hearts
every courageous word of faith he spoke to his judges, to the
executioners, and to themselves or to the crowd, and afterward be able
to bear testimony and to record the heroic triumph of another martyr.

After his death, they spared no effort to obtain possession of his
mortal remains, as of a most precious treasure. Their very earnestness
on this point was not unfrequently made an occasion of aggravating the
sentence. After execution, so the judge would order, the body must not
be delivered to his friends, according to ordinary usage. These
obstinate and fanatical Christians must be thwarted in their dearest
wish, or, rather, in their criminal purpose, of honoring one whom the
laws had sentenced to an ignominious death. Let the body be burned,
and the ashes be cast to the winds or to the running streams; or let
the vultures and ravenous dogs consume it; or let it be sunk by
weights in deep waters; let it be done away with in some manner, so
that the hated Christians be balked of their purpose.

At times this was successfully done. Often, however--even despite
these orders--entreaties and bribes to the soldiers and executioners
would prevail to obtain the body, or at least the fragments of it. If
they failed, stratagems would be used, and persevering search made,
even at great personal risk, to recover it. Very often, as the
martyrologies and _Acta Martyrum_ tell us, it was in such attempts
that the Christians were discovered, apprehended, and themselves
condemned as fresh victims.

When the execution was by beheading or dismemberment, or such other
mode as caused the effusion of blood, the Christians were careful to
gather this up in any way they could. Not unfrequently it was all they
could recover. Cloths and sponges sucked it up from the hard pavement
of wood or stones. The earth saturated with it was carefully gathered
up and borne away, that at home and at leisure they might carefully
separate the blood from the earthy matter, and place it reverently in
some vase, ordinarily of glass, sometimes of earthen ware, and in a
few instances of bronze. Sometimes a portion of sponge or of cloth        208
so saturated would be kept as a precious jewel in a locket of silver
or gold, and be preserved in the oratory or chapel of a Christian
household, or even be reverently borne on the person. Ordinarily,
however, the vials or vases into which the martyrs’ blood had been
gathered, or the open vases containing the saturated sponge or the
bundle of blood-stained cloths, would be placed with the body in the
tomb; or the vials might be built into the masonry of the tomb, near
the head, in such a way as to be partially visible from without.

The _Acta Martyrum_--the official records of the sufferings, death,
and deposition or burial of the martyrs, written out at the time by
appointed officers of the church--bear frequent testimony to the
widespread existence of this custom. Other Christian writings, in
prose and in poetry, refer to it frequently. We find it prevailing at
Rome and in all Italy, in Carthage, in Sebaste, in Nicomedia, in Gaul,
and throughout the church. It was the universal custom.

About the time when the body of St. Januarius was transported from the
original tomb where it had been laid during the persecution, to the
church of St. Januarius, _extra muros_, at Naples, similar
translations of the bodies of martyrs took place elsewhere. St.
Ambrose, the great Bishop of Milan, gives an account of such a
ceremony for the martyrs St. Gervase and St. Protasius, and again for
the martyrs St. Vitalis and St. Agricola. He mentions finding in the
tombs, in both cases, the blood of the martyrs which had been gathered
and placed there. St. Gaudentius, Bishop of Brixia, about the same
time, mentions a similar fact. Some centuries later, the northern
barbarians were making raids into Italy, and had repeatedly broken
into and desecrated the sepulchres in the catacombs, either in mere
wantonness or in search for the treasures which they thought might be
hidden there. In order to save the venerated relics of the martyrs
from such outrages, the popes opened the tombs of the martyrs in the
portions of the catacombs then accessible--a great portion being
already closed up, either by the falling in of the roof or by the act
of the Christians centuries before--and transferred the remains to the
churches within the city for greater safety. In opening the tombs,
these vases were often found, and hundreds of them are now in the
churches or in the sacred museums of Rome. Three centuries ago, Bosio,
and after him Aringhi, Boldetti, Mamachi, and others, penetrated into
the catacombs, searched them anew, and came upon some of those
portions which had not been disturbed at the time of the general
removal. In such portions not a few unopened and undisturbed tombs of
martyrs were found. Within lay the remains of the body--bones and
dust--with sometimes the rusted fragments of the instrument of death,
and frequently the vial, or ampulla, of the martyr’s blood. During the
last forty years, the work of investigating the catacombs, which had
been intermitted, has been taken up afresh and prosecuted with
earnestness and skill by F. Marchi, Cav. de Rossi, and other eminent
archæologists. They still come occasionally across the tombs of
martyrs, evidently untouched since the day of deposition, and within
them, or in the mortar by the head, the vases of blood are still
found. Where these vials are so placed in the mortar as to be visible
and accessible from without, the thin glass has generally been broken.
But the bottom still remains firmly set in the mortar, and contains       209
or is covered to some extent by a thin, dry, reddish crust adhering to
it. This crust or film is all that is left of the blood the vase
originally contained. Vials, or ampullæ, in the interior of the tombs
are of course perfectly preserved. It is indeed interesting to look on
one of them, and to mark exactly the line to which the liquid blood
once reached, and the purple hue of the sediment or crust now left,
with its brighter or darker shades of color, perhaps from the
character of the blood, more probably from the thickness or thinness
of the crust itself. Under all the accumulated evidence, one scarcely
needs to read the rude inscription found and still legible, although
only scratched in the mortar when it was soft: SANGUIS, or SANG:
SATURNINI, _The blood of Saturninus_. We know that this is blood
which once flowed from a martyr’s veins, in testimony of his faith in
Christ our Lord.

In the 17th century, when Bosio, Boldetti, and others brought out such
vases from the catacombs, and special attention was directed to them,
the nature of this dry reddish crust adhering to the interior was
examined chemically. There was no discordance in the results obtained.

Among those who made such an examination was the celebrated Leibnitz,
a Protestant, among the ablest and most learned men of that age. He
gives an account of his process, and the decision at which he arrived:
_This coloring matter on the glass is sanguineous_. Some years ago,
the present Pontiff, Pius IX., had a new analysis made according to
the fullest and most accurate tests of modern chemistry. The answer
was still the same: This substance is, so far as chemistry can decide,
precisely what ought to remain as the residuum of human blood.

It is clear that, both as to the custom of the early Christians of
carefully gathering up the blood of their martyrs, of placing it in
ampullæ, or vases, and religiously preserving it, and likewise as to
the identification of the ampullæ themselves, the testimony is all
that can be desired. Bosio, Aringhi, Boldetti, Mamachi, Gaume, Marchi,
Raoul-Rochette, De Rossi, Perret--all who have studied the question,
are unanimous in recognizing these numerous old Roman vials, or
ampullæ, still found in the catacombs and tombs or preserved in the
churches, as the identical vials, or ampullæ, so used by the ancient
Christians. On this point, there remains not the slightest room for

It is therefore but reasonable that there should exist in Naples a
vial, or ampulla, of the blood of St. Januarius. He was in his day a
distinguished bishop of the church. His martyrdom was public, and
attracted the attention of the Christians. It was by beheading. There
was no conceivable reason why the Christians should omit in that
instance what they were universally so careful to do in such cases. On
the contrary, to judge from the ancient accounts we have of the
martyrdom of St. Januarius and his six companions, the Christians
found no extraordinary difficulty in obtaining the bodies, and
entombing them in their usual mode. When, eighty or ninety years
later, the church had been firmly established in peace, the body of
St. Januarius was taken from the original tomb and brought to Naples,
as the bodies of the others were taken to the various churches which
claimed them.

The very presence, therefore, of an ampulla in the custody of the
church of Naples, together with the other relics of St. Januarius, is     210
under the circumstances _prima facie_ evidence of its own
authenticity--evidence which cannot be impugned, except by attempting
to overturn a well-known and universally admitted usage of the early
Christian church, or else by a supposition, equally gratuitous and
absurd, that the ampulla which originally was in existence, and was
prized beyond measure and carefully preserved, was somehow lost, and
another fraudulently substituted in its stead. We need not recur to
the olden traditions of the church of Naples or its legends concerning
this relic--traditions and legends found, too, we believe, among the
Greeks, whose intercourse with Magna Grecia, as Southern Italy was
called, was more intimate and continued longer than with any other
portion of Italy. We scarcely need the testimony of _Fabius Jordanus_,
quoted by Caraccioli, going to show that, so far back as A.D. 685, it
was the custom of the clergy of Naples to bear the relics of the head.

The historical evidence in favor of the genuineness of the relic is
ample and satisfactory. There would not be a moment’s hesitation on
the point but for the very vain hope which some minds may entertain
that, by declining to admit the genuineness of the blood, they will
somehow escape the difficulties of the liquefaction. As if the
liquefaction of any other substance, with all the circumstances which
characterize the liquefaction at Naples, as we have set them forth in
our previous articles, would not be for them as hard if not a harder
nut to crack than the liquefaction of the blood of St. Januarius!

Having, therefore, established the genuineness of the relic, the next
question which presents itself is this: Are we to attribute the
amount of the blood still to be seen within the ampulla when at its
ordinary level, and its condition when hard, to the continuous action
of natural causes; or are we to recognize in those points the effects
of that supernatural force to which the liquefaction itself is to be
attributed? Would or would not the agency of natural causes have
resulted in a greater reduction of the original volume of the blood,
and in a far different condition of the residuum, at the present time?

We know pretty accurately the composition of human blood. The
proportions of the several ingredients going to constitute it may vary
somewhat according to the health and the food of individuals. Without
entering into the refined, and as yet not fully accepted results of
the latest qualitative analysis, it will be sufficient to give the
following table of the constituents of the healthy blood of man:

  Water,                  790·37 }
  Albumen,                 67·80 }
  Oxygen,             }          }
  Nitrogen,           }          }     serum,
  Carbonic acid,      }          }      869·15
  Extractive matters, }    10·98 }
  Salts,              }          }
  Coloring matter,    }          }
  Fibrine,                  2·95  }
  Hæmatine,       2·27 }          }
  Globuline,    125·63 }          }    clot,
                ------            }     130·85
        Blood globules,   127·90  }
                        --------      --------
                        1,000·00      1,000·00

Water constitutes nearly four-fifths of the entire quantity. If it be
driven off by evaporation, only a dry mass would remain behind.

When blood issues from the veins, it first passes through the process
of coagulation, the successive steps of which have been carefully
examined. Perfectly liquid as it comes out, the blood soon thickens,
through the action of the fibrine it contains, into a firm, elastic,
uniform, jelly-like mass. Soon drops of clear, amber-colored fluid
begin to exude from the mass of jelly, and accumulate until the whole     211
mass is divided into two parts--the serum, a transparent, nearly
colorless fluid, in which there floats the clot, or crassamentum, a
firm, red and opaque mass. In time, the clot is further divided. The
fibrine is seen at top, forming a layer of considerable consistence,
soft, elastic, tenacious, and of a yellowish white color; the under
portion, consisting of the heavier parts of the clot which have
gradually settled down to that position, is a red mass, made up
chiefly of the blood globules.

Further exposure would by degrees eliminate the aqueous portion by
evaporation, and the progress of decomposition would tend to free the
gases in the other constituents, and thus still further to diminish
the mass. But no experiments, instituted by physicists, can compare,
in time at least, with the instances presented to us in the vases of
the catacombs. There, traces on the glass still show clearly to what
level the blood, or at least the clot, originally reached; and we see
what has remained after a lapse of sixteen hundred years--a crust of
dry reddish powder adhering to and coating the sides and bottom of the

Boldetti, however, mentions three instances in which such ampullæ were
found in the catacombs containing a residuum of the blood still thick
and slightly liquid. And, if we are not mistaken, something similar
may be seen in some other vials preserved here and there, and held to
contain a portion of the blood of certain martyrs.

The early Christians of Italy gave up the old Roman custom of
incremation, or burning the bodies of the dead, and adopted instead
the Eastern rite of sepulture. In some instances, at least, they seem
to have used spices and ointments, as the Jews and Eastern nations
generally did; and some of them might even have had a knowledge of the
antiseptic preparations used by the Egyptians. They never prepared the
dead as mummies, but they may at times have put some antiseptic
ingredient into the blood, tending by its chemical action somehow to
retard the escape of the water and the decomposition of the mass. If
this were really done or not, we believe modern science cannot decide;
and the historical evidence is not clear.

Something may be due, also, to the mode in which they would sometimes
close a narrow-necked vessel of glass. When it had received its
contents, the glass of the neck would be heated, probably by the flame
of a blowpipe, until it became soft and pliable. The sides would then
be pressed together until they coalesced and became united, thus
obliterating the orifice; or else molten glass would be carefully
dropped on the lips of the mouth, until the whole was entirely coated
over and perfectly closed. When either was followed and the work was
done perfectly, the ampulla would be, in fact, hermetically sealed.
The air would thus be excluded, and evaporation nearly arrested.
Placed in a _loculus_ or grave in the dry earth of the catacombs,
twenty-five or thirty-five feet beneath the surface of the earth, the
ampulla would also be subjected to an ever-equable temperature of
about 58° Fahr. Under such circumstances, especially if we admit the
presence of some antiseptic ingredient, it may be possible that
decomposition would be very slow. But, after all, the glass sides of
these ampullæ are thin, and glass is porous, and sixteen centuries is
a very long time. Even were the sides far thicker than they are,
evaporation would have slowly taken place, the gaseous products of
decomposition would have gradually passed through into the outer          212
atmosphere, and only the dry solid residuum would be left, as we
ordinarily find it in the ampullæ from the catacombs. The case of the
ampulla containing the blood of St. Januarius is not open to these
doubts. We are not able to say, indeed, whether it was actually closed
in either of the modes we have indicated. As it stands in the present
reliquary, of which we have given an account, the mouth enters so
deeply into the upper mass of soldering within the case that the eye
cannot discover the manner of closure. Before it was placed in this
reliquary, five hundred and seventy or seven hundred and thirty years
ago, this could probably have been seen; but we have found no record
throwing light on the subject. We presume it was done in one or the
other of the modes we have described. It is certainly so tightly
closed that not a drop of the liquid blood within has ever been known
to ooze out.

But this ampulla has not been lying in the low and equable temperature
of an underground vault of the catacombs. It has been preserved in the
upper and variable atmosphere of a city, subject for many centuries to
the excessive heats of almost tropical summers, and to the cold winds
that blow down at times from mountains covered with snow. By no law of
physics could a mass of blood so situated escape the natural
consequence--a vast diminution of bulk by the loss of water and the
escape of gases. The film that coats the interior of the smaller
ampulla seen in the same case or reliquary, so like the film seen in
the whole and in the broken ampullæ of the catacombs and churches
generally, shows, we think, what would have been the natural course.

That the larger ampulla should, on the contrary, have lost nothing in
the volume of its contents--that it should still be four-fifths
filled, although for centuries exposed, as we have said, to heat and
cold--that this general permanence of bulk and of character should be
maintained, although eighteen or twenty times a year the mass
alternates from a solid to a fluid condition, and passes through many
subordinate changes of color and volume--these facts seem to us not
only utterly inexplicable, but directly contrary to all we know of
physical laws. We place them along side the grand fact of the
liquefaction itself, as being in some measure its characteristic
concomitants. Still, should any one deem these questions too obscure
to be peremptorily decided, we shall not now discuss them. We are
quite willing to let them stand or fall with the more prominent and
important and more tangible question of the liquefaction itself. Of
that we shall now proceed to treat.

                          TO BE CONTINUED.


                        THE WAYSIDE SPRING.                               213


           As here is quaffed a sweet forgetfulness
               Of the long journey yet to go,
           So unto all who through life’s pathways press,
               Lord, from thy rock let waters flow!
             Let thy sweet grace refreshment be!
             On earth we wander wearily,
               And in a thirst that will not cease.
             Oh! let each dry and dusty lip
             From thy deep hidden fountain sip
               Sweet draughts of love and peace.

           Ah! every soul drinks its own cup of bliss.
               Some the delights of glory bless;
           One finds it in a little daughter’s kiss,
               Another in a wife’s caress.
             The secret friendships of the heart,
             The rapture of creative art,
               Each hive its own sweet honey stores;
             To every lip let torrents burst
             From life’s great fount; but I--_I_ thirst
               For the eternal shores.

           Earth’s dreams are but a bitterness to those
               Whose yearnings are for love divine.
           No rivulet sparkles here, no runlet flows,
               To satisfy this thirst of mine.
             What shall assuage it? The desire
             That heavenward ever doth aspire,
               And sigheth ceaselessly;
             The sweetness that in suffering lies,
             And tear-drops showering from my eyes,
               Are hope’s one draught for me.


                             VALENTINE.                                   214



“Frankly, my dear friend, tell me, is she not charming? Does she not
lend a certain grace to her white dress, and a brilliancy to her blue
ribbons? Is she not the prettiest flower in my garden?”

“And my Alfred, dear Madame de Guers, does he not look well by her
side? Are there many young men in our village who appear to such
advantage near this fair and graceful darling, now in the flower of
her youth?”

“What you say is true, my friend. We have both of us, thank God, fine
children--noble, virtuous, and good; and I hope they will be happy.”

“They will make a very handsome couple, at all events,” concluded M.
Maubars, rubbing his hands and smiling contentedly.

Thus spoke two old friends, as they sat quietly, one summer evening,
in the shadow of the hop-vines of a pretty green arbor, and talked
away in this simple, lively, and joyous manner, while they observed
their children as they appeared here and there in the garden-walks.

When people have passed fifty, and known each other since they went to
the same school in childhood, and during the long succeeding years
have resided pretty much in the same place, they are very apt, when
talking together, to speak openly from their hearts, especially if
those hearts are filled to the brim and running over with justifiable
paternal pride and motherly tenderness. And it was true that the dear
Alfred, the only and cherished son of M. Maubars, was handsome,
honest, active, and gifted, and, thanks to the fortune which he would
inherit, would one day take his place among the most respectable
citizens of the province. As to Madame de Guers, this fair and worthy
old lady, with white hair, in whom all the select souls of the little
town saluted and recognized a sister, all the poor a benefactress, and
all the afflicted a friend, she had never been a mother. She had
married late, less from inclination than duty, to obey a vow of her
parents and fulfil a family project; she had cared for, with an
admirable devotion, and supported with a no less admirable equality of
temper, the precocious infirmities and frequent brusqueries of M. de
Guers, who, as former captain of a vessel, had lived a silent, sombre,
deserted life in an old cold-looking little house on the coast. But
one happy day the sun seemed to shine brighter for her, and the
radiant sentiment of an unknown happiness mingled with her tears and
her regrets, as one of the friends of her childhood, a poor widow, in
dying, confided to her the education and guardianship of her deserted
infant. What a complete happiness, what a recompense for all the
sunless days, the gloomy and heavy hours, so faithfully supported! M.
de Guers, though very ill at the time, consented to receive the child,
on condition, as he added peremptorily, “that she should be kept very
neat and make no noise”--this his precise and solemn declaration. The     215
little Valentine seemed to understand what was expected of her, and,
though stirring, vigorous, and lively, rarely a rent was seen in her
little Indian silk, never a spot on her red lips nor her cherubic
forehead. When she happened to fall, she smothered her sobs and cries;
when she remembered the past, she wept low for her mother--and all
this not to displease the old gentleman, shut up in his close parlor,
where he contemplated with astonishment mingled with pity and respect
his two unfortunate legs--done up in flannel. Time, childhood, and
natural gaiety combining, the little girl began even to find herself
perfectly happy in this old house, where she was cherished, and
nothing left undone for her needs, her games, or her repose.

Need we say that her adopted mother was happy? At the end of the long
nights of want of sleep and suffering that she passed with the ill and
impatient old man, she ran for a moment to the little chamber above,
and watched the sweet pet, with brown eyes and rosy cheeks, as she
woke to her morning’s happiness; she felt the dear little round arms
press her neck, the sweet tender lips imprinted on her own, and she
thanked God for this blessing. The little toilet made, and the
breakfast over, she carried down-stairs happiness enough for
half-a-day. Later, when her voice trembled at the end of some long
lecture, or her arms were wearied at some endless rubbing, she looked
out the window, saw the little one disporting in the sun, playing
hide-and-seek among the lilacs, or smiling to her from amidst the
roses, and, at this sight, it seemed her cup of joy was full, that the
spring light played even in the sick man’s chamber, and for the time
she forgot whether she was guardian or victim. Thus she lived on,
consoled and strengthened by the child, consoling and strengthening
her husband, until the day when M. de Guers died, and both wept his
loss--Valentine with time having learned to love him; and he himself,
won by the grace and beauty of the child, had often so far unbended as
to keep time for her with his crutch while she danced all alone before
his window in the garden.

From this moment, Madame de Guers gave Valentine all her time, her
heart, her cares, her tenderness. I leave you to imagine how such
precious gifts, with the aid of years, added to everything lovely and
noble in the child. Of all the young girls of C----, Valentine at
eighteen was not only one of the most beautiful, but, better still,
the best, the simplest, the most tender, the humblest, the most
joyous, and the best loved: the most ill-natured of the citizens could
not refuse her their homage, and her adopted mother loved her to
excess and with pride and delight; M. Maubars, too, the oldest friend
of the house, and his son, the elegant Alfred, saw in her perfection a
treasure, and their united wonder. Then at eighteen the future is so
beautiful, the horizon so pure, dreams so sweet, and friends so
tender! How happy, then, was our Valentine at this moment, when,
joyous under the eyes of her mother, gay and confiding in the presence
of her future husband, and gracious and pretty as she always was in
her simple and quiet toilet, she wandered hither and thither in the
garden, breathing the air, gathering the flowers, and breaking from
the trees the large snow-balls that shed their petals on her lustrous
brown hair.

We do not know exactly what Alfred and Valentine were talking about in    216
the garden-walk, as running from side to side to form their bouquet
they chanced so often to meet. But, under the arbor, they were more
grave, calmer, and certainly more mature, and they spoke of business.

“If you will permit it, my dear friend, I should like the young couple
to live in my house,” said M. Maubars. “It is, I may say, without
vanity, one of the most comfortable and best furnished in the town. As
to me, you know, I am becoming a monk, or a bear, or a house-rat. The
rolling of the half-dozen coaches and the three or four cabs our town
possesses is sufficient to trouble my digestion, and almost deafens
me; so I think, in order to plant my cabbages in peace, I had better
lodge in the pavilion of my large garden at Vaux, which is not more
than a league from the town. My good old Baptistine will accompany me,
and keep the pot boiling. Every evening the children can come and see
me, that is, every fine evening; and you can have them right by
you--nothing to do but cross the street, and walk a few steps on the
quay, ring the little bell, the latch will fly up, and there will be
Valentine in a clean dress and red ribbon coming to meet you, for her
delicate hearing would distinguish your step among a thousand others
on the same pavement.”

“Poor dear child! I don’t want to be selfish, and yet it is hard to
part with her,” murmured Madame de Guers, while stifling a sigh.

“Do you call that parting with her, when I tell you she will be right
under your eye? And then, my dear friend, I must tell you you have
become very worldly of late. You are obliged to accompany Valentine to
this and that soirée, and it fatigues you, absorbs and puts you out
altogether. When it comes my Alfred’s turn to do all this for her,
you will see how you will improve, and old ladies always recover so
naturally. Confess it, my dear Madame de Guers, have you not for some
time been very negligent of yourself and your old people?”

“Alas, yes! poor good old people!” replied the respectable lady, with
a sweet smile. “Yet every morning, after Mass, I stop to see them.
True, my child monopolizes much of the time I should give to them, but
she loves them too: she has so excellent a heart! How often I have
seen her, when quite a child, take from her weekly allowance to buy
jujube for old Manou, who has catarrh so badly, and tobacco for
Périne, whose happiness is in smoking! And how she takes care of them
when necessary, my friend! How merry she makes them, and consoles
them, and reads them good books, and the Scripture she explains so
prettily! In truth, this humble work will not perish with me: I have
some one to whom I can confide it.”

This demands an explanation. Madame de Guers was not only an
excellent, tender, and devoted mother, a constant and generous friend,
but she was, at the same time, profoundly pious and sincerely
charitable. The death of M. de Guers had left in her soul a bitter and
secret sorrow, which she had never been able to console. The former
lieutenant of the service, in spite of the solicitations and tears of
his Christian and devoted wife, had bid farewell to this world in a
manner far from exemplary, dying, without doubt, peaceably and bravely
enough, but without repentance, without hope, without penitence,
neither fixing his eyes on the cross nor listening to the absolution
of the curé. So, for the poor, tender soul of the wife there remained
a gnawing regret, a continual terror, and at the price of any             217
austerities, of any sacrifices, she wished to secure the eternal
salvation of this obstinate husband. God only knows what
mortifications she practised in secret, to gain a little every day
towards the tender and sublime end she proposed; and, above all, she
openly redoubled her works of fervor and charity. A part of the money
left her by her husband had been employed by her in a house of refuge,
where ten or twelve old, infirm women, the very poorest of the
department, could live comfortably and in peace until the end of their
days, and at the low price of reciting every day from their bench in
the chapel a prayer for the repose and salvation of the soul of Jean
Louis de Guers, former officer of the king’s fleet. We said before
that Madame de Guers had given Valentine all her heart, her time, and
her life: we should, nevertheless, have remarked that she reserved a
portion for the poor old recluses of her little hospital, not finding
it a difficult matter to reconcile, in her humble and peaceable
existence, happiness and duty, charity and love.

“My dear old pensioners,” she said again, while regarding from a
distance her charming adopted daughter, who smiled on her from amidst
the shady trees, “they will be truly happy to find after me this dear
child, who will, I am sure, possess the courage and strength to
replace me. Good little Valentine! she has already given them, in my
name, a portion of her heart, and to do so she needs to be as generous
as in truth she is, for I could have given a much more brilliant
heritage to this dear child had I not already adopted my old people.
Her mother, alas! died without fortune, and for me, I have still
remaining forty thousand francs, invested in rentes in the state, and
my little property here. This is all, my good Maubars, I have to give

“Well, well, my dear friend, don’t trouble yourself. The whole will
amount to sixty thousand francs, at the lowest figure. Valentine is
treasure enough in herself, and don’t need any more.”

“A treasure! Yes, indeed, you have spoken the truth!” replied the
noble woman, fixing on her interlocutor a look radiant with joy,
happiness, and confidence; “and as you make me so happy, my brave
Maubars, in speaking as you do, I am not ashamed to confess I have
often thought--have often feared--well, don’t blame me; nothing, you
know, is so restless and timid as a mother--I have feared that a dowry
so small could not respond to the legitimate views of a young man like
Alfred, who can aspire to the best match in the country. I dare not
tell you how this secret doubt has tortured my heart. It would have
been so painful, so frightful to think that my want of foresight might
have prepared so bitter a disappointment for my dearly loved

“And who speaks of disappointment, cowardly mamma that you are?”
replied M. Maubars, with the good hearty laugh of the retired
successful merchant. “Of course I do not mean that any dowry is to be
despised, and, I will add, if this were larger, it were so much the
better. But the moment that the question is between it and you and
Valentine, Alfred and I will accept what you have in all confidence.
Let there be no more mention of these things between us any more than
there is just now in the conversation of that happy couple smiling and
babbling among the roses.”

“How good you are, Maubars,” replied the adopted mother with a sigh       218
of relief. “Assuredly,” she continued with a sweet and mischievous
smile, “I am very sure that it is not with dowry or business that they
are entertaining themselves just now.”

This you may be assured of, my readers, for, just then, Valentine,
spreading into a sweet smile her fine and delicate lips, while her
brilliant eyes sparkled above the cheeks as rounded and satiny as the
petals of her roses, said to her partner, who was coming toward her:

“You had better believe me, Mr. Alfred. We will not go to Paris. Paris
is very far off, and it costs a great deal to go there. But we will go
every evening and see dear papa in his little pavilion at Vaux. Won’t
it be charming to do just as we did when we were little, ten years
ago, just us two alone, you and I, running through the ruts and the
fields, gathering the new hay and the herbs covered with dew?”

And the simple child, clapping her white hands, gently smiled still
more joyously at the innocent, truant projects with which she proposed
to inaugurate their future housekeeping. Then, Alfred having offered
his arm, she accepted it a moment in order to adjust with her young
intended some other detail of great importance, which she must tell
her mamma immediately--mamma holding her breath meanwhile, hearing
vaguely the murmur of the wind in the arbor and smiling with
tenderness as her child approached.

“Mamma,” cried Valentine, throwing her arms around her mother’s neck,
and with a caressing and infantine movement mingling the waves of her
lustrous hair with the fine, heavy gray curls, “did you not say that
the anniversary of your birth would come in two weeks, the second of
next month, and that you would love to see Alfred and me choose that
day to celebrate our betrothal?”

“Yes, my darling,” replied Madame de Guers gently.

“Very well, dear mamma, it is all arranged; we will exchange our rings
on the same day that gave me so dear a mamma. But have you decided
anything about the invitations?”

“I have at least thought of them, my child. We will have, I think, the
greater part of those of our own society, and especially, you
understand, all your young friends.”

“Yes, just as you wish. But is it to be only for the evening, dear

“Ah! my little ambitious one wishes to give a whole day to her

“Indeed I do, mamma; I have dreamed of it even, so I may as well
confess. I want particularly in the morning to have those I invite al
to myself; I will receive them, lodge them, and serve them with my own
hands. O mamma! it will be so nice, in the shady part of the garden,
among the flowers, to set the long tables, and have an excellent
breakfast, good wine, cakes, a roast, and Pierrot the violinist with
his violin, and the baskets all filled with flowers! And my guests
will be so surprised, and so pleased, my dear good mamma!”

“But who are they, then?”

“Your old women, dear mamma.”

Madame de Guers’s response was to take the pretty brown head of the
charming child in her trembling hands, and to press it tenderly and
long upon her lips, while a gentle shivering of admiration and love
made her heart beat.

“It is said,” she replied at last; “the table shall be set for
fifteen, and there shall be cakes and violins, and wine and flowers.      219
You shall serve them, my child, and my old people will believe they
are at the wedding.”

Then, as the first stars began to dot the pure sky, and the happy and
united group rose to leave the perfumed shelter of the garden, Madame
de Guers, more joyous and prouder than ever, held back on purpose to
let the young people pass before her, while she whispered in the ear
of her old friend, who was philosophically taking in the whole scene:

“My good Maubars, did you not say, just now, my Valentine is a


Two weeks afterward, the air being of the softest, and the sky most
radiant, Valentine received with great joy and pomp her morning guests
on this the day of her betrothal. Everything passed conformably to the
announced programme: the large table was ornamented and covered with a
long white cloth; the light wine of the country filled the glasses;
the cakes appeared large and gilded; and the roast was cooked to
perfection. At this succulent and cordial banquet the twelve old women
arranged themselves in order, and Valentine waited on them, cutting up
the mutton in rosy slices, distributing the pieces of cake with her
pretty little white hand, upon which shone the golden ring, with its
blue stone, that Alfred had sent her that morning to wear until she
took the other that would enchain her for life. The poor old gossips
feasted with a good heart, and laughed as they tippled, their glasses
tumbling against each other; while the sparrows, somewhat ousted,
piped in the branches, astonished at so much noise, then dropped
gently to the earth to peck at the crumbs of cake that fell in the
grass; and, to crown all, the violin of Pierrot, seated at his post
under the arbor, played for the delighted old women all the minuets,
gavottes, and hops of the good old time.

You can judge of the gratitude and general joy.

“God will take you to his holy paradise, good and beautiful young
lady!” said mother Périne, as she received from the hands of the
pretty child her third slice of mutton.

“What are you saying there, mother Périne?” cried Babet, her usual
antagonist. “What kind of wish is that you are making? Better hope for
Miss Valentine, as for many others, that paradise will come as late as
possible, and that here the dear good young lady will become a great
and good matron, and enjoy herself as much as she can in this world.”

“True enough,” said Manou, “for there is the scraping of the violin;
and just listen to that pretty gavotte! Oh! in those days when I was
but twenty, how I hopped about like a young goat at the first note of
the music. Dear me! Miss Valentine, how this good wine makes you young
again, and puts the gaiety into you! I do believe, if Pierrot begins
that flourish once more, I shall jump up and dance a minuet in your

So Valentine laughed, and the other old women applauded, and Manou
fluttered about in true dancing style. Madame de Guers herself, who
was rarely gay, wiped away a joyous tear from her eyes, while a tender
and proud smile spread over her countenance. There was only the very,
very old Genevieve, who could not laugh, because she had lost her five
sons and grown blind in weeping for them. But, with her old wrinkled
hand, she had groped for the pretty little one of her young friend and    220
protectress, pressed it between her own, and repeated in mourning

“Miss Valentine, you deserve to be truly happy; you know how to give
blessings like the good God, whose care and pleasure it is to think of
the poor.”

Thanks to the pleasure of such a repast and so much time so happily
spent, the old guests lingered around the table in the garden, and
exceeded the limits of the morning hours. When at last they wended
their way homeward, accompanied by the good sister who took care of
them, they met on the road several of those invited for the afternoon,
friends of Valentine mostly, accompanied by their mothers, in elegant
toilets, and coming in great pomp to offer their compliments.

“Why, how is this, my dear? Have the old pensioners of Madame de Guers
come to congratulate you?” asked Rosine Martin, one of the young
ladies, as she entered and embraced her friend.

“Yes, Rosette, on this occasion I gave them a little _fête_. They
breakfasted here and drank my health; and, do you know, Pierrot played
the violin, and old Manou was so excited she actually danced a

“Do you hear what Valentine is saying?” whispered Madame Martin to her
friend and confidante, Madame Fremieux. “I always thought Madame de
Guers put on the airs of a great lady, and, of course, will leave the
same to Valentine, as foundress of charitable institutions.
Insupportable, is it not? And charity costs something too. It is well
to make a parade of it, whether one has it or not; and the question
is, whether it is prudent to put such ideas into the child’s head,
when she will give her at the very most two poor thousand francs?”

“Provided that charity is a luxury like any other, and often more
imprudent than any other,” added, sententiously, Madame Fremieux,
while she pulled out with her right finger the crushed ruche of her
green satin dress.

“What an odd fancy you have for these old gossips, Valentine!” said
Adeline de Malers, another good friend, a pretty young woman with two
handsome children, whom she led gaily into the garden. “There they go,
charmed with your reception, and repeating your name to all the echoes
of the town. Well, it is a good idea while you are waiting and have so
little to do, and nothing much to love. See what will become of them
when you will be mamma in your turn, my dear!”

“Do you think so, Adeline? I cannot agree with you,” replied
Valentine, blushing a little. “My dear good mamma Marie always found
time to give me all her care, her love, and her watchfulness, and yet
I am sure she never neglected these poor old friends. It seems to me
that when one becomes a mother, one desires to heap up a treasure of
good actions, and multiply one’s merits and virtues, in order that God
may requite the little good one does in graces and benedictions on
these dear little heads.”

“You always have a sentimental way of seeing things,” replied Adeline,
stooping and arranging with her rosy fingers the white plume that
graced the hat of baby; “but I doubt if Mr. Alfred Maubars will give
the same light to the chapter; for, my little one, husbands are not
nonentities in the future organization of a household; their decrees
are inevitable, and must be listened to.”

“O Adeline! do you really think that Alfred would wish to prevent my
doing a little good in assisting the unfortunate?” said Valentine,        221
deeply moved and almost indignant. “He who gave up his project of
going to Paris, which we were to do immediately after our marriage? He
who promised to give me one-half of what it would cost to make this
trip to make a present to dear mamma, and furnish woollen stockings
and aprons for the poor little parish children in the winter?”

“O my good Valentine! where you are just now, all this may be. But
later, it will not, my dear. Do you see? The most part of the good
husbands I know--and there are none too many of them--think charity
begins at home. The wife, if she pleases, may give away the old boots
and slippers, but woe to her if, in a fit of generous imprudence, she
parts with the half of the chicken or the little glass of port that
belongs to my lord.”

The joyous Adeline laughed with all her heart as she finished these
words, and for a moment Valentine smiled at the lively raillery of her
friend. But, M. Maubars and Alfred appearing at the same time at the
end of the walk, she fixed on her intended a disturbed, timid, and sad
look, asking herself if it could be true, if it could ever be
possible, that he who should be her natural confidant in all the sweet
and tender inspirations of her heart, in all the Christian aspirations
of her innocent and pious soul, should consider it a crime in her to
continue to obey the great and holy law of Christ that she had seen
practised, every day from her infancy, in her own humble home.

However, this passing distrust of the sweet and charming betrothed was
soon dispelled. Alfred approached and presented her a rich and
graceful bouquet, and his words as he handed it were so respectful and
tender, and his look so subdued and sincere! Then all the young people
invited had arrived; they were just finishing the joyous feast taken
together on the grass, and already they were preparing for the dance.
And now the scraping of Pierrot made way for an harmonious orchestra
that resounded sweetly, echoing through the shady bowers. On the
branches of the large lindens were suspended light and capricious-looking
garlands, in which little red, blue, white, gilded, and green lamps
were hung. They looked like stars that had come from heaven to see the
_fête_ and smile at the other living stars, the young girls their
sisters. M. Maubars had charged himself with this part of the
entertainment--an offering not of charity, but one made to youth and
pleasure. So, everything passed off as brilliantly as could be wished
on such a day; and quadrille after quadrille succeeded each other on
the same spot where, a few hours earlier, Manou, recalling her twenty
years, had so valiantly executed the rhythmical and bounding steps of
the ancient minuet of Auvergne.

And while the young people danced, the older ones talked in the
parlor, or complacently looked on while their children enjoyed
themselves from the little fringed pavilion with velvet benches that
had been prepared for them in front of the greensward. Madame Martin,
while admiring from afar her brown and pretty Rosette, had insensibly
approached the father of Alfred--and of all the ladies in the town,
she had the least sympathy for Valentine, having for a long time
nourished very sweet maternal hopes on the possibility of a marriage
between Rosette and the young Maubars.

“In truth, dear neighbor,” said she, accosting with an amiable smile
the honorable retired merchant, “one must confess you do things           222
royally. It certainly cannot be these ladies, with their small, very
small fortune, who have by themselves given us such a _fête_ as this.
And then, it is not according to their tastes. If by accident they
should have a little too much money, they would have less pleasure in
offering a ball to their friends than a breakfast to their old poor.”

“My dear Madame Martin, when one does as one can, one does as one
should,” replied, with a deep bow, M. Maubars, responding to her
compliment to himself. “As to these ideas of our excellent friend
Madame de Guers, you see, we must not be surprised at them. She has
always lived a little above our so-called middle society; she is a
woman--how shall I say it?--well, of the old _régime_. In her
devotions, in good works, and perseverance, she has grand ideas; the
commandments of Christ, the love of her neighbor, the good of the
poor. It is all beautiful, Madame Martin, and sits superbly on a woman
like her, grave and dignified, with such handsome white hair.”

“But for the little one--for Valentine--do you think, M. Maubars, that
it will suit her as well?” replied, quickly, the lady, with a mocking

“Oh! why not? Everything becomes a child. All these fine devotions are
an occupation for the widow and an amusement for the little one. It is
much better to direct her by caring for the poor than by ruining the
reputations of others and seeking false excitements. Wait till
Valentine becomes the wife of Alfred; that will change everything, you
know, neighbor. The dear child will only have one end, one duty, one
love--her husband.”

“Do you really think so, neighbor?” interrupted Madame Martin, in a
jeering tone.

“It is, at least, what all women promise at the altar, madame. And
Valentine will do as she promises, I am certain. A child so docile, a
nature so pliable, and a heart of gold. Yes, madame; I do not doubt,
if my Alfred wishes it, she will prefer the road to the market or the
grocery in preference to that of the church. And as to the refuge of
which you speak, Madame de Guers will take care of that, as it will be
her only occupation. My daughter-in-law will visit it occasionally in
her leisure moments.”

“It will become her well to adapt her household to his wishes; for
every one knows, neighbor, your son brings her a fortune far superior
to her own.”

“Alas! yes, you say truly; her dowry is the only weak point.”

“The little one will have scarcely anything, will she, M. Maubars?”
asked the lady precipitately, in her ardent, almost joyous curiosity.

“Oh! a modest cipher, but enough. There is nothing to complain of. If
it had been less, I confess I do not know what Alfred would have done.
The needs of luxury are so numerous nowadays, and it costs so much to
live, my dear lady!”

“Yes, we all know that,” replied the prudent mother. “This is the
reason I calculate, and economize, and stint myself every day for the
love I bear Rosette. According to my ideas, it is a culpable charity
that does not consider one’s own first.”

At the enunciation of this wise maxim, M. Maubars sighed profoundly.
At the bottom of his heart he could not help wishing, in the interest
of Valentine and Alfred also, that Madame de Guers, his dear old
friend, had less tenderness and greatness of soul, less generous
devotion, and a little more worldly prudence and solicitude for the       223
material side of life. Nevertheless, he was careful not to express
aloud the secret preoccupations which now and then disquieted him a
little; and just then Valentine, leaving the joyous group of dancers,
approached him, sweet and charming in her innocent joy and unaffected
simplicity. Her steps, delicate and modest, slid silently over the
grass, and the golden reflection of the long garlands of light made
her muslin dress appear whiter and more transparent, while her brown
hair, simply raised and half-crowned with a bouquet of small roses,
glittered browner and more lustrous as the tiny lamps threw their rays
upon it as she passed. The smile alone of such a charming
daughter-in-law could dispel a host of deceptions and fears. In
Valentine’s eyes beamed so much candor, love, sweetness, and virtue
that in admiring her one forgot the more or less respectable cipher of
the promised dowry.

But Valentine did not remain long with the group of talkers seated in
the shade; she was looking for Madame de Guers, and ran away promptly
when she heard the good old lady had gone into the house.

“Dear mamma, are you ill?” said she, quite distressed when she saw her
dear protectress in the little reception-room, carefully wrapped up in
a large shawl, pale, trembling slightly, and appearing to suffer.

“Oh! my child, it is nothing; a slight chill--a trifling ailment only.
We have had a great deal to do today, and I am tired. Perhaps I took
cold sitting so long in the shade of the lindens. Go and dance, my
love, for you must replace me and finish the ball. Make my excuses to
our guests.”

Valentine obeyed, but she left her mother sadly, with a secret
convulsion of the heart, that dimmed her bright eyes and her radiant
smile. Two hours after, when, at last, alone on the step of the dear
old house, she had said adieu to her guests and was at liberty to run
to the room where Madame de Guers already reposed, she saw clearly
that this instinctive fear was a realized fact. The sleep of her
adopted mother was agitated and painful, her forehead was burning, her
eyes half-open, her breathing difficult and accelerated. For the first
time in these fifteen years of peace and happiness passed under the
friendly roof of the old house, the heart of the young girl sank for a
moment under the weight of an unknown grief--of a mortal anguish.
Without thinking of her ball-dress, she knelt down at the foot of the
bed, weeping in terror, praying to God, and gently kissing, from time
to time, the hand of the sick woman, who, in her feverish sleep,
muttered words without meaning. And thus she awaited the day--the new
day that was to arise for her, and menace her with danger, grief,
terror, and anguish.


It had been decided, on the day of the modest betrothal, that the
marriage of Alfred and Valentine should be celebrated a week after the
Nativity of Our Lady, in September, before the first fogs of autumn
had tarnished the verdant woods, and before the vintagers had robbed
the robust vines of their golden grapes on the slopes descending to
the valley below. But autumn passed; the woods grew yellow and the
leaves fell; the joyous shouts of the vintagers ceased to rejoice the
hills, and the icy winds of winter blew over the blackened slopes,
without Valentine having sought her white marriage robes. Alas! it        224
was a robe of mourning that covered her now, poor little one! She had
again become an orphan; her sweet and careless happiness of the young
daughter, the cherished child so tenderly protected, was all gone,
destroyed for ever, for ever lost with the last swallows that fled
from the woods with the first falling leaves. The most devoted care,
the greatest affection and constancy, could not preserve to her this
nervous and tender mother, whose life here below was sad enough, and
whose death would have been sweet, had she not so felt for and
trembled for her child. Her illness, however, had been long and
courageously combated, and for some time there was hope of triumph
over the disease, until one day, when Valentine was absent on a
pilgrimage to a neighboring chapel, a sudden hæmorrhage set in, and
Madame de Guers, feeling it necessary to use what strength she had
left, sent for several papers, and with pain wrote for her adopted
daughter directions which were not to be opened until a month after
her death, when the first transports of grief were over.

The fatal moment then came, and by one of the last auroras of
September, soft, fresh, and almost veiled, Valentine found herself on
her knees by the bedside of the dying, exchanging the last adieux with
her tender benefactress, the devoted mother who, from her infancy, had
so unceasingly studied her happiness. The poor child remembered no
more: grief had completely prostrated her, and she forgot her own
existence until one evening, returning to consciousness, she found
herself clothed in deep black, and alone with Marianne, the old and
faithful servant, who wept low by her side and tried to console her.
Then, M. Maubars and Alfred had come, and Valentine felt a secret
consolation in the midst of her sadness. It was so sweet, so toning
and strengthening, to know one’s self still loved while circumstances
had separated her from him upon whom she had lavished such a wealth of
affection. It is true the consolations offered by the future
father-in-law and betrothed were not of the highest order of morality,
and not very profound, perhaps, but they were truly affectionate and
sincere--at least, Valentine thought so--so they had power to
alleviate her grief and restore her heart’s serenity.

“What would you, my child? We are all mortal,” said the future papa.
“But we can still console ourselves, and live almost happy in the love
of the friends that remain to us.”

Alfred did not even say as much. But he looked at her tenderly, with a
gentle expression of interest and pity; he quietly took the little
white and thin hand that lay languidly on her black drapery, and
pressed it between his own, while he murmured:

“Poor dear Valentine! Poor friend, so dearly loved.” And these simple
words, this look, this affectionate gesture from the friend of her
childhood, seemed to open to the heart-broken young girl a new
treasure of hope and consolation.

The days, however, rolled on: grief was not less profound, less
constant, or less bitter, but it became necessarily more contained,
more resigned, was borne more valiantly in secret, giving place to
austere duties, they serious preoccupations of life. The time came,
naturally, when business had to be spoken of to Valentine. Until then,
with respect for her grief and her weakness, they had spared her every
proposition, every discussion on the subject.

“I will do all that is necessary,” murmured the poor child. So they
told her she must assist at the opening of the will, which would take     225
place by the notary, in presence of authorized witnesses.

The solemn assembly, therefore, convened on a cold morning of November
in the large parlor of the house. A biting and mournful wind shook the
windows, and threw against them in disorder the last leaves of the
lindens that on the day of the betrothal had balanced so joyously
their green perfumed crowns above the gladdened heads of Valentine,
her companions, and her betrothed. The last wishes of Madame de Guers
were expressed in a manner at once neat and concise. Her little
capital of 40,000 francs, placed in rentes on the state, and her
house, with all its dependencies, were willed by her to her dear
pupil, Valentine Vaudrey, in default of direct inheritors from her own
family or from that of her husband. The assistants knew in advance the
tenor of the will; nevertheless, after its reading they hastened to
congratulate the poor heiress, now overwhelmed in tears.

“Dear good madame knew you well, and she was not wrong,” said the old
and honest Marianne, with a convinced air.

“My dear child, hereafter you are quite at home,” added M. Maubars, as
he pressed with lively affection the little white hand, quite dampened
with tears.

The notary, however, made a gesture with his hand to reclaim still
some moments of silence. “The reading of the papers establishing the
last wishes of the defunct is not yet completed, gentlemen,” added he,
in a grave and measured voice. “I have in my hand a letter written by
my respectable client fifteen days before her death, and addressed to
her pupil, Mlle. Valentine Vaudrey. Mlle. Valentine will be kind enough
to take notice, conjointly with myself and M. the President of the
Tribunal or M. the Justice of the Peace, if these last recommendations
are not to be considered as bearing upon her affairs.”

Valentine, drying her eyes, raised her pale, noble forehead, and tried
to collect her voice, that trembled greatly.

“My good Monsieur Morin, read the letter,” said she, “I pray you. My
dear and best friend had no secrets to confide to me, I am sure, and
her last wishes should be respected and known by all.”

The notary bowed and broke the seal. With one look he glanced through
the writing, and a shade of surprise and anxiety was depicted on his
face. Valentine, disquieted in turn, advanced gently, and extended her
hand toward the paper.

“Of what is this the subject, sir?” she asked timidly.

“Business; only business, my dear young lady,” stammered the good M.
Morin in an embarrassed tone.

“Then read it aloud, I pray you, sir,” said the young girl, tranquil,
resolved, and suddenly reassured.

The notary then slowly unfolded the paper, put on his spectacles, and
began his reading in the midst of a profound silence, and perhaps
anxiety, that reigned just then among the little assembly.

“My dearly loved Valentine,” said the noble woman dead, “forgive me if
I open my heart to you, and if, in giving up what has been, after you,
the joy and consolation of my existence, I leave you perhaps serious
duties, real and profound anxiety. My will, as you no doubt have
learned, makes you the one and only heiress to the modest sum I feel
so happy to be able to leave you. But you know, my poor dear child, I
have besides undertaken, and you know with what end, a work of mercy      226
that I wished to succeed and prosper a long time, even when my
presence and aid would have, by the will of God, been withdrawn from
my poor old _protégées_. This charitable foundation has been for me
the object of grave and disquieting cares, that till now I have never
found necessary to confide to you. I have just learned that the
proprietor of the building that shelters my poor old pensioners,
having some speculation in view, has decided to take possession of it
and its dependencies himself, or will only permit me to retain it
under conditions too exacting to be in harmony with my slender
resources. Many people of judgment whom I have consulted have all
counselled me to choose another abode and there install my pensioners.
If I had found myself, as formerly, alone in the world, I should not
have hesitated to do so; but to find a suitable house and pay several
debts of my poor little hospital--for times have not been good for a
few years past--I should have had to have laid out at least twenty
thousand francs, almost the half of my present fortune; and could I
deprive you of so important a sum--you, my best loved and only
heiress, who cannot have the same reasons for being interested in the
existence of the work, and therefore its continuation?

“This idea has not seemed possible to me, my dear child; therefore I
have made no reserves, no stipulations in the interests of my poor old
dependants, leaving it to your reason, not less than to your generous
heart, to decide what you find best to do. Perhaps the advice, the
support of the new family into which you are going to enter, of my
good friend M. Maubars, whom I have always known so loyal and just,
will be at your service, and, without impoverishing yourself, you can
aid those whom I have always wished so much to see prosper. Take
advice, then, of these friends, my daughter, consult your own
faculties, your strength, and, above all, do not precipitate anything.
It would have been too painful for me to have died in the thought of
relinquishing this work which has been so dear and consoling,
therefore I speak to you of it to-day, confident you will understand
me in this as in everything else. But, in any event, I hope that
Providence will continue to watch over this modest foundation for his
glory, and whatever you decide to do, my good and tender child, be
assured you will have my approval and my blessing.

“Farewell, joy and consolation of my old years, sweetness of my life,
my dear daughter. I will not forget you in the presence of my God, if
he will deign to hear my prayers.”

Thus the letter finished, and the sad and continued voice of M. Morin,
which seemed to die out in murmurs, was only replied to by the long
and bitter sobs of Valentine.

At the end, the young girl, trembling and half-tranquillized,
approached the notary, turned toward him her mild countenance, where a
timid smile of gratitude and tenderness already commenced to shine as
a fugitive and light ray in the midst of her tears.

“Monsieur Morin, in four months I will be twenty-one,” said she.
“Perhaps the proprietor of the asylum will wait till then. I shall be
free then, will I not, to give the twenty thousand francs necessary
for the purchase of the house?”

A profound silence, soon interrupted by a feeble murmur, greeted at
first these words of the orphan. M. Maubars rose from his chair,
shrugged his shoulders slightly, approached her, and took her hand        227
with a benevolent and paternal smile.

“Permit me, my dear child,” said he. “You are not--my worthy and
respectable friend knew it well--quite competent to decide in matters
of business, and you had better, I think--”

“You think perhaps I would do better to install the poor women in this
dear old house,” interrupted the generous girl, with her sad and sweet
smile. “Monsieur Maubars, I love it too much, this humble abode, too
much in truth, I have in it so many sweet recollections, and have
passed here so many happy days of infancy. But my poor dear mamma
would perhaps be happier to know her old friends lodged and sheltered
here, in her own house. So I am quite ready to give it up to them, if
you think it right, quite suitable.”

“But no, no, dear good Valentine,” replied the prudent papa, with a
very embarrassed air. “My child, you well understand, questions of
sentiment should never interfere with those of business. Think, by
abandoning this little property, or its equivalent sum, you give up in
reality one-third of your dowry--a dowry, permit me to say too,
without any grudge, that is already not the most considerable. Think
that all prudent people would endeavor to dissuade you from taking
this part; that you are not in reality free to accomplish a sacrifice
so important and to the detriment of your future family.”

Ah! poor Valentine! had she ever expected such a declaration? At first
she listened calmly, then smiled; then as she comprehended these
words, that came like a thunderbolt upon her in all their cruelty, her
paleness disappeared and gave place to a quick and glowing redness;
then this in turn vanished, and she remained cold and white as a
marble statue. Then a ray of indignation and grief glanced from her
pure eyes, but compressing, however, the sudden beating of her heart,
palpitating and growing colder every instant, she replied, still in an
uncertain and timid voice, with a firm and serious accent, but
caressing and affectionate:

“Free, did you say, my good Monsieur Maubars? Do you not mistake me?
Should I not be always free to accomplish my duty, the last wishes of
my mother?”

“But allow me ... distinguish,” repeated the future father-in-law,
alarmed but yet not discouraged. “There is an imprudent and rash
liberty, my dear young lady, and one that is provident and wise. You
see yourself that your tender and generous protectress orders nothing,
and asks nothing of you. She simply engages you to seek for the best
advice of those who are interested in your happiness, in your future
destiny, mine amongst others, my dear child. And you know well I am
disposed to act toward you as an old friend, as your father. I have a
great influence in benevolent societies, am a member of several;
nothing easier for me to tranquillize you on the subject of your old
women than to make out a little account of the actual state of things,
with a few words of my own observation, and have them received without
any delay or trouble into the hospital for incurables in this
department. In this way, my dear Valentine, you see all can be
arranged for the best. You will be relieved from all inquietude as to
the fate of the _protégées_ of the excellent Madame de Guers; your
little fortune will not be compromised; exempted from every care, free
from obligations, you can consecrate your entire time to your duties,
to the affections that await you in your new family.”

Valentine listened to every word, her eyes fixed, her lips immovable.
But from time to time a deeper and more sombre shade spread over her      228
eyes, an expression more desolate fixed itself on her lips. When the
caressing and persuasive voice of her future father-in-law ceased to
be heard, she sadly bent her head, and replied:

“Alas! Monsieur Maubars, I see we can never again understand each
other. I am not free, as you appear to think. What my dear and worthy
protectress would have done, I must do for her.”

“But, my child, reflect: you cannot sacrifice your little fortune.”

“And this fortune, to whom do I owe it, then--I, a poor, abandoned
orphan, who, without the generous protection of this inestimable
friend, would have been sent in years gone by where you would place
these poor infirm people--in a hospital. Oh! my good Monsieur Maubars,
if my benefactress had in dying left some debt of honor that I should
pay, would you advise me to cancel the obligation--you who are so just
and honorable?”

“But, dear young lady, the case is different; your excessive delicacy
leads you astray.”

“It is only different in one respect: it is more grave and solemn.
This is a sacred debt that Madame de Guers has contracted toward God
and toward the poor, to satisfy the yearning of her soul. To-day this
debt is transmitted to me. I recognize it; I receive it with the rest
of her heritage; I promise to use, if necessary, all my resources, all
my time, all my strength to pay it as I should.”

The young girl, pale though resolute, rose in pronouncing these words,
and extended her little hand, that had ceased to tremble, as if she
called upon all the strangers assembled to witness her irrevocable
decision, her generous determination. The old frequenters of the
mansion could scarcely recognize her: she seemed to have grown taller,
ripened in a moment, and was transfigured. Her former sweetness, so
timid and charming, did not abandon her, but there mingled in it an
expression of invincible courage and inflexible integrity; the weak
and feeble child had disappeared, and in her place appeared a
woman--loyal, intrepid, resigned, ready for every devotion, for every
sacrifice, even of the oldest and most cherished affections of her

M. Maubars was undeceived; it was with an expression evidently of
extreme surprise and marked discontent that he fell back a few steps
and bent his whitened head: “I persist in hoping, mademoiselle, that
you will still reflect,” said he, in a tone impressed with remarkable
coldness. “Otherwise, you understand, without doubt, our projects must
undergo same modification. Consider that such obstinacy on your part
is a most unhappy precedent for the well-being and peace of your
future household.”

At this brutal menace, at this the saddest moment, perhaps, of her
life, Valentine became still paler and her look more sombre, but she
neither trembled nor flinched, accepting without a murmur and in
silence all the bitterness of the duty she had just embraced. Only, by
an old and tender habit of childhood, with the remains of a hope
perhaps, her gaze, more eloquent and earnest than ever, was fixed upon
Alfred--the friend, the betrothed, whom, for so long a time, she had
been accustomed to consult in any sadness or disquietude. But Alfred,
before the mute anguish of this regard, was not moved. He bore with
his father an air of gravity and dissatisfaction.

“I am sure you will reflect upon this, Valentine,” he simply said.        229
“You see my father counsels you as a true friend, having only in view
your happiness and the preservation of your fortune.”

Then Valentine turned slowly and sadly, without allowing a single tear
to escape her, or a single sob that was then swelling in her breast.

“My good Monsieur Morin, my resolution is taken,” said she, her voice
at first trembling, but becoming steadier as she spoke. “All the
reflections that I could make would only serve to show me my duty,
more distinct, more exact, more sacred. In two months, if you wish, we
will hear what property had better be sold, and choose a suitable
abode for our asylum.... Now, gentlemen, our council is ended, I
believe.... I thank you one and all for having accorded me your advice
and the support of your presence.”

All the assistants understood that the courageous young girl must be
left alone to suffer, alone to weep. They rose simultaneously, bowed
to her profoundly with admiration and respect, and went out. Alfred
wore already a resigned look of sadness, and M. Maubars betrayed his
irritation in his brusque movements and unsteady walk. The echoes of
their steps died in the distance, and around the orphan in her
mourning reigned only solitude and silence.

“It is all over; they have said it,” she murmured then, and let fall
the pent-up tears. “But no! it was to be.... I wished it also. It was
my duty--why could he not so understand it? Oh! Adeline told me the
truth. God is good to have enlightened me while I am still single and
free. Poor mamma, you could not have imagined this. So much the
better, for you would have wept so bitterly.”

Speaking thus, she wept and wept, hiding her face in her hands, and
sobbing as if her heart would break. The hours flew by, night came,
and the November rain fell on the windows, the November wind shook the
shutters in the little parlor, formerly so tightly closed, so bright,
and peopled with good friends, but now so solemn and deserted, and
where the orphan alone must suffer and weep.


Valentine held firm to her resolution; her soul, so loyal and pure,
was of those where the courage of devotion, and the love of duty
accomplished, united to double the price of the humble virtues,
submission, gentleness, and tenderness. To a very polite and
respectful letter from Alfred, in which the young man begged her to
let him know if she still persisted in her intentions, she replied in
simple terms, releasing him from his engagement, and telling him that
henceforward she should devote herself to the austere and honorable
task bequeathed her by her adopted mother. Notwithstanding her orders
to the contrary, one of her best friends forced her way into the
house, no doubt with good intentions. It was the lively and joyous
Adeline de Malers, in whom, in spite of much prudence and worldly
experience, tenderness and benevolence were not wanting, and who would
sincerely have desired to conquer what she considered the obstinacy
and blindness of her poor dear friend. Adeline took care to bring
precious arguments with her to plead the important marriage cause: she
led her two dear little children by the hand, with their innocent
babbling and sweet smiles, the source of so much delight and maternal
felicity. However, Valentine did not yield; her soul was steeped and
her resolution strengthened by the secret prayers and solitude of her     230

“My dear,” said Adeline to her at the end of her arguments, “if you
grow poor by this foolish liberality, and if, half-ruined, you are
obliged to give up M. Alfred Maubars, you will be an old maid, I warn

“I have always been a happy young girl, I can be a tranquil and
contented old maid. Happiness has no age,” replied Valentine, with her
calm and tender smile.

“My dear, the obliged are generally ungrateful; gratitude from the
poor is a rare and uncertain commodity.”

“I know it; but the satisfaction of an accomplished duty is immense,
and the grace of God infinite. Besides, I shall be so happy to realize
the intentions and to continue the work of my mother, who is in

Adeline shrugged her shoulders with a gesture of impatience. “But your
poor old folks won’t live for ever, and when the last one has
disappeared, your work will be finished, and you will be alone.
Besides, in devoting yourself in the flower of your years to their
catarrhs and their rheumatisms, do you know, my poor child, what you
renounce and what you lose? Come here, Bertha, my treasure, kiss me,
Max, you dear little angel.... Look at them now, you wicked little
obstinate one, and tell me, as you examine them well, if all the
happiness, all the glory of a woman, does not consist in raising,
caring for, and cherishing such charming little loves.”

At these words, Valentine drew the little ones to her; kissed each of
their pretty white foreheads, and laid her hand gently on their blonde
heads; for she had at heart that tender and deep love of children that
God has given innocent young girls, in order that one day their most
holy duty may become their truest and sweetest happiness. And for an
instant perhaps the caressing look that she fixed upon them became
more tender, deeper, and more tearful; she stooped then a moment
toward the earth; then resumed her serenity, and replied peaceably and
with resignation:

“God has given me my children--children, Adeline, who have great need
of me, for they are suffering, poor, and feeble. Besides, my good
friend, when the last of these poor old people shall have gone, there
will remain to me the foundation, the hospital. I will open it then to
real children, to young and poor orphans. In this way, I too will have
my family--my family blessed by God.”

“It is fanaticism, truly, and I begin to despair of your future, my
dear friend,” cried Adeline, surprised and discontented to find her
overtures so energetically repulsed. “But, then, why do you persist in
remaining in the world, that will only have, believe me, disdain for
your heroism, coldness and raillery for your generous devotion? Why do
you not at once adopt the cornette and serge of the Sister of

“Because, thus far, God has not so commanded me,” replied the
courageous child, modest and resigned. “My duty lies near these old
women; here my place is marked out; I have nothing else to do but
understand, adore, and obey. And since I have friends among my people,
I esteem and love them also. Why should these friends abandon me
because a sacred duty claims a portion of my time and my strength, and
I must consecrate myself to it? My destiny is no doubt changed, but my
heart will never change, and from those I should have loved my memory
will never be detached; no rival affection will banish their remembrance, 231
and for them, always, I shall be Valentine.”

Adeline took leave soon after, half-angry, half-impressed, declaring
she could understand nothing of the character of such an obstinate
girl, who could hide such real perversity, such inexplicable tenacity,
under a manner so timid and so gentle. After her departure, the pupil
of Madame de Guers read for the last time the solemn message to
Alfred, and finished the reply she had already commenced. Not a tear
sullied the page whereon slowly and courageously she traced her
farewell. Not a start of tenderness or grief agitated the poor little
white hand, that so heroically sealed the decree of separation,
renunciation, and forgetfulness. Only when she had finished, when
there was nothing more to propose or hope for, when the old Marianne,
carrying the letter, had disappeared in the fog, near the neighboring
quay, she gently approached, with her eyes full of tears, the chimney
where the noble and tender face of her second mother, the friend of
her youthful years, smiled on her as if to encourage her from under
her light glass covering. Before she pressed her trembling lips on the
little portrait, she smiled sweetly through her tears.

“It is all finished, mamma,” murmured she. “I will do as you
would--hereafter live only for God, and for his poor. You have told me
more than once that such is the lot of the elect. I believe you, dear
mamma; I love you and I bless you.”

And as the choice of the young girl was made, she lived, as she had
said, devoted and valiant, active and resigned. The notary soon came
to the conclusion, and made it known to her, that all her resources
would be needed for the support of her old people. But what would she
have done all alone in the dear old house, much too large for her by
herself, and so full of remembrances, rendered so bitter in silence
and solitude? Valentine understood what she had to do, and easily
resigned herself. The old and peaceable abode, a little enlarged,
received on one story the old pensioners of the little hospital, while
the young protectress reserved on another her bedroom, her little
parlor, and her library: a modest apartment filled with pious relics
and sweet and humble souvenirs. And from this moment her life was
entirely consecrated to her retreat, to God and the poor; from this
moment, too, she openly relinquished all hope of any new situation,
any other destiny; and the circle of friends and acquaintances of the
little town of C---- ceased to include her among the marriageable.

In obscure cares, in constant labor, in hidden devotions, passed the
days, sped the years, and robbed her of her youth. But peace remained,
because she was content to establish her abode in the shadow of a
Christian roof, and in the love of grateful hearts. It is true--though
some of our readers may be permitted to doubt it--that a peace the
sweetest, the most delightful, the most constant, and the most sure
does not depend on what excites and passes so quickly from earth, but
on the true, salutary, and Christian manner in which the soul, wise
and resigned, puts itself in harmony with the exigencies of its
destiny and the will of its God. Valentine felt this early, and from
that time experienced it always. The serene tranquillity of her heart,
humble in its desires and contented in its destiny, was never
overshadowed by a cloud; it stood proof against any shock, even on the
day when, having finished the reading of the Scriptures to the old        232
Genevieve, she heard in the street, quite close to her, a great noise
of carriages, rolling joyously towards the church, from which
resounded the sounds of a _fête_, and, looking out the window to
explain the cause of the tumult, she saw in the first of the
carriages, ornamented with wedding favors, bouquets, and ribbons, two
friends of her childhood: the betrothed of that day, Alfred Maubars
and Rosine Martin. There passed over her face a calm smile, vague and
almost dreaming; then a fixed and disturbed look, for at the bottom of
the page, as she read, were these words: “_It is not good for man to
be alone._”

But almost immediately resounded in her ears the caressing and
infantine voices of childhood, those of two little orphans, her
cherished dependants, who had taken the places of Babet and Manou,
dead full of years, and now quietly reposing in their graves. At the
joyous call Valentine was once more herself, and, with a calm smile,
bending her head as if she recognized her error, she said:

“Yes, indeed, it would be sad to be alone, but those are never so who
know how to love. Dear mamma told me so, and well she knew what she
said. Come, Marie, come Louisette, let me say the _Angelus_ with
you.” The little ones approached, knelt down, and she laid her hands
on their heads, and kissed their browned foreheads. And before she
made the sign of the cross she regarded them earnestly, and with a
joyful, softened, peaceable, and triumphant gaze, even an expression
of indifference and forgetfulness to the carriage that was rolling
towards the church, and she rose at last full of gratitude and love of
benediction and prayer, and lifted her eyes to the clear and blue
heaven that caressed her with its gold-lit rays.


                            TRUE FAITH.

                 Faith is no weakly flower,
            By sudden blight, or heat, or stormy shower
                 To perish in an hour.

                 But rich in hidden worth,
            A plant of grace, though striking root in earth,
                 It boasts a hardy birth.

                 Still from its native skies
            Draws energy which common shocks defies,
                 And lives where nature dies!
                                                     E. CASWALL.


                 THE PLACE VENDOME AND LA ROQUETTE.                       233


                       FROM LE CORRESPONDANT.


I shall not pass abruptly from my first account, drawn up at the end
of March, respecting the tragedy of the Place Vendôme, to that written
at the end of May, concerning the invasion of the Madeleine, my
detention at the Préfecture de Police and at Mazas, and the
transcendent crimes of the Commune which I witnessed at La Roquette.

What was the opinion of the few politicians left in Paris respecting
the strange events they witnessed, the accomplices and auxiliaries of
the Commune, and the degree of responsibility the national and
international element would incur in its follies and crimes?

We must render this justice to the victorious insurgents of the
eighteenth of March--that the power of dissimulation was the weakest
of their traits and the least of their cares. If they aimed at
imitating Carnot, Danton, and Robespierre, they made no pretensions of
rivalling Richelieu, Mazarin, and Talleyrand. With a moderate degree
of coolness, curiosity, and discernment, it was easy to gain access to
their larder, and ascertain the ingredients of the viands to be served
up to us each day. They had too slight a dash of moral sense to be
preoccupied with questions of honor and propriety. The absoluteness of
their aims made them completely insensible to delicacy of means and
diffidence as to appearances. Therefore, the politicians who had not
fled before the heroes of the Internationale did not waste their time.
If they were nearly deprived of action, they could, at least, be
observant, communicate the result of their impressions, and acquire a
reasonable conviction respecting the operation of the revolutionary
engine, with its numerous springs and mysterious propelling forces,
not revealed by the press of the Commune, and therefore escaping the
attention of the vulgar.

I have already protested against the weakness, blindness, or
connivance of the republican mayors and deputies of Paris, who,
immediately after the massacres of the Place Vendôme, became
reconciled to the agents of the central committee, disbanded and
dispersed the battalions of the national guard still faithful to the
cause of order, and gave Paris up to an association of adventurers and
outlaws, some of unknown origin, others notorious for their conflicts
with the laws of their own countries, and all for their savage hatred
of every social institution.

Instead of subsequently acknowledging their weakness or error, the
majority of the radical republicans continued their campaign against
the national assembly with a persistence and hypocrisy that cannot be
sufficiently stigmatized. To preserve the republic, they emboldened
and strengthened the Commune, thus sacrificing to their political idol
the peace, prosperity, honor, and existence of their country. The         234
Commune did not conceal its affection for such auxiliaries, but its
caresses were to some of a more serious and compromising nature.

Formerly, the most ultra never dreamed of giving up their patriotism.
It was reserved for the members of the Commune to divest themselves of
this old prejudice of all nations. They vehemently demanded, during
the siege of Paris by the Prussians, the most extreme measures--a
general sortie, “_des battailles torrentielles_,” and fighting to the
last. When conspiracy made them masters of Paris, their violence and
ferocity against the Prussians changed to obsequious devotedness and
civilities of the most amicable nature. Their dishonest protestations
were displayed in the columns of the official journal of the Commune
with a coolness that makes one blush. The delegate of foreign affairs
treated the Prussians, who had just lacerated and humiliated France,
and bombarded its capital, as if they were our most faithful allies,
and were sacrificing themselves heroically for our safety.

The generals of the Commune, who had been imprisoned some weeks before
by the government of the national assembly as Prussian spies and
agents, made no change in their patriotic course. The delegate of war,
General Trochu, recalled at the tribune, “is making a series of
rigorous arrests, the object of which is to assure to the enemy the
freedom the pending negotiations confer on them.”

The politicians and chemists of the Commune proved they had been in a
good school by borrowing two ideas of M. de Bismarck and M. de Moltke,
the very names of which now inspire horror--the system of hostages and
the use of petroleum. To ensure the entire payment of the exorbitant
requisitions on the invaded provinces, and somewhat avenge the limited
enthusiasm manifested by the humiliated and suffering inhabitants, the
Prussians retained the most notable individuals as hostages, and sent
them to the prisons of Germany. Citizens Ferré and Raoul Rigault found
this system too ingenious and convenient not to be adopted. They took
as hostages, and imprisoned them at Mazas and La Roquette, the priests
and laymen who, according to the opinion of these servile imitators,
had been more devoted to social and national interests than to those
of anarchy and demagogism.

Fourteen months ago, a peculiar dictionary was discovered in the
headquarters of the Internationale, in which was a list of such words
as nitro-glycerine and picrate of potassium, and a recipe for
sulphurate of carbon, and the chlorate and prussiate of potassium. At
the end of the recipes were these words, significant of the uses to
which they were to be applied: “To throw from the windows: to be
thrown into the gutters.” If the most formidable of recipes is not to
be found there, it is because the citizens of the Commune had not yet
learned in the school of Prussian engineers the art of destroying
houses and monuments by means of petroleum.

In continuing the account of the horrible deeds of the Commune, I find
consolation as a Frenchman in the thought that the murderers and
incendiaries of Paris denied not only their God, but their country,
and that they were members not only of a criminal, but a foreign


                   THE CLOSING OF THE MADELEINE.

In following with serious attention the various evolutions of the
Commune, we are struck by the contrast between its beginning and its      235
end. Its first essays were rather grotesque than frightful. The
statesmen most preoccupied about the quicksands on which it threatened
to cast society and the nation did not at first foresee the crimes
that are without a name, which made its end one of the most sinister
pages in human history. The reason is easily understood. Once masters
of Paris, the charlatans and rogues that composed the Commune hoped to
become the rulers of France. They saw themselves already at the head
of a social revolution, and, encouraged by their unexpected success in
the seductive cause of pretended renovation, they set to work in
earnest. Hence the deluge of strange and incoherent decrees that
became a dead letter, and only served to amuse the careless and
frivolous Parisian.

But when the generals of the Commune made an audacious effort to seize
Versailles and open communication with their numerous agents in the
populous centres of the provinces, they were overwhelmed by the army
they thought disorganized or won over to their cause, and all their
plans were overthrown. The attempts to excite an insurrection in the
large cities failed. The Commune could expect nothing more from the
intervention of the departments: its rule was restricted to Paris, and
the days of its power were numbered. Then projects of hatred and
vengeance succeeded those of social renovation. The monkeys of the
Hôtel de Ville gave place to tigers. The prophets and apostles of the
Commune lost their _sang-froid_. The foul Felix Pyat exhausted himself
in atrocious invectives, and the fiendish Delescluze evidently
preferred to blow up Paris rather than give it up to France.

While the emissaries of the radical republicans knowingly deceived
France and all Europe respecting the condition of Paris, and were
circulating their deceitful and imprudent sophisms, dictated by their
admiration for the Commune and their hatred of the national assembly,
what was the language of foreign journals that cared for nothing about
these internal struggles but exactness and impartiality? The
correspondent of the _Times_ was not satisfied with comparing
Paris to an infernal caldron, in which seethed all human passions, but
thus depicted the armed forces of the Commune: “Besides the old and
the young, excited by the phraseology of the first revolution, still
novel to them, all the villains in Paris are under arms. I have never
seen, even in London, so sinister a collection of faces. These men
always seem more or less intoxicated. They have not, perhaps, ceased
to be so since the eighteenth of March.” Such is the spectacle in the
streets and public places: that of the forts and ramparts is of a
still more expressive character: “Man is there only a ferocious
animal, everywhere scenting blood. We hardly recognize him, and no
longer comprehend him.”

The parish service I directed at the Madeleine after the arrest of M.
Deguerry encountered but few difficulties. The Commune only made some
insignificant requisitions in a civil manner. The qualification of
“citizen director of the church of the Madeleine,” given me in the
most solemn manner, enlivened me for an instant in the midst of my
cares and griefs.

The success of the Versailles army, in giving joy to the respectable
people still remaining at Paris, was a source of danger to them. The
Commune concentrated, or rather gave up, its civil and military power
into the hands of the committee of public safety and the central          236
committee. On Wednesday, the seventeenth of May, in going to
administer the last sacraments to the daughter of a concierge in the
Rue de la Victoire, I found the ninth arrondissement hemmed in by the
insurgents, who were making frequent arrests. Thanks to one of the
most ultra journals of the Commune that I pretended to be reading very
attentively, I passed through their inquisitorial ranks unimpeded.

On the eighteenth, which was Ascension day, the church of St.
Augustine was closed, and one of the vicars and the organist were
imprisoned. All the offices of the day were celebrated at the
Madeleine, attended by a numerous and very devout congregation; but,
so far from yielding to any illusion about the fate that awaited me, I
begged Dr. B. de L----, a parishioner of the Madeleine, to enable me
after vespers to see M. Jacquemin, one of the physicians of the prison
of Mazas. There was every reason to believe I should soon require his
kind services. I was already acquainted with M. de Beauvais, the
second physician at Mazas, whose courageous devotedness I was
subsequently to experience, and who had already been so thoughtful as
to give me news of the curé of the Madeleine and of the Archbishop of
Paris. After my interview with Dr. Jacquemin, I felt some
embarrassment about returning to my residence. The Rue de la
Ville-l’Evêque was filled with an armed band of the national guards.
The house of the Sisters of Charity, opposite the Presbytère, was
guarded by two sentinels. The sisters had been expelled, and the
girls’ school confided to some _citoyennes_, who, according to the
unruly tongues of the quarter, had been replaced at the prison of St.
Lazare by the Sisters of Picpus, who were accused of a series of
crimes, each one more extraordinary than the rest. I bought, as on the
previous day, one of the ultra journals of the Commune, and, armed
with this new kind of a safe-conduct, I took a roundabout way to the
Rue la Ville-l’Evêque, in order to avoid the national guards as much
as possible. Once their protection would have been eagerly sought
against a robber or assassin, but since the reign of the Commune
respectable people feared and fled from them as the worst of
evil-doers. And the new military organization will doubtless have to
undergo a radical transformation, for it will be difficult for it to
rise above the moral discredit into which it has fallen.

Some moments after, a Polish priest, who had given himself up with
indefatigable zeal to the service of the ambulances, notified me that
an order had been signed to close the churches and arrest the priests
still in Paris. I went to see one of my devoted _confrères_, M.
de Bretagne, and consult with him about the means of preserving the
holy eucharist from profanation. The insurgents had already thrown
away or carried off in their cartridge-boxes the sacred elements in
some of the churches. At this very time the church of St.
Philippe-du-Roule was entered by the insurgents, and for want of
priests they arrested two employees who were guarding the church. The
Madeleine of the eighth arrondissement was the only church that was
still open.

Although, after the arrest of M. Deguerry, a part of the valuables of
the church had been carried to a safe place, I employed the first
moments of Friday, the nineteenth, in confiding the remainder to some
women of the working-classes. I only left in the church a few valuable    237
objects and several hundred francs. The agents of the Commune had a
singular longing for money, and when they could not obtain some
bank-bills or gold in their expeditions, the places invaded or the
persons arrested had to suffer for such a financial disappointment.

At half-past three, the sacristy door burst open. A tall young man,
clad _à la_ Robespierre, with a broad red mantle that half-covered him,
advanced at the head of a knot of confederates armed with revolvers,
and exclaimed in a loud tone: “The church of the Madeleine is closed
by order of the committee of public safety.” I was at that moment
supplying the unfortunate people whom the _régime_ of the Commune had
deprived of work and bread. I had on my choir robes in addition to my
ordinary ecclesiastical costume. The inmates of the sacristy were
greatly excited. Some who were waiting to go to confession fled. Only
one, the wife of an old prefect of the empire, bravely remained to
witness this singular spectacle. I approached the judicial agent, and
asked to examine the official decree and see if it was authentic.
While I was reading it, I saw in his hands two other decrees of the
committee of public safety, one prescribing my arrest and the other
the suppression of some newspapers that had not conformed to the
opinions of the Commune. I thought the signature was that of Ranvier,
the mayor of Belleville, one of the most influential members of the
Commune and of the committee of public safety. He was an old bankrupt
wine-dealer, who had several times been amenable to the laws, and,
like all social outlaws, swore an implacable hatred to society. He
acquired great popularity in the clubs, after the fourth of September,
by advocating social war, as in the last months of the empire he had
advocated the claims of absolute liberty! It was by virtue of this
absolute liberty that he had just signed the three decrees, that aimed
so many brutal blows at religious, civil, and political liberty.

“Are you the citizen director of the church of the Madeleine?” added
the delegate, somewhat irritated at the inspection of the warrant,
which seemed to him rather impertinent.

I would willingly have replied like Sganarelle, “Yes and no, according
to your wish,” but unfortunately, instead of living any longer in the
Paris of Molière, we lived in a city of folly and crime.

“You know perfectly well that the curé of the Madeleine was arrested
six weeks ago. It is I who am for the present in his place.” I had not
finished these words before he took the second warrant, and exclaimed
in thundering tones: “By virtue of a decree of the committee of public
safety, the citizen director of the church of the Madeleine is
arrested.” The murderers who escorted him, and who belonged to the
battalion of the _Vengeurs de Flourens_, rushed upon me, holding
their revolvers against my throat and chest, and bestowing on me a
series of names, the most decent of which were “_bandit_, _canaille_,
_crapule_, _assassin_!” One of them, whose stupid ferocity can only
be attributed to drunkenness, cried, while endeavoring to adjust his
arms: “It is you, vile rabble, who cause the patriots of Paris to be
assassinated by the wretches at Versailles: the priests are the
murderers of the people: they should all be shot.” I had received
these miserable men with politeness and a sentiment of resignation.
Their low insults made me flush with indignation and decide to
confront them.

“I am not accustomed to hear such language,” said I to their leader.
“If you continue to treat me in this way, I shall seat myself without     238
another word, and force alone shall tear me from this sanctuary.”

He made a sign to his followers to moderate their civic indignation,
but without being heeded. I now sought to lead them into a discussion,
hoping to appease them and preserve the church from devastation by
making them incapable of justifying their acts and outrages. For two
hours--hours that seemed ages--I was obliged, under the greatest
peril, to defend myself as a man and a priest against these
emissaries, who were as ridiculous as they were odious. I will relate
the principal points in this interchange of observations.

I first asked why I was arrested. At this question the delegate of the
committee of public safety replied by a torrent of accusations and
maledictions against the “miserable quarter of the Madeleine, the most
hostile in Paris to the _régime_ of the Commune.” He was not wholly
wrong in this, for at the last elections the parish of the Madeleine,
which comprises about forty thousand inhabitants, did not give more
than a hundred votes to the candidates of the Commune. In the eighth
arrondissement, where the church is, of about nineteen thousand votes,
only five hundred voted for the Communist members. He added: “You must
therefore expiate your conspirations in favor of the Versailles
assassins.” Here the delegate was no longer right. But it was evident
that I was arrested because I was the “citizen director of the
Madeleine,” and they would make me expiate the sympathy and
concurrence that the parishioners of the Madeleine had the
unpardonable offence to refuse the Commune. To gain more time and thus
calm their fury, I spoke of political affairs. My observations visibly
disconcerted my interlocutors. The epithets, _canaille_, _crapule_,
and assassin, became more and more rare, and their revolvers, at first
so actively and impertinently exercised, were returned by degrees to
their cases.

Another incident that might have been fatal to me served still more to
disconcert them. During the last half of the reign of the Commune, the
affair of the bodies found at St. Laurent, Notre Dame des Victoires,
and Notre Dame de Lorette had an unfortunate effect. Disregarding the
reports of the physicians and what was clearly evident, the
revolutionist papers, the _Journal Officiel_, and the clubs exclaimed
at the scandal. The most abominable crimes were imputed to the clergy,
against whom a diabolical persecution was excited by extravagant
accounts and vile pictures. In vain were these extravagances met by
decisive reasons: the reasons themselves became new subjects of
crimination and invectives which gave me great concern.

The vaults of the Madeleine were at this epoch filled with bodies.
During the siege of Paris by the Prussians, the bodies of several
generals and foreigners of distinction had been deposited there till
they could be carried to their distant family tombs. I had for several
days dwelt on the explanation I could give respecting these bodies so
as to silence these furious madmen, but had found none. The time had
come when I needed it.

“It is in this miserable parish of the Madeleine,” exclaimed the
delegate of the Commune with a smile of contempt and hatred, “that we
shall discover the infamy of the priests. I will bet,” continued he,
turning toward his agent, “that we shall find here more horrible
things than at St. Laurent and Notre Dame des Victoires. Citizens,        239
let us go down into the vaults!”

The ray of light that I had sought for in vain the three previous
weeks all at once beamed into my mind, I found the reason I needed.
Though in the power of the dangerous agents of the committee of public
safety, I blessed God for his protection.

“I have two observations to make to you,” I replied. “The first is
that you will find in the vaults of the Madeleine many more corpses
than in the other churches....”

I can still see the delegate laughing with fiendish satisfaction at
these words till he nearly fell backwards. “I told you, citizens, that
there was more infamy in this church than anywhere else!”

“The second observation, sir, concerns you personally, and from a
motive of charity I think it a duty to draw your attention to it. I
warn you that several of these bodies belong to illustrious families
in Spain, Italy, England, and America, and, if you are rash enough to
disturb them, it is with these foreign powers, and not with me, you
will have to deal.”

In his place I should have endeavored to dissimulate my embarrassment
by doubting this assertion, and requesting to be assured of the fact.
But he was not constrained in the least. He waved his hand with a
triumphant air, and, as if it were I who proposed to violate the
tombs, he exclaimed in the most sonorous manner: “Yes, yes, the
Commune will protect these bodies; they shall be protected!”

After this incredible instance of foolishness and incoherency, we may
stop. I will only beg pardon for mentioning one of the moral
reflections made by one of the emissaries of the Commune at the
commencement of this scene. I had occasion to pronounce the name of
God. “Stop,” said he to me, flourishing his revolver, “if God existed
and should descend here, it is he I would shoot first!”

It was half-past five. My situation became less critical. These men,
at first so ferocious, now treated me with politeness. The most brutal
seemed almost ashamed of having insulted me. I was able to request the
national guards appointed to watch over the Madeleine not to allow
anything to be removed or desecrated. I also begged that the faithful
employees of the church might have the liberty of returning home. The
delegate charged to arrest me could no longer deceive himself. He
became almost affable. I will not mention his name. He sufficiently
dishonored the family from which he sprang by his deeds. A week after,
by a coincidence worthy of note, he directed from the Madeleine the
fight on the Boulevard Malesherbes. More strongly resisted than he had
expected, he found himself with two of his agents hedged in by the
Versailles troops, and sought shelter in the cellar of the church. An
officer of the line shot him with a revolver, fracturing his skull.
This prodigal child had become hardened in sin: unworthy of pardon and
mercy, he had become incapable of repentance.

I arrived at the préfecture de police at a quarter past six,
accompanied by a staff-officer of the Commune. I was as yet but little
preoccupied about my situation, but when told that I was to appear at
once before citizen Ferré, the _préfet de police_, who was
regarded by men of penetration as another Robespierre, I felt that my
case was extremely grave, and that, having but little to hope from
man, I should confide myself to the protection of God.

                                 II.                                      240


It is no easy matter to describe the singular scene at the préfecture
de police, usually so quiet, so disciplined and solemn. This
establishment had become noisier and more picturesque than a
fair-ground. By way of contrast with the usual proceedings, robbers
and other criminals now issued decrees of arrest and imprisonment, and
they who were arrested and imprisoned were lovers of order and their

The entrance was guarded by a crowd of national guardsmen, who had
stopped drinking and smoking to laugh at the unfortunate victims of
the hatred of the committee of public safety, who were arriving in
large numbers. I had seen at the Madeleine the delegate who ordered my
arrest give the staff-officer appointed to conduct me a five-franc
piece to pay for the carriage. This honest man found it more suitable
to leave this expense to his prisoner, and keep the five francs
himself. It was a little contribution to the expenses of the war that
I cheerfully paid. Like the misanthrope of Molière, I was almost glad
to see the masters of Paris throw off the mask and add niggardliness
to all kinds of violence. It was pleasant to be able to testify that a
staff-officer of the Commune, the friend of Ferré and Raoul Rigault,
the confidential agent of the committee of public safety, and one of
the great dignitaries of the prefecture de police, committed a theft
at my expense, and with an unceremoniousness that could not be found
among the robbers and pickpockets of the worst quarters of the

After waiting three hours, I was summoned before citizen Ferré, the
member of the Commune delegated to the ex-préfecture de police, which
signifies in common language the _préfet de police_. He appeared to be
from twenty-six to thirty years of age. He was no longer the ten-years
student and the burlesque writer for the small journals of the Latin
quarter, who gave himself up to pleasure on those rare festivals when
the proceeds of his pen allowed him to revel at the public balls at
the crossway of the Observatory. He had exchanged his worn clothes for
a more elegant suit, his old pointed hat for a cap with gold spangles.
Carelessly seated in a superb arm-chair in the luxurious office where
Delessert, Maupas, and Pietri had labored, he gave orders to his
subordinates with the solemnity and self-sufficiency of a pasha. I am
mistaken; the great pashas I saw while travelling in the East were
only inferior rulers beside him; he realized with admirable precision
the fantastic idea I had formed of a Chinese mandarin of the first

After making a salutation which he doubtless did not find
proportionate to his dignity, I requested permission in respectful and
sufficiently humble tones to appear as promptly as possible before the
_juge d’instruction_. He interrupted me in a dry and haughty tone: “Be
silent, citizen. You are here to listen to me, and not to talk!”

I had never met with so humiliating a reception. It is true I had
never been in the presence of insolence personified. I immediately
drew from my pocket a number of the _Journal Officiel de la Commune_
which I had been carefully keeping for three days, and which contained
a recent decree by virtue of which all individuals arrested should
appear before the _juge d’instruction_ within twenty-four hours or be     241
restored to liberty.

“I wished at first, sir,” I firmly replied, “to solicit a favor, now I
claim a right. By virtue of the decree of the Commune which I am going
to read to you, I demand the right to appear within twenty-four hours
before a _juge d’instruction_.”

Our arrogant mandarin shrugged his shoulders, and smiled, as if to
say, “Here is a simpleton who still believes in the decrees of the

“Captain, conduct this citizen to prison,” was his only reply. On
Wednesday, the twenty-fourth of May, at half-past seven in the
evening, I noticed through the bars of my cell my mandarin transformed
into a bloodthirsty tiger, crossing the court of La Roquette and
giving orders for the immediate execution of the Archbishop of Paris,
M. Bonjean, M. Deguerry, and their three companions.

My situation assumed a more gloomy aspect than I had anticipated. I
had been arrested as one of the last hostages, and was at the mercy of
a band of ruffians who were exasperated to madness by the approach of
the Versailles army. I did not lose courage in my misfortunes.
Convinced by the example of the staff-officer who had robbed me of
five francs that I still had one means of alleviating my lot, I
henceforth placed all my confidence in the infinite mercy of God,
without forgetting a generous distribution of pieces of a hundred
sous. I immediately slipped two into the hands of my jailer, who was
profuse in his bows, and gave me an exceptional testimony of his
gratitude, in his way, by shutting me up in the cell that had been
occupied by M. Deguerry. I told him that, lacking everything, I must
absolutely write my friends that evening, and begged him not to send
my letter through the office. As he objected, I told him I needed
money, and, if I were not at once supplied, I should not be able to
acknowledge, as was my practice, the kind services of the good
officials with whom I had to deal. At this, what had been impossible
was instantly effected.

I wrote to the Presbytère of the Madeleine for money and other
effects; then I added what I considered very important, and wished not
to be seen at the office, that they must not speak to any one of my
arrest, or write me a single line, or, especially, take any steps for
my release. To pass unperceived and confounded in the crowd of
prisoners was my only chance of safety. I remained faithful to this
principle to the end.

Having had no food since ten o’clock in the morning, I asked for
something to eat. They told me it was too late, that the dinner was at
five o’clock, and the regulations allowed nothing afterwards. The same
accident occurred several times, and owing to other obstacles I was no
more fortunate about sleeping. I will say, for the edification of
those who wish to get an idea of the _régime_ of the Commune, that at
the end of ten days’ imprisonment I returned home, after having dined
twice and slept two hours and a half. My friends declared that I
looked ten years older; but, knowing the truly French elasticity of my
temperament, I consoled them with the assurance that ten days of
freedom would make me ten years younger, which has proved true.

During the night, prisoners were continually being brought in. Among
them were some members of the national guards of the Commune, who,
through insubordination and drunkenness, became my companions in
captivity. They kept up a terrific noise. Some cried as loud as they      242
could bawl: “Vive la République! Vive la Commune!” Others thought they
were at a club, and, all speaking at once, advocated in discordant
tones the abolition of capital, the death of the priests, the freedom
of woman, and other benefits of social revolution.

Just after midnight, a confederate officer was brought into one of the
neighboring cells who was indebted to too copious libations for the
eloquence of a Demosthenes and the strength of a Hercules. This
patriot thought himself confronting the Prussians, among whom he made
frightful carnage. “Now it is your turn, you bully of a Bismarck! Now
you, William, you rascal! You shall see what a patriot and a
republican can do!” Then he would throw himself on to the door of his
cell, and pound and kick it. This continued till daybreak. The heroic
avenger of the national honor made me forget for a time the singular
insolence of Ferré, and more than once I laughed at his manly
eloquence and glorious feats in battle. I took pleasure in retaining,
in the midst of the extravagances and crimes of the Commune, a bitter
remembrance of the crushing and humiliating proceedings of Prussia.

On Saturday morning I wrote to M. Moiré, the _juge d’instruction_,
asking to be heard in the course of the day. At half-past three I
received a reply. It was an order to Mazas. No illusion was longer
possible. The advocates of legal forms must expect to be shot without
form--a respect for which would doubtless have been a poor consolation
in falling under the bullets of assassins, but it is well to observe
that such judicial modes are unknown among the cannibals themselves.
Among the prisoners who accompanied me were, with other ecclesiastics,
the Abbé Laurent Amodru, the vicar of Notre Dame des Victoires, and
the Abbé de Marsy, the vicar of St. Vincent de Paul. Both came to me
and manifested a sympathy that began to cheer the gloomy perspective
of Mazas. M. de Marsy was full of animation, and his cordial
devotedness was of more benefit to us in a moral than a material
sense. And I became inseparably attached to M. l’Abbé Amodru. He was
my neighbor again at La Roquette, and his encouraging example, even
more than his precious religious ministrations, aided me in enduring
the greatest trials in that fearful abode. I wish to give him a public
testimony of my profound gratitude. We were transported in one of
those cellular vehicles, the very sight of which inspires horror and
disgust, and arrived at Mazas at half-past five. They kept us shut up
nearly two hours in a kind of grated cage, which made me wish for one
of those which contain the wild beasts in the Jardin des Plantes.

Though separated from one another, we were able nevertheless to
exchange some words. “It is an indignity,” exclaimed a young national
guardsman, who had refused to serve the Commune, “to shut us up in
this way as if we were robbers!”

“Cheer up,” replied an old man with a cultivated and sympathetic
voice. “In these days, honest men are placed here, and robbers are
left without.”

Exhausted with fatigue, I could neither sit down, lie down, eat, nor
read. I can understand these rigorous precautions for the disciples of
Cartouche, Troppman, and Dumolard. Would there have been any great
social danger in shutting us up in an apartment where there was a
bench? I learned afterward that the Archbishop of Paris had the same
preliminary ceremony to undergo, which almost reduced him to agony.       243
When my turn came to go to the register’s office, I was very much
exasperated, and not at all disposed to conceal my dissatisfaction;
and I had begun to observe that mildness and patience only served to
aggravate our troubles with the emissaries of the Commune, while a
timely and vigorous protestation obtained some alleviation. The
registrar, in taking a long and minute description, demanded my
name--“The Abbé Lamazou, Vicar of the Madeleine.” I never failed to
articulate this title distinctly. It edified some, irritated others,
and proved to all that by my profession I did not necessarily belong
to the family of those accused of robbery, brigandage, or
assassination, for whom the prison of Mazas was intended.

Having entered the establishment, they pointed toward a door. I
supposed it was my cell. By no means: it was a bath-room. As vagabonds
and criminals are not always models of neatness and health, I
understood the necessity of making them take a bath at their entrance
into prison. I also comprehend that recourse may be had to this easy
means of ascertaining if a dangerous criminal has not concealed in his
clothes some weapon or some document that may compromise him. When the
warden ordered me to undress in order to take a bath, I was for a
moment confounded. The sight of a dirty bath-room and a smoking rag,
that perhaps had just wiped the body of some foul vagrant of the
barriers, quite restored my energy.

“I will not take a bath.”

“The regulations require it: you must submit to them.”

“I tell you once for all, that I will not take a bath, if you shoot

“Well, in your place I would act the same,” replied the warden in a
most friendly tone. “I am distressed at all that has been going on
here for some time. Only, as the director of the prison is a furious
partisan of the Commune, if he were aware of your resistance, he might
subject you to rigorous treatment. I will close the door for a few
minutes, and you will be reported as having taken your bath.”

I thanked him warmly. Some wardens of the former administration still
remained at Mazas and La Roquette. They not only manifested a cordial
respect for us, but rendered us the most valuable assistance. Of all
the marks of sympathy that I received after my deliverance, none
affected me more than the letters and calls of my old wardens of Mazas
and La Roquette. Among those who came to see me was the warden of the
bath-rooms at Mazas. There were then, among the hordes of the Commune,
who were a disgrace to the human race, some men who honored it by
their conscientiousness, their courage, and their moral dignity.

Although the day was nearly at an end, I was not at the end of my
tribulations. The cell in which I was shut up seemed most
objectionable. It was exceedingly cold, and, as I had been laid up
with an attack of bronchitis, it might bring on inflammation of the
lungs. It was on the ground, and immediately facing the interior
entrance to the main part of the prison. I knew the populace might
take Mazas by force and give a second edition of the days in
September. I should then be one of the first at hand. Finally, and
this was decisive, I had fallen into the hands of a Communist warden,
who, seeing me exhausted, having had no nourishment since morning,
gave no other proof of his solicitude than examining my pockets, my       244
books, and even my portemonnaie.

The next morning I asked to see one of the physicians of the prison.
It was Dr. de Beauvais’s day, whom I had already seen at the
Madeleine. As he was under the surveillance of the agents of the
Commune, I made no sign of recognition. I made known to him the
intolerable treatment I had received, the bad state of my health, and
the physical impossibility of remaining in my cell. I added that I
simply wished to inform him of my situation, but by no means to claim
a favor.

He replied that, in consequence of my state of health, I had a right
to change my cell. He ordered one to be given me in the first story.

The energy of my language had such an effect on the infirmarian and
pharmaceutist of the prison that they hastened to manifest their
sympathy. My new warden was perfect. In spite of the severity of the
discipline, I could, thanks to them, obtain news of M. Deguerry, Mgr.
Darboy, Mgr. Surat, and of M. Bayle, the vicar-general of Paris, who
was in my neighborhood. Hitherto I could only give an idea of their
trials and those of the other hostages of the Commune by relating my
own, only most of them had been incarcerated seven weeks, and I only
four days.

Sunday was, relatively speaking, a comfortable day. I guessed, on
Monday morning, from the general sound of the tocsin, that the
Versailles troops must have entered Paris. The pharmacist and wardens
confirmed the supposition. “Courage,” they said to me, “perhaps in a
few hours, or to-morrow at the latest, you will be free.”

I offered up my thanksgivings to God, and hailed the first dawn of
light on Tuesday as the happy day of my deliverance, and the
deliverance of all my companions in captivity.



A brilliant sun lighted the prison of Mazas. We were, then, about to
return to Paris, from which we seemed a thousand leagues distant,
though within its limits; we were to behold once more those who were
dear to us, and endeavor, according to the measure of our strength, to
heal the moral and material wounds made by the most shameful and
odious of _régimes_ that ever burdened a civilized people. I forgot
all my fatigues, all my sadness, all my anguish, in the reawakening of
hope and life. I prayed with the enthusiasm of an exile who had
despaired of ever seeing his country again, and to which he was, by an
unexpected event, about to be restored.

At a quarter before ten, the door of my cell was opened. A warden I
did not know ordered me to collect my effects and go down. My
deliverance, then, was nearer at hand than I had hoped. All my things
were packed in a few minutes. I took all the money out of my purse
except enough to pay for a carriage and give the driver a generous
_pourboire_. I was too happy not to wish to make those around me
happy. In descending I distributed all the money I possessed. They
shut me up in one of the compartments of the prison parlor. After some
minutes, they took me to the director, who asked me if I had any
observations to make. “None,” said I, “unless that I am ignorant why I
am brought here.”

His face, and the faces of the agents who surrounded him, seemed very     245
ferocious, but I knew they had been indebted to the insurrection for
their places at Mazas, and must therefore be dissatisfied to see Paris
restored to France and to itself. In my heart I pardoned all the ill
that had been done me. Nevertheless, one thing astonished me, that I
did not see Mgr. Darboy, M. Deguerry, or Père Olivaint, or any of the
priests who had been transported with me from the préfecture de police
to Mazas. I spied a warden I knew. I asked him where I might expect to
find the curé of the Madeleine. He replied with tears in his eyes: “He
left last evening with the archbishop and several other gentlemen! May
God watch over you!”

I could not describe the impression made on the happiest of men by
this mysterious reply and the frightened appearance of the warden. I
questioned him, but he disappeared in a passage. What had happened to
my companions? What was going to happen to me?... I sought an
explanation to this mystery--but it was beyond my comprehension.
Suddenly a word, a single word, pronounced, I know not by whom, I know
not where, resounded in my ear like a thunderbolt: “La Roquette!”...
To this voice from without, an interior voice instantly replied: “La
Roquette, the prison of those condemned to death!”...

This frightful thunderbolt, which precipitated me into an abyss a
thousand times more fearful than that from which I thought I had
issued, was enough to dismay a nature more strongly tempered than
mine. I was dismayed and broken down, and yet, after the poignant
griefs and enervating perplexities that had overwhelmed me for two
months, I had at least the advantage of knowing my certain fate. My
conscience gave me the consoling testimony that I was a victim of my
fidelity to duty; my courage revived at the thought of the numerous
and illustrious captives who had suffered more than I, and whose
examples I only had to follow to die as a priest and a Frenchman. I
cried with the royal Psalmist: “But I have put my trust in thee, O
Lord: I said: Thou art my God, my lot is in thy hands.” This lifting
of my heart to God sufficed to give me firmness and the serenity of
Christian resignation.

When they shut me up in one of the grated cages in the vestibule of
Mazas, the warden charged with this painful task secretly pressed my
hand, and informed me that the Archbishop of Paris, the curé of the
Madeleine, and most of the other hostages had gone to La Roquette,
where we were now to be taken. His pressure of my hand and the
consternation of his face were more eloquent than all he could say. It
was a comfort truly providential to find the Abbé Amodru again in the
cage next mine. Our impressions were the same. Thanks to the signs we
agreed upon when we left the préfecture de police, we could give each
other absolution. We must find ourselves in the presence of death to
comprehend the nothingness of all human things; there is then no
longer any difficulty in praying, in repenting, in pardoning our
fellow-men, and in trusting wholly in the mercy of God.

One by one the cages opened and shut with a lugubrious noise, and I
was surrounded with hostages destined for La Roquette. I was surprised
to find several under complete illusion respecting our situation. Some
thought we were about to be restored to liberty, and others did not
seem to comprehend the significance of our being sent to La Roquette.     246
It was not best to enlighten them yet, but I resolved to do so at a
later moment. With almost certain death staring us in the face, I
thought it proper, and especially more Christian, to modify my
attitude. Until now I had taken an energetic stand against the agents
of the Commune, and sometimes expressed my indignation. I now resolved
to speak but little, to pray a great deal, to encourage those of my
companions who should need it, and to arm myself with patience and
meekness toward our persecutors.

The charitable young pharmacist of the prison, who, the night before,
so gladly announced our approaching liberation, was stationed in a
corner of the vestibule to give us a last proof of his sorrowful
sympathy. This was not only a kind but a courageous act at a moment
when a single smile of compassion might be regarded as treason. A week
after, a young man, kneeling by the body of M. Deguerry in the lower
chapel of the Madeleine, stopped me to express his joy and his grief.
It was the pharmacist of Mazas.

An enormous cart, surrounded by armed national guards, awaited us in
the first court. I at once bethought myself of the carts that during
the Reign of Terror conveyed the victims of the committee of public
safety to execution. And we too were to go in the same direction,
toward the Barrière du Trône. Such coincidences could not fail to
strike any one familiar with our revolutionary history. Fifteen
prisoners mounted the cart, among whom I noticed M. Chevriaux, the
principal of the Lycée at Vanves, who bravely wore his ribbon of the
Legion of Honor; Père Bazin; M. Bacues, the director of St. Sulpice;
an honest workman, and some members of the national guards, guilty of
not having sacrificed to the idol of the day. They were mostly

We were told that the reason we had not been sent to La Roquette the
night before with the first hostages dispatched was that a third
vehicle could not be procured. Mgr. Darboy, Mgr. Deguerry, Mgr. Surat,
and M. Bonjean had suffered very much at Mazas: the prolonged severity
of the prison discipline had, in particular, shaken the archbishop’s
health. They had been obliged, only a few hours before his departure
for La Roquette, to apply blisters to him. But they all showed
themselves, by their firmness and patience, superior to their sad

At the sight of M. Perny and M. Houillon, apostolic missionaries in
China, whom the Commune had stupidly arrested on their way through
Paris, M. Deguerry said to Mgr. Darboy: “Only think of those two
Orientals coming to seek martyrdom in Paris! Is it not curious?” On
the way, they had to encounter the threats and outrages of a rabid
mob. Men _en blouse_, ragged children, and women, or rather furies,
wished to stop and enter the vehicles: “_A bas les chouans et les
calotins!_”--“Stop, we wish to cut them in pieces!”

It was revolting, monstrous, and yet something still more hideous was
reserved for us. We were insulted in our turn, not by the multitude,
but by the national guards who had charge of us. I could understand
the threatening attitude of an over-excited mob, led away by its bad
instincts and the speeches of demagogues, but I had never seen, or
thought it possible, that an armed force could basely insult and
threaten those whom they were officially deputed to escort to a place
of punishment. I had not suspected such a degree of vileness in human
nature, and felt rather humiliated than indignant. “Ah! citizen,”         247
said one of these tigers armed with a _képi_ and a chassepot,
“you reckon on the arrival of the Versailles assassins! Well, this
morning we cut them off at the Porte d’Auteuil with our mitrailleuses:
twenty thousand prisoners are in our hands. The _chouans_ and their
accomplices will have the fate they merit.” An ecclesiastic of the
Faubourg St. Antoine, who had been embittered by his trials, wished to
take up for the Versailles army. I tried to make him comprehend that
reserve and silence were the safest and most suitable course for us.

I asked the national guardsman at my right the quarter he was from. He
replied that he belonged to the battalion of Charonne. It was more and
more manifest that the old suburbs of Paris ruled and kept Paris in
terror. The quarters St. Martin, St. Antoine, and St. Marceau were no
longer rulers of this great city, but the citoyens of Belleville,
Montmartre, La Villette, Ménilmontant, Charonne, and Montrouge, that
is to say, the districts that a few years ago were not a part of
Paris, that had municipalities and material interests distinct from
Paris, and had made a most vigorous resistance to their annexation to
the city. But the head of the second empire conceived a pride in
reigning over a capital containing two millions of inhabitants, and
the thickly settled suburbs were violently annexed to Paris. He wished
to eclipse Babylon and ancient Rome. To make his way through his
capital, innumerable boulevards must be opened, bordered by sumptuous
edifices. To seek the fresh air of the Bois de Boulogne, he must
traverse immense avenues peopled with all the wealthy idlers in the
world, and consequently new legions of workmen were summoned from
every point of the compass, who concentrated themselves like an army
ranged in battle in the annexed zone.

A humble journalist, I had pointed out, as a great social danger, the
tendency of the empire to separate Paris into two parts, one peopled
by the aristocracy and bourgeoisie, and the other by workmen,
outcasts, and the dissatisfied from the entire world. My criticisms
and sad forebodings were recompensed by officious remonstrances,
domiciliary visits, and the seizure of my papers. The course of the
empire had, then, been fatal to France in a political point of view,
since compression had only served to debase its inhabitants and
organize all kinds of social conspirations; fatal in a religious point
of view, for the affairs of Rome alarmed the consciences of Catholics,
and the clergy, so respected in 1848, became the objects of prejudice
and hatred, the bitter fruits of which we were reaping; and fatal in a
military sense, for France was humbled and crushed by a foreign power.

I will declare, for the political honor of the eminent men whose
opposition to the empire I shared, that at the time I thought I was
about to be put to death in prison and render the Supreme Judge a
strict account of my actions, far from regretting a stand that some of
my friends and ecclesiastical superiors had blamed and treated as
“_passion politique_,” everything at Mazas and La Roquette,
everything in Paris and the whole of France, assured me I had not
taken a wrong course; that, on the contrary, I had served the cause of
religion and of my country.

                          TO BE CONTINUED.


                       THE DÖLLINGER SCANDAL.                             248


During the course of the year 1857 we published in these pages an
exhaustive article on the philosophy of Baader. Before the article was
sent to press, the editor of Baader’s complete works gave to the
public the author’s correspondence in another volume, the appearance
of which occasioned the most painful surprise among the admirers of
the great thinker. The book showed that, in his later years, Baader’s
mind was out of harmony with the church; and that his tone towards it
had grown to be one of bitterness even. As was wont to be the case in
those happier days, the editors of these pages turned to Dr. Döllinger
for an explanation of the glaring contradictions between the earlier
and later views of Dr. Baader. The result was a postscript to the
article above referred to, written by Dr. Döllinger, and which may be
seen in the fortieth volume of the _Historisch-Politische
Blätter_, p. 178.

In this postscript, Dr. Döllinger pointed out from the correspondence
itself what were the reasons of the change, and showed that Baader’s
animosity against the church rested only on extraneous and accidental
causes, and had nothing to do with his philosophy. “No further
key”--these are Döllinger’s concluding words--“will be needed to
understand how the broad chasm that separates the calm convictions of
the ripe man in his prime from the passionate, almost childlike,
outbursts of mental impotence of the old man in his decline, was

These lines were written by Dr. Döllinger thirteen years ago, and we
have often read them since. Step by step, he has himself proceeded in
a course towards the church which he so severely censured in the
philosopher of Munich.

The fall of the two men is to a certain extent the same. The
gray-haired church historian, too, is separated by a great chasm from
what he was in his prime--at a great distance from the convictions
that guided him when he was in the zenith of his intellectual power.

His deportment and language betray signs of ungovernable passion,
incompatible with the self-possession of a man who understands his own

We have a right to seek in his case, also, for a psychological
solution of the change that has left him the very reverse of what he
was. In his case, as in that of Baader, it will be seen that the
reasons have nothing to do with his erudition as a church historian;
that they are of a purely “extraneous and accidental character.” But,
indeed--and this is the great difference between the two--in Baader’s
case, the motives were of a private, domestic nature; in the case of
Döllinger, they are of a public and political nature. To express it in
a word, it is the spirit of the times and of the world that has
carried Döllinger into the fatal gulf. Döllinger’s fall, his breaking
off from all he was in the past, is only a piece of the political
history of Bavaria during the last twenty years. The Council and the
definition of the 18th of July have only hastened the matter; they
have merely given the disease, in its crisis, an acute form; but,         249
without them, the break would still have taken place; for a current of
thought had set in in Döllinger’s mind which would have necessitated
it. When, therefore, we are asked how it happens that a highly learned
and highly respected man, like Döllinger, in the enjoyment of a
completely independent position, could cast himself into a current
running counter to his whole previous life, our answer is very simple;
for, from the very beginning of a certain period in the history of
Bavaria, every true Catholic was called upon to bear his cross with
the church; and it is not given to every one to choose being put in
the background when he needs only to yield in order to reap his share
of the honors of this world.

It was beyond a doubt impossible for Döllinger to add anything to his
reputation for learning. Was he not the head and ornament of the
Catholic school of Munich? And, by the way, it is beyond a doubt that
that school had taught as a body, concerning the _ex cathedrâ_
decisions of the Holy See, neither more nor less than is now required
by the decrees of the Council of the Vatican. Witnesses can be found
for every day and year, from among the students of the Munich
theological faculty, from the Bishop of Mainz down to the humblest
parish priest, to show from their notes and memoranda that Döllinger
himself taught exactly what the Archbishop of Munich requires him now
to subscribe to. Whoever questions the infallibility of the Papal
decisions contradicts the present and past testimony of the church,
and must deny the infallibility of the church itself--such was the
view of the whole Munich school; such was Döllinger’s own view.

If Döllinger’s present views were correct, the immunity of the church
from error could not for a moment be maintained, no matter where it
might be claimed its infallibility resided. Döllinger subordinates the
church to science and the decisions of the church to the final
judgment of the learned, more especially to the final judgment of
historians. Such is his theory, and such, practically, his answer to
his ecclesiastical superiors.

Not without reason, therefore, does the Archbishop of Munich in his
pastoral, dated Palm Sunday, say: “In this manner the church’s divine
commission and all Catholic truth is called in question.” It cannot
for a moment be doubted that a man who speaks as does Döllinger in his
declaration of the 28th of March last, has lost completely the
Catholic idea of the church. The only difference between him and the
Protestants is that, in addition to the Bible, he admits, tradition,
“the unanimous consent of the fathers,” to be a source of religious
truth; and this a Protestant may also do, provided no external
authority be constituted the court of final appeal; and Döllinger in
fact claims that there is no such court, since he subordinates both
Pope and Council alike to what he calls “science.”

In point of fact, however, even if not expressed in precisely those
words, these were Döllinger’s views years ago. We long since foresaw
what was coming, and just as it has come. It was then a matter of no
little surprise to us that his course caused no uneasiness even in
ecclesiastical circles; and that no importance was attached to the
remarkable revelations to which we now call attention, although the
circumstances attending and the persons concerned in them were
calculated to invest them with a character of the highest importance.     250
We have already referred to the revelations in question as throwing
light on the internal history of Bavaria, and on Döllinger’s dangerous
complication with certain tendencies of the late government; but we
must return to the subject, and treat it more particularly. We refer
especially to the academical oration held by Dr. Döllinger on the 13th
of March, 1864, on King Maximilian II.

In his oration, he happens to speak of the remarkable interest felt by
the deceased monarch in historical research, and reveals to the world
a very strange, “a more secret” motive for the royal interest. The
reader, to understand the full bearing of the history which we give
below entire on Döllinger himself, must bear in mind the peculiar
characteristics of a man who has lived more among his books than among
men. It would be hard for any one to be more subject to external
influences than Döllinger is, and, at the same time, to be less
conscious of their presence or effect. He unconsciously puts forth
to-day, as the result of his own experience, what he happened to hear
expressed yesterday by another. Döllinger is always the product of his
surroundings, and hence his change, as he lost his old friends, one
after another, by death or by alienation, and fell in almost
exclusively with the society of the so-called “Bernfenen.” This
explains also how it came to pass that many younger men, and the
members of the scientific guild--for example, his little
Mephistopheles, Huber--exercised so unwarranted and increasing an
influence over him. Bearing all this in mind, it is impossible to
overestimate the effects and influence of the overtures which King
Maximilian made to Dr. Döllinger. He was completely intoxicated by
them, and his new friends found means to prevent his return to his
sober senses. The impression made on Döllinger in the conference in
question must have been the more lasting, as Döllinger, the
acknowledged head of the Ultramontane party, could not have hoped to
stand any higher in his majesty’s favor than any other of that abused
class. To express the whole matter in a few words, we are convinced
that the careful observer will discover the later as opposed to the
earlier Döllinger in the following account, or in his cradle.

The following extract is from the oration above referred to:

“As I have permitted myself to refer to the deeper thoughts which
guided the king in his government, and especially in his attitude
towards science, I may also recall certain other communications which
I received from his own mouth. An upright, faithful Christian, he
believed in the lasting future of Christianity, and, therefore, could
not conceive that its divisions and the struggle of the different
confessions should continue for ever; that Christians should waste
their powers in mutual injury. The division, he was of opinion, had
had its time, and God had permitted it for some high purpose; and that
time, even where not entirely past, was near its end; and he believed
firmly that in spite of all polemical bitterness, in spite of the
sordid spirit of self which had intruded itself into the controversy,
the day of union for Christian nations would come, and the promise of
one fold and one shepherd be fulfilled. And the great ecclesiastical
bodies of the West being once reconciled and working with more than
redoubled intellectual vigor upon the Græco-Russian church, the latter
would not long resist the powerful magnetic influence of unity. Or, on
the other hand, when once the union of the Catholic and Anatolian         251
churches was effected, the various Protestant sects would be gradually
drawn into the current and meet their brethren.

“Naturally, however, the attention of the king was claimed in the
first instance by whatever could be looked upon as tending in a
proximate or remote degree to the reconciliation of the East, and
particularly of Germany. He saw that the future union could not be a
simple, unaccommodating mechanical coming together of the separated
confessions. Neither did he think for a moment of the absorption of
one church into another. It was necessary, he thought, that both
bodies should first undergo a purgative process, and that each should
acknowledge that it might receive, though, perhaps, in an unequal
degree, some good from the other; that each might help to free the
other from its peculiar defects and one-sidednesses, and supply what
was wanting in each other’s ecclesiastical and religious being; that
each might heal the other’s wounds; and that neither should be
required to surrender anything which its life and history had proved
to be a positive good. Under these conditions, sooner or later, the
process of reconciliation and of union would take place in the heart
of Europe, in Germany.

“Such nearly were the thoughts which the king developed to me in a
long conversation which I had with him, and which I never can forget.
I do not know how far Schelling’s ideas of an all-embracing church of
the future gave form and shape to the royal views. It is a matter of
fact, however, that that thinker had exerted a great influence on the
mind of the king long before his accession to the throne. At the same
time, the king saw that this idea of a future church entertained by
Leibnitz and by Germany’s greatest men was recognized as a necessity,
and confidently hoped for also by his eminent and enlightened kinsman,
King Frederick William the Fourth of Prussia. A German patriot, he saw
in this reunion the salvation of Germany; a Christian, he saw in it a
bulwark for the defence of the Christian faith, now so fiercely

“And here he believed his own Bavaria was called to take an active and
initiatory part, and the Bavarian king not only to point out the way
the country was to go, but to guide it in that way. It was not a
matter of mere chance the Frankish race, the numerically predominant
race in Bavaria, was about equally divided between the two
confessions, and that in no country, not even in Prussia, were the
local mixture and inter-relations of Protestants and Catholics so
intimate and extensive as in Bavaria.

“In the second place, as far as the king himself was concerned, he
could and it was his duty to do something to bring Germany a little
nearer to the desired goal. He had been obliged to establish a perfect
equality of rights and of political standing for the professors of
both confessions, to the end that no portion of the people might feel
oppressed, or grow embittered, or think themselves kept in the
background, for with such feelings on the part of any portion of the
nation, all coming together, all understanding, was impossible.

“And here he was of opinion science, and particularly historical
science, was called upon to accomplish much; for religion itself was
history, and only as a historical fact, and in accordance with the
rules of historical criticism, could religion be understood or
appreciated. In his own view, historical science was the kingdom in
which, in the words of the sacred writings, peace and justice would       252
kiss; for only through history, as established by the most thorough
research, could men know their own past and others’ past, their own
and others’ failings; through it only was there any hope of begetting
a conciliatory and pacificatory frame of mind.

“Thus the field of historical science seemed to the king like the
Truce of God in the middle ages, or like a sacred city in which those
elsewhere at variance found themselves at peace together; and, urged
on by the same desires, endeavored to slake their thirst at the same
fountain of truth, and grew into one communion.

“Out of the scientific fraternity of historians would one day proceed,
so he hoped, after the trammels of confessions had been done away
with, a higher union, embracing all historical, all religious truth, a
brotherly reconciliation, such as patriots and Christians alike hoped
and prayed for.”

All this Dr. Döllinger spoke with all the warmth of personal
conviction. Although the whole is evidently a thrust at the idea of a
confession and against the church as an organization, Döllinger does
not append one word of correction in the name of the church. We
cannot, however, help wondering that a critic so acute, a thinker so
profound, as Döllinger should have surrendered himself to such a
politico-religious system. It is easily seen that there are three
separate, and in part contradictory, ideas in the royal programme, and
all three have this in common, that they are totally irreconcilable
with the idea of a divinely instituted and saving church.

In the first place, there is mentioned St. John’s church of love,
Schelling’s church of the future, on which subject Döllinger was
otherwise perfectly innocent. An ideal which contemplative enthusiastic
characters like King William the Fourth might cherish, and which might
also claim a place in the thoughts of the Bavarian king, could
scarcely have much attraction for Döllinger. But it was otherwise with
the second idea which King Maximilian had elaborated, that is, with
the idea of a German national church; and, finally, with the third
idea, that of the absorption of all the confessions into a universal
republic of _savants_, and the church into a world-academy of
science. Here the thread of the supernatural is completely lost,
though, perchance, the king himself was not aware of it; for, is this
not the most utter rationalism?

If, now, we look at Döllinger’s declaration of the 28th of March, we
will find these two ideas standing out in bold relief. The odious
antithesis of Germanism and Romanism may indeed be in harmony with the
reigning political spirit; it certainly is incompatible with the idea
of the Catholic Church. Whoever presumes in the name of nationality to
speak of any member of the church as of the “Roman party,” either
knows not what he is doing or must wish the “German national church”
in schism. From this there is but one step, and that not a hard one
for the pride of intellect or the haughtiness of science, to the
position occupied by Döllinger in his declaration to the archbishop,
in which he places the scientific fraternity of historians as the
highest authority over the church, and makes it the court of final
appeal in matters of faith. And yet the learned gentleman, although he
signs himself only “a Christian,” will have us consider him a

It is impossible to look into the abyss into which this once clear
thinker has fallen without a feeling of terror. Is it not sufficient
to open the eyes of every one that the apostles of German Catholicism     253
and free religion, like a Heribert Rau and an Oswald, have again
called the attention of the public to their already published works as
an “interesting commentary on Dr. Döllinger’s protest”?

It is true that Döllinger has nothing in common with those men in his
views of his relations to God; but then we must remember these
gentlemen are only drawing their own consequences, and Döllinger has
lost all right to find fault with the consequences they draw.

The unwarranted introduction of nationalism into the idea of the
church was doubtless Döllinger’s first step downhill. This gained, the
disturbers of the peace of the church soon possessed themselves of the
whole man. There can be nothing more hostile to the real spirit of
Catholicism than this false principle of nationality; for the end of
the church, in a spiritual point of view, is to smooth away all
national differences, and bring the different nations into one fold.

To wish, at a time like the present, when the fanaticism of
nationality, if we may be allowed the expression, is tending to
alienate still more the peoples of different nations--to wish, we say,
at such a time to destroy the only tie that holds them together, is to
betray the wildest party fanaticism imaginable.

We can understand what the cry for a German national church means in
the mouths of those modern Neros, the liberalists--in the mouth of any
one else, we cannot understand it.

We know very well that Döllinger was very far from desiring a schism
when he spoke at the Linzer Catholic meeting in 1850, upon the subject
of the place of German nationalism in the church. It was somewhat
otherwise in his declarations in the Munich Conference in 1863. There
a turning-point was discoverable.

A short time previously, the at first purely scientific difference
with the “Roman party,” or neo-scholastics, had arisen. Döllinger had
roused the suspicions of these latter; but we feel certain that at
that time there were no grounds for their suspicions. He was, it was
plain, only a little too susceptible to the influences of a certain
kind of liberalism, and extraordinarily anxious to do away with any
suspicion of adhering to the Ultramontane party.

The danger practically and in point of fact began when he became
entangled in Bavarian politics, especially in what concerns the
question of the relations of science to ecclesiastical authority.
“German science” now became the focus in which the more or less
conscious tendencies of Döllinger were concentrated. It is in 1865
that we must place the real turning-point in Döllinger’s career.

About the end of the year 1861, the writer of these lines went to
Frankfort-on-the-Main. He visited Böhmer, and will never forget a
scene he witnessed on the occasion of that visit. The great historian
was sick at the time, fresh in mind, it is true, but in a repining
condition, and almost bitter. Our conversation turned on the condition
of the University of Munich under the _régime_ of the so-called
“Bernjungen.” Böhmer expressed great regret at what was going on in
Munich, but reserved the vials of his wrath for the celebrities of the
month of March previous. Especially, he made Döllinger responsible for
it that so favorable a time had not been used for the founding of a
historical school in the interests of the church. It was well known
that Dr. Döllinger had had many scholars during his long career as a
professor; but he had founded no school. It might be said, even, that
he did not leave a disciple after him. Whilst he expatiated in the        254
endless world of book in a manner hitherto unparalleled, perhaps it
became impossible for him to prepare the living materials which young
men needed, and lost the gift of sociability.

Böhmer became more and more aggravated as he proceeded, till, finally,
his anger culminated in the following anecdote: He said that, when
Döllinger visited Frankfort last, he had had a walk with him through
the city, and Döllinger had spoken to him about his literary plans.
He, Böhmer, remonstrated with him, and inquired why he did not fulfil
his older promises; why he did not continue his unfinished church
history. Whereupon Döllinger, stopping and swinging his cane, said
with a smile: “You see, I can’t do that; for now my researches have
brought me to such a pass that I cannot make the end of my history
tally with the beginning; the continuation of my church history would
be entirely Protestant.” I see Böhmer this moment before me with the
same grim visage which he wore as he closed this story with the words:
“_He--he_ said that!”

Still, in 1860, Döllinger’s great work, _Christianity and the Church
in the time of their Foundation_, appeared. Embracing the results of
the latest research, and written in the most charming manner, this
book touched and strengthened many a Catholic heart, as it did my own.
But Döllinger has made that same beautiful book a sad memorial of his
fall. He had written the book when he was sixty years of age, but
when, in 1868, the second edition of it appeared, it was discovered
that he had omitted some of the principal passages of the first
edition, bearing upon the promises to and the establishment of the
primacy; and what he had not omitted, he had changed in the interests
of liberalism, and all without giving any ground for the alterations,
without a single note even.

Döllinger has a wonderful memory for everything in the world of print,
but very little for what concerns his own person or his own acts. When
he wrote his declaration to the Archbishop of Munich, he seems to have
quite forgotten the intentional “corrections” of his celebrated work.
Otherwise, he would not have referred to the approval which it met
with from the whole of Catholic Germany, and raised the question,
Which text he meant--the true one of 1860, or the altered, not to say
the falsified, one of 1868? Moreover, he, as the inspirer of
_Janus_, recalled, in that last-named book, the little he had left in
the edition of 1868 favorable to the primacy, for the reason that it
“contradicted all opinions of the fathers, and the principles of
exegetical theology.” In other words, _Janus_ has completely and
flatly denied the primacy.

It is hard to calculate what a blessing Döllinger might have been the
means of to his contemporaries and to posterity, had he continued to
make the rich treasures of his knowledge accessible to Christendom as
he had done in his work of 1860. The Almighty, who had preserved him
upright during the wars and passions of these later years, would have
decreed him doubtless a rare old age had he remained true to his
resolution not to divide his powers, to live an unprejudiced votary of
science. It was to be otherwise. That book was the last fruit of the
professional activity of the historian. The historian was now to
become the bitter party-man, not to say the future Bavarian senator,
and, as a writer, a mere political pamphleteer. Here his career as a      255
man of science closes.

Late in the fall of 1861 appeared his work, _The Church and the
Churches, etc._ It was a kind of colossal apology for the two
well-known Odeon Lectures of the fifth and ninth of April of the same
year, on the temporal power of the popes. In these lectures Döllinger
has come forward in the _rôle_ of the politician--a _rôle_ which he
was never intended to play on account of his too great credulity.
Expressions had crept into these lectures so little savoring of piety,
so painful to Catholic hearts, that the worst was feared for Döllinger
in ecclesiastical circles. We also feared the consequences. Döllinger
himself was evidently staggered at the unexpected impression of his,
to say the least, unexplained appearance in such a character. The book
which followed, in other respects a wonder of historical information,
was nothing but a powerful effort to shield himself from the
consequences of this step.

The ideas expressed in the royal conversation above referred to are
here recognizable, more particularly in the introduction, as well as
the endeavor to harmonize them with the principles of the church. It
would not be very difficult to allay the doubts which Döllinger has
endeavored to awaken concerning the mediæval church and the Papacy in
his (or his amanuensis’s) letters on the council in the _Allgemeine
Zeitung_, and now in his “declaration,” from his own work of 1861. The
Encyclical, and particularly the doctrine of the Syllabus on the
relations of church and state, may be both explained and defended by
the assistance of the same book. Döllinger then knew very well how to
vindicate the true sense of certain decrees and bulls of the popes
issued while the mediæval relations of the church to the state were yet in
force; he well knew then how to separate what is transient from that
which is eternally true. If, at that time, any one had come to him to
tell him that Napoleon III. intended to take advantage of the Bull
“Cum ex apostolatus officio” against the Protestant princes of Germany
and Prussia, with what shouts of laughter would he not have received
him! Now he himself is guilty of just such an absurdity--and how grave
he is withal!

The question of the relations of science to church authority became
now in Bavaria a practical question, and Döllinger was called upon to
prove the strength of his principles by overt acts. One difference
followed another in that country, and Döllinger was as interested in
them as he could be in matters entirely personal to himself. Like a
general, he felt himself responsible for the result of all those
contests, and never thought of examining closely the claims of those
who crowded around him and offered him their services. In this way it
was that he became the protector of one so unworthy as Pichler against
the archiepiscopal ordinary. At this time, even, he had his passionate
turns, which gave rise to serious misgivings, but which he was sure to
regret himself before any length of time had expired.

At this period the episcopal conference at Fulda resolved to take
steps to revive action in the matter of the establishment of a “free
Catholic university.” Döllinger could see in this nothing but the
proof of a dark conspiracy against German science.

He was unable to see that the anti-ecclesiastical, not to say the
antichrist, spirit which had crept into the universities, was more
than even he would be willing to be accountable for were he the chief     256
pastor of a diocese.

The opinion expressed in an appeal to the Catholic ladies of Germany
on the subject of the higher schools, made him lose his patience
altogether. The outbreak of the Seminary question in Spiers was in his
view another attempt of those infected with the “Roman” spirit against
free German science, and it found him, even if not publicly, on the
side of the decided opponents of the bishop’s rightful claim in the

Very nearly at the same time, the then Bavarian minister of worship
made a report to the king on the occasion of a vacancy in the
theological faculty of Würzburg, in which he painted the clergy
educated in the German College at Rome in no flattering terms. An
accidental circumstance threw suspicion on Döllinger as the instigator
of it. The pamphlet “for the information of kings,” which appeared in
the beginning of 1866, represented Döllinger, although only under the
general name “of the Munich school,” as the real actor in the minister
of worship’s puppet-play. There was a report that in the Spiers
matter, speaking of the attitude of the bishops, he had said: “They
are attempting to misuse the king’s youth!” How much of this had its
foundation in truth, to what extent the statements of the pamphlet
were based on a change or mistake between the ministry and cabinet,
must remain undecided.

The pamphlet referred to created no small excitement, however; and,
precisely two years before the appearance of the notorious articles on
the Council, was exhaustively replied to in the _Allgemeine
Zeitung_. The style and other accidents would lead to suppose that
the “amanuensis,” since known more of, had here made his _début_. The
reply was not a refutation. It was made up of a series of
counter-complaints, and, with the exception of the attacks on the
Jesuits, the Roman party, and the boys’ seminaries, these articles
contain the kernel of the articles against the Council published two
years later. In spite of all this, however, Döllinger is represented
in these articles as of the same unaltered mind with other members of
the faculty, Haneberg and Reithmayer.

“If there was no ground of suspicion during all these long years, no
reason to believe that these men were hankering after dangerous
novelties, how comes it recently that such suspicions are aroused,
seeing that they have always been of the same mind?” It is now certain
that this unanimity has since ceased; and it is clear that Döllinger’s
monstrous accusation--“not a soul believes it”--must have been
unjustly brought by him against his colleagues. The articles also
quote the words of the Tübingen theologian: “The suspicion has spread
further--Döllinger and Michelis are no longer innocent.” What says the
Tübinger of the drifting of these two men to-day?

On the first of January, 1867, the Hohenlohe ministry took charge of
the ship of state.

It will not be claimed that Döllinger’s influence increased with the
accession of his old friend Prince Hohenlohe to the ministry; it
seemed more probable that the prince would have found the learned
professor a powerful obstacle in his way. The prince had formerly been
considered unexceptionable in his religious views and relations; but
in order to dissipate the bad odor in which he was in the highest
circles, suspected as he was of favoring Prussia, he knew no better
method than to encourage the superstitious fear of the Ultramontanes
and of the Jesuits which for twenty years had reigned within the walls    257
of the royal palace at Munich. This it was which had made Dr.
Döllinger so interesting a subject since he was regenerated from the
infection of Ultramontanism.

Countenanced by such a man, it was thought the discomfiting of the
“clerical party” would be a less dangerous operation than effecting it
by an unasked-for alliance with the party of progress.

This explains how Prince Hohenlohe, at the head of the foreign
department, was determined to serve Döllinger in every way possible
against the “Curia” and all matters related to it.

The infamous articles on the Council appeared in the _Allgemeine
Zeitung_ from the 10th to the 15th March, 1869, under an anonymous
name. Every effort was made to conceal the author, and even to mislead
the public as to who he was. The real author could not conceal himself
as far as we were concerned; but it required a long time to convince
the many, and great was the surprise of all unprejudiced minds at the

In the meantime, the preparation of the anonymous _Janus_ was
undertaken, and the circulatory dispatches of Prince Hohenlohe made
their appearance on the 9th of April, 1869, which, of course,
Döllinger could not well subscribe as their author. The council of
ministers, of course, was not consulted in the matter; and the
well-known five questions put by Prince Hohenlohe to the theological
faculties of Munich and Würzburg, concerning the future council, were
not whispered to the minister of foreign affairs by some secret agent.

In the name of the majority of the faculty of Munich, Döllinger was
called upon to answer his own questions. In contradistinction to the
clear and frank separate vote of Professors Schmid and Thalhofer, and
to the incisive opinion of the Würzburger faculty, that exposition was
but the unworthy production of a time-server. It was impossible for
any one to discover the real meaning of the opinion. The only thing
plainly discoverable was the ambiguity by which the author sought to
shield himself from trouble.

The absence of conviction in the whole affair is so evident that we
may well yet remain in doubt concerning the position of Döllinger’s
colleagues; and that in spite of the fact that the libellous articles
of the _Allgemeine Zeitung_ are to be found in the widespread pages of
_Janus_. We have already looked into this department of the literature
of our day; we have done so already. Not only was infallibility
condemned in it; but the primacy, at least since 845, is there made to
appear as an infinite series of deception and forgeries, or, as
_Janus_ expresses it, as a sickly, uncouth, consumptive-engendering
excrescence on the organism of the church. Not only was the future
council condemned before it was held, but the Council of Trent was
turned into “a should-be œcumenical council,” which was arbitrarily
governed by legates, in which the Roman party alone had sway, and
which, in a word, was nothing but an assemblage of fools and
pickpockets. This view of the Council of Trent Döllinger seems to have
forgotten, when he wrote his declaration of the 28th of March of the
present year, in which he refers to the Tridentine article of faith
which he had twice sworn to, and in which he leaves out the essential
part of the oath, namely, the promise to interpret the Holy Scripture
only “in the sense approved by Holy Mother Church.”                       258

The foreign office and its zealous co-operator, the learned professor,
now began their campaign against the Council. The reporter of the
Leipzig _Grenzboten_ of the 24th of June, 1870, thus expresses himself
on the subject: “The alarming circulatory dispatches of Prince
Hohenlohe have turned to political account the results obtained by
_Janus_, and introduced them into governmental and diplomatic
circles.” The Bavarian ambassador, a man of no distinction and one who
favored the “Curia,” was recalled and replaced by Count Tauffkirchen,
the most talented diplomatist at that time at the disposal of the

His operations in Rome were very influential; and if the matter
furnished by the events in the Council became immediately the subject
of discussion in the press and in the literature of the day, the
Bavarian Embassy is not entitled in the least to the merit of it. The
rest was accomplished by Döllinger, as is now well known, and by his
intimate young friend Lord Acton.

About the end of the year appeared the pamphlet, _Considerations for
the Bishops of the Council on the Question of Papal Infallibility_.
This time he appeared again anonymously, but without making any extra
effort to conceal himself as the author. A little later, he appeared
under his own name in the official organ of the new Catholic theology,
the _Allgemeine Zeitung_, in the “Declaration in the matter of the
address touching Papal Infallibility,” on the 19th January, 1870. From
this declaration, says the Lepzig correspondent more than once
referred to above, proceeded his agreement with the views of _Janus_.

The publication of his name was no sooner made than the party of
progress took it as a signal to make him their own entirely.

This had already been done in the press; now it was accomplished in
the House.

On the 7th of February, Dr. Völk, a deputy, seized the opportunity
presented by the debates on the “address” to drag Döllinger into the
field against the “patriotic” majority. He read the most objectionable
and most venomous parts of the “Considerations” and “Declaration,” and
imputed these views to the majority of the House as their own
opinions, endeavoring to drive them to declare themselves for
Döllinger and against the Pope and the Council. The “patriotic”
majority had taken care not to embitter the debates by introducing
questions ecclesiastical into them; but now a defence was called for.
The stenographic report describes the scenes, which were closed with
the following words from Deputy Törg:

“I have been on the most intimate terms with the gentleman whom Deputy
Völk so formally parades before the House, for years. I became
acquainted with him shortly after the time of the ‘genuflexion
question’ in Bavaria; and, surely, no one then imagined that a time
would come when Dr. Döllinger would be thus quoted before the whole
House by Dr. Völk. I consider it a terrible misfortune, and accept it
as such; yes, gentlemen, as a personal misfortune. Dr. Döllinger was
an authority for me; he is such no longer; for he has fallen the
victim of blind passion and lost the calmness necessary to the forming
of an opinion; and he is no longer in a condition to formulate a
dogmatic question as a theologian ought to be able to formulate one.”

But that is not what Döllinger wants. He now stands in dread of all       259
conscientious critics, his own fame for critical acumen being entirely

He makes the definition of Papal infallibility a monstrous bugbear,
and no remonstrance prevails to prevent his making the bugbear more
terrible to himself and others. The worst feature in the whole is his
passion against the temporal power. He sees nothing in his opponents
that is not criminal. They use the infallible Pope to depose the
monarchs who do not suit them, to absolve subjects from their oath of
fealty, to overthrow constitutions, to annihilate every right. Dr.
Döllinger endeavors by the most unqualified denunciation to tell the
new German Empire--elsewhere he always says that the doctrine was
never known in Germany: “I cannot dissemble that this doctrine, in
consequence of which the former German empire perished, in case it
should obtain sway among the Catholic portion of the German nations,
would sow the seeds of an incurable disease in the newly founded
German empire.”

But what now? As we have already pointed out, the matter did not turn
out as those interested wished it would.

It was expected that Döllinger’s influence would have carried the
greater part of the clergy and intimidated the bishops; thus it was
hoped without much danger would be obtained the object which, although
yet not clearly defined in every particular, embraced, at all events,
the annihilation of Ultramontanism, of the “clerical party,” and of
the Jesuits in Germany. It was hoped to accomplish all this without
the always, as was acknowledged, dangerous assistance of the party of
progress, through the mere weight of Döllinger’s name and influence.
But his name has not accomplished what was hoped it would. The
auxiliaries wished for did not come; the others who were not expected
came in crowds. Scarcely had the national liberals rested from other
arduous tasks than they enlisted under Döllinger’s standard for the
accomplishment of their next and greatest task, the destruction of
the Catholic Church in Germany. We are far from denying that at
first, under the pressure of slanders and denunciations, some
well-intentioned men were carried away. We have hopes for their
return, and do not wish to wound the feelings of any one. But when Dr.
Döllinger surveys the chaos of the “address,” and considers how it
would fare with him could he hear the confessions of all these
“Catholics,” I do believe he would blush at such adherents, for I do
not believe he has quite lost the power of distinguishing moral
turpidity from virtue.

He need not know the state of the consciences of his Munich colleagues
who signed the address, in which they hesitate not to give the lie to
the whole Catholic episcopate; he knows better than anybody how many
of them have a moral right to speak in the name of “Catholic

Viewing the matter in this light, we have in one way wondered at the
signing of many, in another way we have wondered at the signing of
only a few. And in the face of such phenomena, Dr. Döllinger desires a
church the duty of whose bishops it shall be simply to declare that
which all believers, represented by scientists, will have thought or
believed upon a question of the faith.

It is easy to say what the next thing sought by those who follow
behind Döllinger’s banner is. The police regulations required by the
government against the decrees of the Council are a matter of secondary
importance. And the great storm of an ovation given to Döllinger is       260
meant not so much for Döllinger himself as for its influence on the
king and his government.

The king must a second time be made to serve the cause of German
liberalism. We said it in the beginning: as soon as the little German
Empire is established, the party will want a “German National Church”
for their little empire. We did not think, indeed, that any attempt at
this would be made so soon; for, a year ago, men who knew what they
were talking about assured us that so long as the old king lived he
would not permit the peace of religion to be disturbed; but that it
would be otherwise with those who came after him. But now that the
king has become German Emperor, unanimous reports of the contrary come
to us. “The idea of the establishment of a German National Church is
taking deeper root, to all appearances, in the government circles.” So
a relatively unprejudiced Berlin correspondent lately reported. The
rest of the tale is told by the debates in the chamber of deputies.

The party are anxious to strike the iron while it is hot; not without
reason was the party battle-cry spoken during the war--all our noble
blood were shed in vain did not the stroke which freed us from France
sever the Catholics of Germany from Rome--“War against France and
against--Rome!” Even Dr. Michelis joined in the cry.

If it was very desirable that the Bavarian king should take the
initiative in the matter of the imperial title, it was also very
desirable that the first step for the establishment of the “German
National Church” should proceed from the palace at Munich.

The King of Bavaria was to be to the “new Luther” what Prince
Frederick of Saxony had been to Luther of old; and on that account, he
is promised the surname of the Wise. This is the meaning of the
infamous telegram of the tenth of March from Dresden--“him, the
enlightened thinker who publicly proclaims his dissatisfaction with
the dogma of Papal infallibility!” When the representatives of high
offices in Munich dare to set themselves up publicly as commanders in
the military ecclesiastical society, one need not be surprised at the
progressionist intrusive attempts, rashly sporting with the
monarchical principle itself. Thus only can we understand how any one
could be so bold as to encourage the clergy to fall by insinuating a
provision that no one might fear a material loss. Could the necessary
number of state-church servants have been found, the programme was
that the King of Bavaria should give the “German National Church” its
first ground in the Munich places of worship. We wish to be excused
from describing further the plan which finally would make true the
saying: “They wish to misuse the king’s youth.”

We are not deceived. Should this plan fail, another will be sought to
accomplish what is intended. Döllinger has been in relation with
Prussian diplomats since 1866. However, neither he nor the new German
Empire has the divine promise which the church has; and where the Pope
and the bishops are, there is the church.

Let all Catholics gather more closely yet about the centre of unity.
We can do no better service to the world. God will take care of the


                  A GHOST STORY OF THE REVOLUTION.                        261

We have not many haunted spots now in our Empire State, or even in
America, and very few genuine goblin stories, such as once upon a
time, told by the fireside, made one afraid to look behind him;
delightful old tales, implicitly believed in by narrator and
listeners, and casting over all a shadow of utter and indefinable
terror! Not that ghosts have ceased to come, but they are things of
course now, and their position with regard to mortals in the flesh is
entirely changed; the territory of spirit-land (at least a part of it)
has been annexed, we may say, to our free and independent thirty-seven
states; a regular intercourse has been opened; and, as the intangible
parties in the compact have frequent and passing invitations to make
earthly visits at certain specified periods, it is no more than civil
in them to wait until they are expected.

Now, in years gone by it was quite otherwise; so far from being
invited, they were universally shunned; man, woman, and child fled at
the slightest indication of their presence; and as for speech, it was
next to impossible for them to put in a single word before the
terror-stricken mortal had speeded away, far beyond all hearing. Not
much seemed the gain to either side by those interviews; occasionally
some rogue was known to disgorge his ill-gotten pelf in consequence of
the midnight apparitions of some phantom things, a warning to him to
mend his ways; or some timid heart perhaps grew faint, and before long
time ceased to beat, under the idea that it had received a
supernatural summons to the unseen world; but generally speaking, the
shock of an intense and overpowering affright was about all that
accrued to the sight-seer from the meeting--a terror so genuine that
he was able to impart it to many a circle of eager listeners for an
incredibly long period after the adventure.

But what attraction has modern America for sprites, spooks, brownies,
fairies, and all that dainty ethereal tribe that may be met in the Old
World? Or what, for the more solemn shadows that haunt dilapidated
galleries, in the tumble-down ruins of ancient transatlantic castles?
What homes have we for “elves and little people,” that dance for
years, yes for centuries, on the same greensward in the Highlands of
Scotland? Alas! in an incredibly short period grass here gives place
to wheatfields, and fairy rings would be disrespectfully ploughed up
and planted. Let any sociable _brownie_ plan a visit to old
friends, she would probably find the whole family, bag and baggage,
moved off to the far West, and only strangers round the hearthstone.
They love things old, and here all is new and cheerful under the
tireless march of improvement. We have no black forest, no

         “Castled crag of Drachenfels,”

but the primitive woodland yet clothes the mountain that “frowns o’er
the wide and winding” river.

The nearest approach to a haunted castle is to be seen sometimes in
travelling over the Western States. There, in some lonely inconvenient
spot which no prudent man would have chosen for a homestead, an
unfinished, overgrown, weakly-looking wooden house tells its story,       262
not of greatness gone by, but of greatness planned and never
accomplished--a pitiful comment on the uncertainty of human affairs!
It happens thus: Some settler, sadly miscalculating his resources,
projects a palace in the wilderness on a scale of city splendor; that
is, with parlor, dining-room, kitchen, bedrooms, and the little
elegances of pantries and closets. The sides are enclosed, the roof is
on, and the revenues he counted on as certain are not forthcoming.
Then do papered walls and panelled doors with brass knobs, and visions
of portico and piazza, all float away to the blue clouds; the hapless
dreamer fits up one corner room for the reception of his whole
household until he can find another _location_, and take a new start
in the search after fortune, and so abandons his rickety palace to the
lord of the soil. As the boards blacken in wind and storm, and one end
blows down perhaps in some rough northwester, it gains the name of
being haunted; and to ride past such a skeleton thing by moonlight or
in the dim twilight, with the utter desolation of all around, and the
yawning blackness of cavities which should have been doors and
windows, it requires no great stretch of imagination to picture an
unearthly head peeping out here and there. Very bold yeomen are known
to always whip their horses to a full gallop as they approach and pass
the fearful spot; and as for women and children, under that strange
fascination by which the supernatural repels and yet attracts, they
always gaze intently, and as surely “see something”!

Although goblin visits in our land are just now rather on the decline
(except in a regular business way), there was a time when strange
sights were seen and strange things happened; and, although it may
seem almost incredible, it is a fact well established in history that
it was generally to the Dutch settled here, to that clearheaded,
reasoning nation, so little likely to be deceived on any subject, that
most of these revelations were made.

This certainly ensures for the tales the firm belief of all mankind.
When an imaginative Hibernian or a lively, light-hearted Gaul
announces a vision, it must be taken with some little allowance for
flights of fancy, etc., etc.; but when a phlegmatic, cool-headed
Hollander declares he has seen a _spook_, you may believe as if it was
your own eyes.

For the precise period most prolific in signs, sights, and dreams, we
must go back to the early days of our state, yet not to the
_first_ settlers. _Their_ troubles, so numerous that it is scarcely
possible to number them, had their origin in things tangible; and so
closely did these troubles press daily on all sides, that the thoughts
of the first colonists were entirely engrossed by the things of earth.
To such a point did this downward tendency reach, that they seemed at
times in danger of relapsing into heathendom, as may be seen from the
reports sent back to Amsterdam, and yet extant among colonial papers,
that they possessed neither school-houses nor churches. They did
possess, however, three unfailing sources of annoyances and danger--an
Indian warfare, neighbors on their eastern boundary of unparalleled
audacity, and domestic bickerings in the perpetual strife kept up
between Manhattan and Rensselaerwyck.

What might have happened if the Indians had been treated with common
justice and honesty can be now only conjecture; but their wrongs began
at the beginning. It is a dark spot on the glories of the adventurous     263
little yacht _Half-Moon_ that her very first track through the waters
of the magnificent Cahohatéa (now the Hudson) was marked with their
blood, causelessly and wantonly shed.

Hendrik Hudson and his crew landed, we are told, on the western bank
of the great bay, which was lined with “men, women, and children, by
whom they were kindly received, and presented with tobacco and dried
currants.”[68] A little further on were “very loving people and very
old men, by whom the Europeans were well used.” They brought in their
canoes to the voyagers all sorts of fruit and game, and on one
occasion of a visit made by white men to the shore they broke their
arrows and threw them in the fire to express their pacific intentions.
Yet despite all this, when the vessel had advanced only a few miles,
one of her crew fired and killed an Indian, without the least warning,
for attempting to steal a pillow and some old garments.[69] No
satisfaction was offered to the terrified savages, and they pushed off
for the shore in their canoes, but they vowed a vengeance, and they
kept the vow; so that, when some few years later one ship after
another brought the enterprising individuals who first unpacked their
household utensils and farm tools in the New World, they entered upon
a stormy existence already prepared for them. It was not a glimpse of
wraith or goblin that people feared to encounter in the lonely
by-path, but the stealthy tread and dark visage of some lurking
savage, ever watchful and merciless, ever close at hand when least
expected. How often in the silent night, in how many little hamlets,
in how many solitary huts, women and children listened in speechless
terror to the war-whoop, that fearful yell, and were made to feel
Indian retaliation for the evil doings of fathers and husbands! Small
time had they for ghostly fears. When the savages fled before European
firearms, it was only to return. More than two thousand of them
appeared in their canoes at one time before the little block-house at
Manhattan, because Hendrik von Dyke, with an imprudence and wickedness
perfectly disgraceful in a mynheer, had killed a squaw for stealing
apples in his orchard. His orchard was on the present site of Rector

But, though the Dutch colonists were generally at fault in provoking
contention, they were also valiant, after some preparation, to meet
it. When Claes Smit was ruthlessly murdered by the natives, some time
about 1642, and they refused either to give up or punish his murderer
because he had fled and could not be found, the colonists consented to
march to battle,

     “provided the director himself (Von Kieft) accompanied them
     to prevent disorder, also that he furnish, in addition to
     powder and ball, provision necessary for the expedition,
     such as _bread and butter_, and appoint a steward to
     take charge of the same, so that all waste be prevented.

     “If any person require anything more than this _bread and
     butter_, he to provide himself therewith.”[70]

Finally, however, gunpowder prevailed; and the aborigines retreated to
forests beyond the reach of the _pale-faces_; schoolmasters and
ministers had been sent over from Holland, and the inhabitants of
Manhattan Island, as well as the other little settlements up the
river, began to live a more spiritual life, and to gather around them     264
by degrees all that troop of unearthly beings well-known in the mother
country. Little children were encouraged to be good and expect Santa
Klaus, and bad ones were no longer frightened into propriety with the
threat of being devoured by some hideous Waranancongyn with tomahawk
and scalping-knife.

One of the spots first renowned for ghostly adventures was a pleasant
little valleylike place, on the northern limits of the town, called
Medge Padje (now Maiden Lane), where a clear stream ran between grassy
banks, so gentle and noiseless that it carried the gazer’s heart
back--far back over the ocean to the canals of Faderlandt, and was a
perfect relief from the lashing waves of the great North River.
Hither, on pleasant summer afternoons, many a gude vrow would turn her
steps with her troop of sturdy urchins, and, work in hand, knitting,
knitting, all the way. But they were always careful to return before
dark; for such fearful tales had been told, principally of a tall
woman in white who always vanished in the direction of Golden Hill
(now John Street), that no one cared to make her acquaintance.

Long years after this, when the palisades marking the extent of the
city had been removed as far north as what is now Warren Street, and a
field of barley flourished on the Heerewegh (now Broadway), somewhat
about the present City Hall, we again hear of the same apparition. The
Rev. John Kimball, passing along the little stream rather late at
night, heard steps, and, looking behind him, saw the spectre; of
course he fled. Doubtless she was the bearer of some important message
from the spirit-land which she was anxious to communicate, but, as no
one ever stopped to listen, what it was can now never be known.

Mr. Watson, in his _Annals of New York_, relates a story given by a
military gentleman of his own encounter with an apparition in that
same place. The captain declares, and doubtless believed, that he
bravely attacked it, and discovered only a mischievous mortal in
disguise; but it is hardly probable that any mortal in his senses
would be personating a ghost at midnight on haunted ground, so that
the tale, being rather one-sided evidence, is doubtful.

Another solitary place was Windmill Lane,[71] which led from Broadway
between Cortlandt and Liberty Streets down quite a steep hill, in a
northwest direction, to the river edge, where stood a windmill. There
was a time when this lane was the most northern street in the
settlement; then house after house began to be built around the old
mill, and the city crept up gradually in that direction. Among those
who made their homes there was a French lady, Madame Blonspeaux, who
had crossed the ocean to teach the rising generation all she
knew--French and embroidery. Two paths led to her establishment, one
through the Lane, the other through a wheatfield, where now is St.
Paul’s church, and both were beset with spectres. Alas for the scholar
kept in after the others were dismissed! Lightly did the offended
majesty of madame weigh in the balance compared to what might possibly
beleague the path homeward. There was a legend of a tall Indian who
was always digging about for his bow and arrows, and a little short
Dutchman about a foot high in breeches and cocked hat, who, the moment
he found them, sprang into sight from somewhere and kicked the dirt       265
over them, and the Indian began his search again![72]

But the section of country most famous for spectral manifestations was
the region about the Kaatskill Mountains. Darkly wooded glens, and
lonely streams, and deep ravines offered the most ample facilities for
all kinds of signs and wonders. Indeed, the Dutch settlers that dwelt
in that by-place of existence, on the little cleared spots that here
and there dotted the landscape, were so quiet and orderly, so far
removed from the commotions that agitated the river colonies, no
wonder ethereal beings found their companionship most congenial. These
settlers had removed thither originally from the neighborhood of Fort
Orange, and principally, nay, I may say solely, in disgust at the
general uproar and discomfort which invested everything in proximity
to that fort, under the joint dominion of the Patroon of
Rensselaerwyck (or his agent), who resided there, and Director-General
Petrus Stuyvesant, who fulminated his bulls from the south end of the
Hudson; the contemporary edicts of the rival parties being always
diametrically opposed to each other.

The truth is that, from the moment Director Stuyvesant landed at
Manhattan, appointed there by the States-General of the United
Netherlands, he had carried matters with such a high hand that
everything succumbed before him. The boldest spirits bent to his rule,
and (to continue the metaphor) he walked over them. His word was law
without reason or explanation. He had even been known to shorten a
troublesome state audience by tearing up the documents and dismissing
the deputation.

Thus ruled the governor at Manhattan; but when Brant Arent Van
Slechtenhorst was sent over from Holland as agent for the heir of the
last patroon--Johannes Van Rensselaer, a minor--Petrus Stuyvesant met
his match. Commander Slechtenhorst was in popular estimation “a person
of stubborn and headstrong temper.”[73]

When Stuyvesant directed Carl von Brugge to quarry stone and cut wood
for repairs on Fort Orange, nearly destroyed by a freshet, Brant dared
the deputy to touch stone or stick at his peril, either for
fortification or firewood; for the trees, root and branch, all
belonged to his employer the patroon! He further forbade any of the
inhabitants to aid them with horses, etc., while at the same time he
was building a house himself not a pistol-shot from the fort. The news
being carried to Manhattan, the director sent some soldiers to
demolish the offending house now being built, and arrest the offender.
This was more easily ordered than accomplished, so the soldiers held a
parley with him, and were cautioned, among other bits of good advice,
to take warning by one Jacob Jansen, who had not long before cut two
fir-trees--eight days after he was seized with his plunder on the
river by the patroon’s officer, and duly punished! with the stunning
point to the climax: “Can’t he do so now?” All this being duly
reported to the great director at Manhattan, it was deemed best to
seek supplies beyond the domain of Rensselaerwyck, “stones from the
mountains, rocks, and plains--timber from anywhere within the limits
of New Netherlands--to have a wagon made, and take the horses of Jonas
Bronck, who was in debt to the company,” and whose opinions on the        266
subject were of course of no consequence. As for pulling down the
house recently erected, Herr Van Slechtenhorst pointed to the fact
that Fort Orange stood on the very soil of his employer, and that it
was his intention at some leisure day to annihilate it. So went
matters, until at last, when Stuyvesant ordered a solemn fast, and Van
Slechtenhorst absolved all in his latitude from obedience, human
patience could stand it no longer, and the insulted autocrat rushed to
Albany in the swiftest sailing sloop that could be found; there, as
has been said, to meet his match.

But our business is not with these belligerents, but with those
peacefully disposed burghers, who had grown tired more and more, year
after year, with this turmoil, which seemed now to have reached its
height. Armed soldiers were in their midst (for seven had been sent up
from Manhattan), and when the talk was of razing houses, why, even the
neighboring Indians came crowding in to ask what the _Swannekins_ were

Happily another home opened to them, and very many packed up all their
worldly goods and migrated. This home was the region about the
Kaatskill. One part of the mission of Herr Van Slechtenhorst when sent
over the ocean was “to acquire by purchase the lands around Kaatskill
for the greater security of the colonie, as they were forming
companies to remove thither.”[74]

On the land thus obtained, they had nothing to fear from Indian
opposition, and the kind of domestic life they coveted is pictured in
a lease yet extant in the Van Rensselaer family, dated 1651, wherein
the tenant binds himself to “read a sermon or portion of Scripture
every Sunday and festival to the neighboring Christians, and to sing
hymns before and after prayer, after the custom of the Church of
Holland.” Years in that little nook of creation brought few great
changes; their habitations had come to be grouped together somewhat
town fashion, and were dignified by a name much too long, and
unpronounceable except by a Dutch tongue, but well loved because
traceable to Holland; and there life after life passed away like great
waves in a stream--one disappears and another takes its place.

Such were the mortal inhabitants of the place; but the invisible
portion of the community--their name was Legion! It seemed the very
place of refuge for all sorts of bodiless personages who had been
insulted and expelled from other places; indeed, if a census had been
taken, according to the old wives’ stories, their aggregate numbers
would have made up near half the population of the village.

In one portion of the spot which might truly have been called the
supernatural reservation was a deep ravine, which bore traces of
having once been the bed of a mountain stream. At this period (some
time before the old French war), its sole inhabitants were a morose,
ill-looking woodman and his aged mother, and their dwelling-place was
a miserable hut perched on rocks, and so hidden by gnarled and twisted
trees and a dense undergrowth of shrubs as to be almost invisible to
any but its occupants. Why they established themselves in that
uninviting place, or what were the events of their lives previous to
their appearance there, their unintelligible English failed to
communicate, nor was there aught in the sullen taciturnity of both of
them in the presence of a stranger, or in the loud and fearful            267
bickerings heard ofttimes in their hovel by the passer-by, that
created a desire to fathom the mystery. When the news arrived that
French and English had met, the outcasts in the glen, strange to say
were the only ones in the settlement whose fortunes seemed in any way
to be affected by it. Their disputes were heard louder and more
frequent than ever before, to end, alas! in a tragedy. The man, tired
perhaps of his monotonous existence, and hoping also to better his
fortunes, was desirous of joining the ranks of war, yet, feeling at
the same time the necessity of his support to his old mother, he
strove to wring from her a consent to his departure. It was sought in
vain. The aged woman, to her consciousness of utter helplessness,
added doubtless a natural desire for his safety, and consent was
withheld. Opposition goaded him, and in a moment of passion he struck
her lifeless to the ground.

The miserable parricide fled, and the hut fell in ruins. Time passed
on, the war was ended, and peace restored.

And now, when the tragedy of the glen had grown to be an old story,
only told by a winter evening’s fire, it began to be whispered--and it
fairly petrified the senses of every hearer--that Dark Rob, as he was
called, or his spectre, had returned to his old abode!

No one cared to investigate the matter very closely. A light was
certainly seen flickering in the ruined hovel, and a phantom-like
thing in human shape glided about the spot. No mortal would choose to
remain there alone, so it must be the shade of Dark Rob, on the
theatre of his unnatural crime!

Many an evil deed was related of him in this, his second sojourn in the
hut; but one of the most evil, because passing all comprehension, was
the strange influence he contrived to acquire by ways unknown over a
sturdy farmer named Jansen Van Dorp. How they first met was perfectly
inexplicable; for goblin Rob had never been visible in any of the
ordinary paths of the settlement, and, although Jans was one of the
very few who laughed to scorn the idea of a ghost, he would scarcely
venture in his sober senses to penetrate the dark shadows of the
haunted hovel uninvited. In whatever way it happened, events proved
their close intimacy; his steps were watched, and traced night after
night to the hut, where they held their unholy orgies.

As a matter of course, the worldly affairs of Jans Van Dorp became
disjointed things. His vrow had always borne a close resemblance to
the helpmate of Socrates, and it is not to be supposed that such
doings on the part of her truant spouse added to her sweetness of

The most irritating part was the sudden taciturn spirit which seemed
to possess the mynheer. Taunts, sneers, questions, reproaches, all
were in vain! This was both new and alarming, because on no previous
occasion had he ever been backward in contributing his share to the
Babel din of their wordy skirmishes. It confirmed, alas! her worst
suspicions, namely, that he was in toils and snares beyond all mortal
power of extrication.

Great light was thrown on the affair by a shrewd neighbor, Effie
Demson, who, having migrated to America from the Highlands of Scotland
(and by some odd chance wandered down to the Kaatskill), was allowed
to be especially versed in hobgoblin ethics. She affirmed that she had
often heard from reliable authority that, whenever a mortal is admitted   268
to the society of spirits, an oath of secrecy is imposed under a
penalty few would care to brave. She cited the cases of several
imprudent individuals who, having violated this compact, suffered
fearful consequences. One was Alice Pearson, of Byrehill, somewhere
about 1588. Having been introduced to the invisible world by a friend,
and joined them in “piping, mirth, and good cheer” (to use her own
words), she was warned that, if she ever related what she had seen,
“she should be martyred.” One day, when she began to speak of these
things, an unseen blow took away her breath and left an ugly mark on
her side; heedless of the warning, Alice continued her revelations
until she was burned as a witch, thus fulfilling her doom.[75] Every
one in the Highlands knew, too, the terrible visitation that had
lighted on one kirk for having pried into secrets merely to publish
them. Every one knew that he was a mere wandering gypsy in the
universe, and would be to the end of time.

Effie generally concluded her oracles with the remnant of an old song,
written about fairies particularly, but equally applicable to any
unearthlies. It was called

                        “_God a Mercy Will_.

     “To be sung or whistled to the tune of _Meadow Brow_ by the
     learned; by the unlearned, to the tune of _Fortune_.

                  “A tell-tale in their companie
                     They never could endure,
                   But whoso kept not secrecy
                     Their deed was punished sure.
                   It was a just and Christian deed
                     To pinch such black and blue.”
                   Etc., etc., etc.
                                             _Poetica Stromata._

As this bore the antique date of 1648, and was written by Corbet,
Bishop of Norwich, it was considered good authority for anything.

This, then, explained the unusual silence of Jans Van Dorp, and it
also half-reconciled his gude vrow to endure her unsatisfied
curiosity. To wonder and to be afflicted night after night by his
truant absence was bad enough, but to have seen him vanish in blue
smoke would have been worse.

Things were passing thus in that sequestered little spot, while the
great world without was agitated with mightier events--the opening
scenes of the Revolutionary war. It is doubtful whether the faint
rumors of it which penetrated the seclusion there would have excited
the least attention, except for the fact that it was the only earthly
topic on which Jans Van Dorp nowadays manifested the least interest.
Every Dutch villager, whose business led him to the great cities, was
questioned and cross-questioned on his return as to the precise state
of things, with a minuteness which would have done honor to that
renowned lawyer Heer Adrian Van der Donck, the first who landed in the
New Netherlands. The one little gray newspaper that arrived weekly,
and had hitherto circulated among his neighbors until it was quite
illegible, was now packed immediately in his great-coat pocket and
taken to his ghostly partner. All this was a perfect labyrinth of
mystery, and furnished texts for many a sage conjecture and dubious
shake of the head. Some hinted that Jans Van Dorp might mean to put in
execution the threat he had been so often heard to hurl at his
irritating helpmate when her vexatious volubility exceeded all bounds
of endurance--that he’d be off to some war. But time puts an end to
all things, although it does not always explain things to universal
satisfaction. What Jans or the goblin thought or meant can never be       269
fathomed, but some things are matters of history; and it is a
testified fact that the very moment this little dingy newspaper
brought tidings that the first cannons of battle had boomed, Jansen
Van Dorp started as if his doom was somehow connected with it. It was
a night, dark and stormy, but he seized his hat, and rushed from the
cheerful glow of his own home to the pitchy darkness without, and they
whispered he was bound to the haunted hovel! Too probable, for from
that hour neither Jans nor spectre was ever seen there more.

It should rather be said, never seen as mortal _could_ be seen, for by
many he was still considered an inhabitant of the settlement, although
lost for ever to his hapless vrow. He had visited her in dreams, and
warned her of something she could not exactly remember, but very
terrible, and given on these occasions such diverse accounts of
himself, it was hard to tell what to believe. To Effie he had
frequently presented himself. She had seen him in the coffee dregs, in
leaves at the bottom of her tea-cup, in a mirror which she had cut
triangular for that express purpose, and, finally, in a tremendous
thunder-storm, standing close beside her.

As he gave no sign on these occasions, her charitable conclusion was
that he had nothing very good to relate of himself.

Many months after this, one of the most intelligent mynheers of the
settlement, having been called by business to a far eastern city,
declared on his return that, among a troop of soldiers marching to the
frontiers, he had recognized Jans Van Dorp and Dark Rob; but, as he
failed in speaking to them, his assertion passed for nothing, and his
story was dismissed as mere moonshine, too absurd to be believed.

     [68] O’Callaghan. _Hist. New Neths._, vol. i. p. 37.

     [69] _Ibid._ vol. i. ch. 2.

     [70] O’Callaghan, _Hist._ vol. i. bk. iii. ch. 2.

     [71] Watson’s _Annals of New York_.

     [72] The writer of this possesses two pieces of
     embroidery done by one of madame’s pupils.

     [73] O’Callaghan, _Hist._, vol. ii. p. 72.

     [74] O’Callaghan, _Hist._, vol. ii. ch. iv.

     [75] _Trials from the Criminal Records of
     Scotland._ By R. Pitcairn, Esq.


                     IN THE GERMAN PARLIAMENT.


An apathetic calm generally succeeds to political agitation at the
close of legislative sessions. An exception to this rule prevails in
the German Empire, inasmuch as the attacks against the _Fraction du
Centre_, which began during the session, increased to an
actual storm at the close of the diet. Most of the foreign journals
have spoken of this phenomenon, but in so unsatisfactory a manner that
perhaps a more minute account of the movement will not be displeasing
to the readers of the _Revue Générale_.

I have already indicated in a general way, in an account of the
parties in the German Parliament, the attitude and tendency of the
Catholic party, or the so-called _Fraction du Centre_.

The bases upon which it is founded are as follows:

“_Justitia fundamentum regnorum._ The _Fraction au Centre_ in the         270
German Parliament limits its activity by the following principles:

“I. The fundamental characteristics of the empire as a confederation
(_Bundesstaat_) shall be maintained. Conformably to this principle,
all efforts shall be opposed that tend to modify the federal character
of the constitution of the empire, and the spontaneity and
independence of the several states in their interior affairs shall
only be sacrificed when the general interests evidently require it.

“II. The material and moral welfare of the popular classes shall be
urgently insisted upon. The civil and religious liberty of all the
subjects of the empire shall be secured by means of constitutional
guarantees, and religious associations, in particular, shall be
protected against legislative encroachments.

“III. The _Fraction_ weighs and forms resolutions in accordance with
these principles, upon all questions submitted to the deliberation of
the parliament, but without forbidding isolated members to vote in the
assembly contrary to the decisions of the _Fraction_.”

The _Fraction_ remained faithful to these principles during the
session of the parliament that has just closed. It avoided all extreme
views, and manifested no systematic hostility to the government.
Nevertheless, the very fact that it is composed of Catholics firmly
resolved to defend the rights and liberties of the church against
all attacks, and that these Catholics were elected from the
most prosperous and intelligent sections of Germany, where
pseudo-liberalism thought its rule immovably established, sufficed to
excite against the _Fraction_ a coalition of all who were opposed to
the church. Their invectives began with the debates on the address.
The form of address proposed by the national liberal party contained,
besides some expressions in praise of the historic views of the
adversaries of the Papacy, the following sentence: “The days of
interference with the national affairs of other kingdoms will, we
trust, never return under any pretext or under any form.” This
sentence, destructive of all national rights, was evidently aimed
against Rome, as was partly acknowledged: the Italian revolution was
not to be checked by diplomatic representations in the accomplishment
of its designs against the visible head of the church. Naturally, it
would not have occurred to any one to impose absolute passiveness on
the powerful German Empire in its relations with neighboring states.
The party of the _Centre_ drew up a counter-schedule, which did not
contain the proposition of absolute non-intervention we have just
referred to, but which was nevertheless in conformity with the address
of the liberals. This counter-schedule did not demand, either directly
or indirectly, any intervention in favor of the Pope: it contained
nothing that clashed either with the government or the other parties,
and consequently was not the object of criticism in any quarter. So
true is this, that the _Allgemeine Zeitung_ of Augsburg, the chief
organ of anti-religious liberalism, could not disguise its preference
for the schedule of the _Centre_ as to its substance as well as form.
Nevertheless, though the _Centre_ remained wholly on the defensive,
and its orators exhibited the greatest moderation, a real storm of
invectives was raised against them and the church by the journalists
of all the other parties and by the parliament. Even the so-called
conservatives took sides against the _Centre_, whose motion, thanks to
these outcries, only obtained sixty votes. A proposition made shortly     271
after by the _Centre_ in the interests of civil liberty met the same
fate. This proposition had for its object the admission of several
principles into the constitution of the German Empire which had been
sanctioned by the Prussian constitution. As these principles
guaranteed the independence of the church--the Evangelical as well as
the Catholic (Art. 15, Pruss. const.)--the proposition was opposed
with extreme bitterness, even by a large majority of the Catholic
deputies who did not belong to the _Fraction du Centre_. Among these
was Count de Frankenberg, of Silesia. This noble member had given his
electors a written promise to vote in accordance with the proposition
of the _Fraction du Centre_. But in the speech he made against it, he
declared that he did not consider the time chosen by the _Fraction_ as
opportune. In his ignorance of judicial things, he probably is not
familiar with the adage: _Quod sine die debetur, statim debetur_.

The _Fraction du Centre_ made no other independent motions during the
session that could incur any attacks. But the “clerical party” was
attacked the more vehemently at the elections, so the _Centre_ found
itself still exposed to a cross fire. The whole affair has been
related in the journals. We will confine ourselves to an incident that
gives a tolerably correct idea of the majority.

Before the election of Dr. Schüttinger, nominated from the district of
Bamberg, and belonging to the _Fraction du Centre_, the curate of a
small town within that district announced from the pulpit, after
divine service, that those of his parishioners who had confidence in
him could assemble at his house after church to learn which candidate
was preferable, according to his opinion. This invitation appeared to
the majority an intolerable infringement on electoral liberty as well
as an abuse of the pulpit, and the election of Dr. Schüttinger was
annulled. A new ballot gave the same candidate a thousand more votes
than at first. At the next session, the validity of this re-election
will be submitted to the decision of the parliament, and the question
arises if the majority will be fully satisfied respecting the
electoral liberty of the district of Bamberg. But the Belgian
Catholics know by long experience what their adversaries mean by
electoral manœuvres.

In all the occurrences we have referred to, the government showed
itself entirely passive, so there was no real conflict between it and
the party of the _Centre_. When the debate took place respecting
Alsace-Lorraine, our party proposed to ensure to those provinces the
most independent existence possible, and a separate constitution.
Prince Bismarck did not exactly agree with this, but his opinions
coincided far oftener with those of the deputies Windthorst and
Reichensperger than with those of the leaders of the other parties. On
the whole, no instance can be mentioned in which the _Fraction du
Centre_ is in flagrant hostility to that powerful statesman. It even
openly opposed an interpellation respecting the Roman question, in
order not to excite any irritating debates and appear suspicious of
the good intentions of the emperor and chancellor. In spite of this,
it was reported during the session that the _Fraction du Centre_ had
incurred the disapprobation of the chancellor of the empire. The
_Deutsche Reichscorrespondenz_, the organ of the so-called liberal
conservatives, gave some foundation to this report by pretending that
the Count de Tauffkirchen had, according to the instructions of Prince
Bismarck, accused the _Fraction du Centre_ to Cardinal Antonelli of       272
having assumed an attitude hostile to the government of the empire,
and that the cardinal had expressed his disapproval of this attitude
not only before the Count de Tauffkirchen, but in a letter addressed
to the leaders of the _Fraction_. This assertion being repeated in
several quarters, the said leaders denied it in the journals. Driven
to the wall, the _Deutsche Reichscorrespondenz_ then brought up the
case of the Count de Frankenberg already mentioned, and at last Prince
Bismarck himself declared the blame really proceeded from Cardinal
Antonelli. This induced the Bishop of Mayence to ascertain the correct
account of the matter from the cardinal. His eminence replied that it
had been incorrectly reported to him that the _Fraction du Centre_ had
insisted upon the Emperor of Germany’s intervention in favor of the
Pope, and that, under the existing circumstances, he had declared such
a step inopportune. At the same time, the cardinal assured the Bishop
of Mayence and his friends that he had a particular esteem for the
members of the _Fraction du Centre_ and its proclivities. Thus failed
the effort made at the court of Rome to bring discredit on the _Fraction_
among Catholics, for at once a great number of Catholics gave in their
full adhesion to the _Fraction_, and besought it to persevere
courageously. This effort had, moreover, a comic side, for until now
the _Fraction_ had been represented as the servile tool of the Roman
curia, whence it received its orders on all important questions.

No general interest would be felt in all these facts, if they were not
the clear prelude of an act the consequences of which cannot be
foreseen. It is not the acts of the _Fraction du Centre_ that provoke
the violent attacks against it: it is its very existence that is
considered a crime. Those hostile to the church had calculated,
without distinction of party, that the very first diet of the German
Empire would aim a blow at “Romanism” in Germany, on the ruins of
which would afterwards rise a national German church, that might
finally end in a cosmopolitan “Humanitarianism,” without dogmas,
without sacraments, and without altars--the very _beau idéal_ of
freemasonry. Everything, in fact, seemed propitious for the
realization of this hope. The two principal Catholic nations
successively conquered, the Roman race suffering from incessant
convulsions, the head of the Catholic Church a prisoner at the
Vatican, and, finally, a schism that seemed likely to arise on account
of the dogma of infallibility--all seemed to form a breach by which it
was hoped their opponents would be overcome. Only, as an ancient adage
says: “Man proposes, but God disposes!”

The election of the Prussian deputies and the members of the German
Parliament has already paralyzed the action of these regenerators of
humanity, by rousing the Catholics to an energy not easily to be
surmounted. The complete union of the representatives elected, and
their bold stand, showed it would be quite useless for the legislative
assemblies at Berlin to make any serious charge against Catholicism.
On the contrary, it was hoped at Berlin that the initiative would be
taken by Munich, where “the Luther of the nineteenth century” had
raised a standard of revolt against the Roman Pontificate. But Munich
was likewise under the influence of illusions. It was supposed that
Mgr. Hefele, the Bishop of Rothenberg, would add the sanction of          273
episcopal authority to the influence of the learned Professor
Döllinger, and thus sustain his course. It was still more certain that
a great number of the pupils of the theological seminaries would
respond to the appeal of Döllinger and his able adherents. Döllinger,
it may be remembered, had publicly declared that thousands of priests
thought exactly as he did.

But Bishop Hefele remained faithful to the Pope, and the German clergy
unanimously declared that Döllinger’s assertion was a calumny. The
King of Bavaria himself, who had given Döllinger so many proofs of his
esteem, hesitated a long time about giving him his support, because he
could not help seeing that the anti-ecclesiastical movement was
chiefly led by a political party whose efforts openly tended to
mediatize the reigning houses of the second and third ranks in order
to form a united and centralized Germany, in imitation of the empire
of Napoleon III. These efforts naturally met with the most favorable
concurrence on the part of the democrats; for an empire of this kind,
established on a broad and “liberal” basis, would lead, by a sort of
fatality, to a republic, especially if they first succeeded in doing
away with the religious and historic traditions.

Immediately after the close of the parliament, a fire was opened at
Berlin upon the “clericals,” and especially upon the _Fraction du
Centre_. The official journals did their best to open the way to
“modern progress” by removing all the obstacles that might impede it,
and to increase the diplomatic pressure that had so long been exerting
its influence on the Bavarian cabinet. The whole German press, with
the exception of a dozen journals, naturally joined in the chorus, and
then began an attack on the Catholics, the like of which had not been
witnessed since the Archbishop of Cologne was sent under guard to the
fortress of Minden, under the pretext that he had conspired with the
two revolutionary parties against the Prussian government.

The German Catholics are accustomed to these kinds of accusations,
which have passed through all possible variations. Thus, the Catholics
of the Rhenish provinces have been successively accused, according to
the circumstances of the moment, of plotting with France, Belgium,
Bavaria, and Austria, against Prussia, and of considering the Pope as
their legitimate sovereign. Foreigners can hardly credit what I am
obliged to relate here, and, if they should, it would excite their
risibility. Unfortunately, these absurdities have a serious side for
the Prussian Catholics. Independently of the circumstance that these
perfidious calumnies, systematically repeated, might pervert public
opinion in those sections of Germany where Protestantism prevails,
they serve as a pretext for practically refusing Catholics the open
equality which they should share with the adherents of other
religions. For example, all the higher offices of influence are, with
very rare exceptions, filled by Protestants, who, as a matter of
course, specially favor the interests of their co-religionists in
every way, and, so to speak, are obliged to do so, because genuine
Catholics are officially designated as unpatriotic. An exact list of
the functionaries of the German communes and government, drawn up with
reference to the religion of each one, would be a valuable statistic,
because it would incontestably establish how far the principle of
_suum cuique_, which constitutionally recognizes the equality of
Christian sects, is really applied. It is evident that such a report      274
will never be published or drawn up by the authorities, consequently
the formation of a private agency to effect such an object is an
urgent necessity. Perhaps this report might at last put an end to the
constantly repeated accusations of the base ingratitude of Catholics
against the Prussian government. The clear judgment of Frederick
William IV., and the constitutions that sprang from the events of
1848, guaranteed a liberty of action to the Catholic Church and its
organs which had not existed in any German state since the peace of
Westphalia. The Prussian Catholics displayed a lively gratitude for
this, and flattered themselves with the hope that several crying
injustices which weighed on them would be removed, especially in the
conferring of public offices and the nomination of professors at the
universities. This hope was then the more reasonable, because, in the
war against France, Catholics, as well as Protestants, shed their
blood on the battle-fields, and submitted to the heaviest
requisitions. The religious orders particularly signalized themselves
by their services, as the recently published report of the Knights of
Malta (Catholics) prove. Unfortunately, this hope has already given
place to serious preoccupation.

Prince Bismarck appears no longer able to endure repose. Having
vanquished our foreign enemies, he seems to aim, unless all
appearances deceive us, at making adversaries of the Catholics of
Germany and causing them to feel the weight of his hand. Perhaps he is
influenced by the consideration that military unity, to be on a solid
basis, should be founded on, or crowned by, political and religious
unity. At all events, this is the opinion of the liberal party, whose
course involuntarily recalls the expression of Tacitus, “_Ruere in
servitium_;” whereas, while M. de Bismarck was rising to power, they
abused him beyond all bounds. These worshippers of success have for
allies the Catholics who are not willing to submit to the decrees of
the Council of the Vatican. In the jargon of the liberals, these
Neo-Protestants are designated as old Catholics, while the immense
majority of Catholics who now, as formerly, consider the authority of
the Pope and bishops in religious things as higher than that of
certain professors, are styled Neo-Catholics, absolutely as if they
had abandoned the faith of the church. A foreigner would find it
difficult to understand how it is possible to give a completely
opposite meaning to the real signification of a word, and this in a
country like Germany, which prides itself on its intelligence.

But it is not the anti-religious journals alone that take this
liberty. M. de Mühler himself, the Prussian minister of the public
worship, treats the Catholics, who remain faithful to the decrees of
the Pope and bishops as rebels to the government. Immediately after
the suspension of the council, he took under his protection the
professors, even those who were priests, who refused to submit to the
decisions of the council and the bishops, and encouraged them in their
revolt against ecclesiastical authority. Recently, _à propos_ of the
affair of the Bishop of Ermland, he went so far as to submit to the
ministry of Prussia, composed exclusively of Protestants, a resolution
to ascertain what Catholics should be considered as orthodox, and he
ordered a priest named Wollmann, who had been excluded from the fold
of the church by major excommunication, to retain his professorship as
religious instructor in the Catholic college of Braunsberg. The
students, unwilling to receive religious instruction from a fallen
priest, left the college. They were thus obliged to give up most of       275
their studies, as there is no other establishment of the kind at
Braunsberg. It should also be remarked that the College of Braunsberg
was founded by a bishop and sustained by Catholic foundations. In
Silesia, another priest named Kaminski, likewise excommunicated, was
appointed to a church that he might celebrate the divine service for
those who protested against the Council of the Vatican. In a word,
every where there is any reason, or even a pretext, the episcopal
authority is sacrificed to those who refuse them the obedience
solemnly sworn to them, or become unfaithful to the church by calling
the episcopal crosier the _bâton_ of a police officer. On all
sides were declarations, more and more threatening, that an end must
be made of “Romanism,” that German science should take the place of
idolatrous papistry, and the echo of this cry is to be found in the
papers that seek their inspiration from the ministerial bureaux.

But in spite of the great power of the Prussian government, the
centralists, to their severe mortification, were doubtful about
succeeding in fully organizing a persecution against the Catholics
unless the other German governments, or at least the most important of
them, declare war against the church. The Würtemberg government was so
wise as to declare from the first that it would ignore the decisions
of the Council of the Vatican as long as no one was influenced by it
against the laws and constitution of the kingdom. As this evidently
would never be the case, the Würtemberg ministry, if the national
liberals who have just begun an outcry in the assembly of
representations at Stuttgart do not impose a different policy on them,
will consequently remain strictly passive with respect to the church,
as is the case in Belgium, Holland, England, the United States, and
every country where genuine liberty prevails. The statesmen who govern
those countries do not allow their slumbers to be disturbed by the
decrees of the Council of the Vatican, and deem it beneath their
dignity to regard them as a pretext to form a kind of Cæsaro-papism.

As we have remarked, the course of the Bavarian government in the
ulterior development of this agitation, will be of great importance.
The pressure brought to bear on that government by Prussia and all the
parties inimical to the church has led to the retirement of Count
Bray, whose devotedness to the church is well-known. Nevertheless, the
king has not fully decided to create, by an open rupture with the
religious authorities, unforeseen complications in his kingdom,
already so shaken, and to recompense by moral violence the fidelity of
those of his subjects who have shown themselves the most devoted
partisans of the dynasty of Wittelsbach. This question, so painful for
the majority of Bavarians, will be doubtless decided before this
article is published.

Having given a general outline of the present state of affairs, I am
led to ask myself what, before the end of the year, will be the stand
of the Catholic representatives who are still faithful to the church
in the legislative assemblies of Prussia and the German empire. The
reports of those deputies to their electors appear to me adapted to
strengthen them in their resolution to continue to struggle
courageously against the supremacy of the state as well as against
revolutionary absolution, and to remain defenders of the church and of
all constitutional rights against the false apostles of liberty and an
arbitrary ministry. At all events, I imagine these deputies will smile    276
with pity when they hear themselves styled unpatriotic by some parties
in imitation of a part of the journals hostile to the church, or even
accused of conspiring with foreigners or the _Internationale_. Some
papers, in fact, have not shrunk from the ridicule attached to such
foolish accusations. Does not this having to resort to such
imputations prove the want of any serious charge against the members
of the _Centre_? They are evidently not credited by those who make use
of them, nor is any attempt made to convince others of their truth.

The members of the _Fraction du Centre_ figure, for the most part,
among the notabilities of their districts. Many of them have occupied
or occupy some public office with honor: and several have, for many
years, showed their constant zeal in the old Prussian house of
legislation, where they had a seat, and gave their devoted support to
the government in the crisis of the year 1848 and the following year,
often at the expense of their popularity. They were often known to
defend the authorities against the attacks of those who are now
endeavoring to excite the government against them.

In support of what I have just stated, it is sufficient to recall the
names of those whom the confidence of their colleagues chose as a
committee of the _Fraction du Centre_ in the German parliament
and the Prussian house of representatives. I will mention M. de
Savigny, the son of the illustrious jurisconsult so well-known
throughout the whole world, who was formerly Prussian minister at
Brussels, and latterly the representative of the King of Prussia at
the Diet of Frankfort; M. Windthorst, who was president of the house
of representatives in Hanover, and twice minister of justice in that
kingdom; the Baron d’Arétin, the vice-president of the upper house in
the kingdom of Bavaria; M. de Mallinkrodt, the counsellor of the
Prussian regency; the Prince de Loewenstein; the Count de
Landsberg-Velen, a hereditary member of the Prussian house of lords,
etc. Perhaps I may be permitted to mention also my brother, a
counsellor of the Prussian Court of Cassation, who was one of the most
active leaders of the conservative party when the government was the
object of the most violent attacks.[76]

He who consecrates his time and strength to the cause of justice and
religious liberty, or uses them in the arena of political combat,
should not expect to reap any gratitude, but the leaders of the
_Centre_ and their friends could not foresee that they would be
exposed to the calumnies I have alluded to. The only appreciable
grievance uttered against the Hanoverian and Bavarian members of their
_Fraction_ is, that the former disapproved of the annexation of their
country to Prussia, and the latter used its influence to prevent
Bavaria from joining the new German Empire. But these deputies have
stated publicly that, these measures having been decided by vote, they
were ready not only to fall in with the new order of things, but to
endeavor to strengthen it, which cannot be the case if the national
liberal party is not opposed, the evident tendency of which is not of a
nature to fortify the constitution of the empire, being directed          277
against the federative principle, which is the fundamental
characteristic of this constitution. No one has a right to suspect the
statements and character of these men who merit the esteem of all
honorable people for having defended in a purely conservative sense,
and by all legal means, the traditions of their ancestors, to which
they remain faithful, and which they wish to maintain as long as their
duty evidently requires it.

To the _Fraction du Centre_ in the German Parliament belongs also M.
Kraetzig, the leader of the Catholic department of the ministry of
public worship, which has just been dissolved. This division, composed
of three counsellors belonging to the Catholic faith, was organized by
Frederick William IV. with the benevolent intention of giving the
Catholics of Prussia a sort of guarantee for the suitable
administration of the funds for public worship: it was not wished that
such matters should be decided by a Protestant government without at
least listening to the advice of the Catholic functionaries. (The
leader of the Catholic department of public worship had only a
consultative voice.) The existence of this division was a pledge to
the Catholics, being an assurance that their religious interests would
never fall into hostile or indifferent hands. If we except the Prince
de Hohenzollern, no Catholic ever had a seat in the ministerial
council, and especially no Catholic was ever appointed minister of
public instruction. The suppression of this division, decreed on the
eighth of last July, is the more serious a symptom that it has been
applauded by the journals opposed to the church, and with a joy equal
to that manifested at the measures taken in Alsace against the brothers
devoted to instruction and against the Catholic press. The party of
the _Centre_ will naturally oppose with all its might the current of
opinion which these acts prove to exist in the region of power. Its
voice, it is true, will be stifled by the majority, but it will not be
raised the less energetically for liberty and justice, with the hope
of seeing a better day dawn, and, whatever the event, with the
conviction of having fulfilled an obligation of conscience not only
toward the church, but to the state.

The hope of soon seeing the clouds disperse that have been
accumulating of late around Germany in so unexpected a manner is
founded on the political prudence, the experience, and the opinions of
the Emperor William. It is not possible for this monarch crowned with
laurels, after having established peace with foreign powers through
the bravery and fidelity of the _whole_ German nation, to authorize
the persecution of millions of Germans on account of their faith, and
consent to sacrifice the national peace--the peace which is especially
due to his royal brother, whose memory is still blessed by Catholics.
There is no doubt but the appeals of the Catholic population will be
heard and listened to, as soon as they reach the foot of the throne.
The statesman who, in such an unparalleled manner, has been so highly
exalted to the very steps of that throne, and whose celebrated name is
displayed, without his consent I am persuaded, on the standard of the
enemies of the church, cannot be ignorant that, when these troubles
shall have assumed more formidable proportions, it will be more
difficult to overcome moral resistance than to triumph over physical
obstacles, and that measures of policy will be powerless against the
former. He will hardly consider it chivalric; with all the enormous       278
material resources of the state at his disposal, to enter into a
combat against people who can and will only oppose him passively, as
is suitable in the defence of a cause which represents the most
powerful interests of humanity.

But perhaps all these hopes are illusory; perhaps we are about to see
in our Fatherland the beginning of a sad and fruitless struggle, such
as has so exhausted the strength of other countries by giving a free
course to the most dangerous passions. In this case the Catholics of
Germany should prepare themselves to endure a long succession of
contradictions, for their moral courage will be severely tried. They
will have to make sacrifices of all kinds for their faith, recalling
the precept of the Gospel that commands us not only to render to Cæsar
the things that are Cæsar’s, but also to God the things that are
God’s, whatever may happen, whatever may be the consequence of such a
struggle, the church of God, which has always been victorious through
patience, will never yield either under assaults of unbelief or the
attacks of a false science, that in its pride seems to declare anew:
_Eritis sicut Deus_. Truth is great, and it will prevail: _Magna est
veritas et prævalebit_.

                                                   A. REICHENSPERGER.
COLOGNE, Aug., 1871.

     [76] The modesty of the eminent author of this
     article did not permit him to mention his own name among the
     most illustrious members of the _Fraction du Centre_. It
     would be ungrateful not to supply this omission by adding to
     the valiant champions enumerated above the man whose
     multiplied labors, marked by his superior intelligence and
     ardor of feeling, are at once an honor to Germany and the
     church.--(_Note of the Editor._)


                           THE MOUNTAIN.

              The mountain’s sides are green anear,
                In clouds is lost its snow;
              And he who climbs that Alpine height
                Shall earth and heaven know.
              Lo! like a temple to the skies,
              For toil, for prayer, for sacrifice,
              Its green and snowy heights arise.

              A thousand pilgrims wander up
                To yonder blue abode,
              And some are lost, and some are slain,
                Or robbed upon the road.
              Far up the holy hermits dwell,
              And sounds the monastery bell
              The safe and ancient way to tell.

              And they who mount that highest steep
                Are tired and sad and poor,
              But lo! a starry house is there,
                And angels at the door.
              Rich joy for poverty and pain
              They give, that summit to attain:
              All earth they leave all heaven to gain.


                    COLOR--ITS POETRY AND PROSE.                          279

The three primary colors, according to the latest conclusions of
science, are _red_, _green_, and _blue_.

Oersted, in one of the chapters of his _Soul in Nature_, gives us a
little diagram to show how the _complementary_ and _characteristic_
combinations of colors are produced.


The colors opposite in the figure complete each other in white, hence
are called complementary colors--red and green, orange and blue,
yellow and violet. These are the harmonious colors.

Two colors, between which there is only one intermediate color,
constitute characteristic combinations of color, as Goethe calls
them--for instance, red and yellow, yellow and blue, blue and red--and
are the combinations most common in uniforms.

In regard to the symbolism of colors, Oersted gives the following

White fitly typifies _innocence_; the purity of snow and summer
clouds, and all the analogies of nature, suggesting and completing its
significance. Black, which, as the withdrawal of light, denotes loss
of life-giving power, as in night, and to which is added in the
storm-cloud unwonted gloom and desolation, stands appropriately for
the color of mourning. Red is the color of love, from the hue of the
blood, to which is united the idea of the heart, heat, and intensity
of life. Yellow denotes falsehood, as indicating the deceitfulness of
that which shines, also as the color which, when it departs from
purity, soonest becomes disagreeable. Green symbolizes hope, the green
of spring in nature giving token of the fruition of summer. “If we
consider also,” says Oersted, “the satisfaction with which the eye can
rest on it, we should call it the color of trust. Blue,” he adds, “is
called the color of fidelity, but since faith, hope, and love are so
frequently named together, and the two last each has its symbolical
color, we might assume that one of the colors belonged to this noble
quality. It is evident that blue, since it indicates distance, vacuity
from matter, therefore the immaterial is suitable as a symbol of
faith. It is the color of the sky also, and this leads us away from
the earthly. Then the repose in blue, and the feeling that of all
colors it is the least splendid, with the exception of violet, which,
when unmingled with red, really the violet of light, is so feeble, and
has in it so little power, that it is not much considered. Goethe says
that blue is a ‘_stimulating negation_.’ We learn from natural science
that blue united with violet is reflected back every time that light
passes through a less occupied space, namely, a vacuum, hence Goethe’s
expression. Violet and blue also indicate darkness, since they are the
colors which have the least light in them, and the pigments which they
represent are easiest converted into black.

Faith, which looks up out of the blackness and shadow of death into       280
the full-orbed splendor of the sun of righteousness, may not
inappropriately take for its symbol the “stimulating negation” of the

Thus do the three primary colors, blue, green, and red, represent the
triad of Christian graces, the primary virtues of the Christian
life--faith, hope, and charity, or love.

But leaving the poetry of color, we come to the subject of its place
and function as it imprints itself on the myriad forms of the organic
world. The question has been asked, Are all these tints of nature in
the flower and shrub, the gorgeous plumage of the bird, only meant to
please the eye of man and to gratify the artistic sense? Is there a
deeper, subtler purpose running through all this apparently wanton
pageantry, aside from the delight which it affords the mind of man,
and looking only to the perfecting and preservation of the organism

A utilitarian age has answered in the affirmative, and the researches
of Darwin, Wallace, and others are daily opening new vistas into this
interesting field of inquiry.

Darwin was the first to establish the fact that the bright coloring of
flowers is for the purpose of attracting insects in order to
accomplish their fertilization, and deduces the general rule that all
flowers fertilized by the wind are of dull and inconspicuous colors.
In the animal kingdom the principle of assimilation guides and
modifies coloring in conformity with surrounding nature, and it is,
therefore, to a great extent, protective.

The lion inhabiting the desert is of the color of the sands, so as
hardly to be distinguished at a short distance. The leopard lives in
jungles, and the vertical stripes on its body harmonize admirably with
the vertical reeds of its tangled lair, and completely conceal it from

In arctic regions, white is the prevailing color, as here reign
perpetual snows; therefore, it is that the bear is only found
_white_ in this part of the globe.

The curious fact that among birds the female is usually of a dull
neutral tint, while the male monopolizes the bright colors, is
accounted for on the principle of protective coloring, the female
needing the obscurity afforded her by her sober plumage. When there is
an exception to this rule, the protection is afforded in some other
way. And this leads us to the subject of _birds’ nests_.

Wallace, in a chapter on the theory of birds’ nests, divides them into
two classes, those in which the eggs are protected by the shape or
position of the nest, and those in which they are left exposed to
view. He then gives the following law: “That, when both sexes are of
strikingly gay and conspicuous colors, the nest is of the first class,
or so as to conceal the sitting bird; while, whenever there is a
striking contrast of colors, the male being gay and conspicuous, the
female dull and obscure, the nest is open and the sitting bird exposed
to view.”

In connection with the subject of protective coloring, the phenomenon
of _mimicry_ is not the least curious. Wallace gives several instances
of butterflies, moths, snakes, etc., where the coloring of protected
families is imitated by weak and unprotected ones not in any way
allied to them. A large and bright-colored butterfly, the heliconidæ
of South America, which is protected by a disagreeable quality
affecting its taste, thus rendering it secure from insect-eating
birds, is imitated by a smaller and eatable family, resembling it so
completely as to be quite indistinguishable by its enemies from the       281
former. Thus it is protected and enabled to perpetuate itself by
borrowing the colors of its secure and powerful neighbor.

The elaps among venomous snakes is another instance where protection
is afforded through mimicry to a harmless snake that would otherwise
be defenceless. The elaps and the species that copy its coloring are
found only in tropical America, and are peculiar as being the only
snakes marked in the same manner by red, black, and yellow rings.


                         NEW PUBLICATIONS.

    Edited by the Rev. Marcus Dods, M.A. Vols. I. and II. The City of
    God. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark. For sale by the Catholic Publication
    Society, New York. 1871.

The Messrs. Clark, of Edinburgh, are well known and honorably
distinguished among publishers for the works of a high class of
scientific and literary worth in sacred literature which they are
regularly bringing out in the best style of the typographic art.
Besides their series of works by the most eminent German Protestant
theologians of the orthodox school, some of which are really valuable
to the Catholic student, they are issuing a set of translations of the
Ante-Nicene Fathers, and have now commenced a series of translations
from St. Augustine which they design to extend to sixteen or eighteen
volumes. We cannot sufficiently rejoice in the publication of these
patristic works. Nothing can produce an equally powerful impression in
favor of the Catholic Church on serious and educated minds with the
perusal of numerous and extensive works translated from the early
Christian writers. The two volumes before us are, in every sense of
the word, superb. The editor has prefaced them by an introduction,
whose style reminds us of Macaulay--while its matter is excellent,
interesting, and in all respects unexceptionable--in which he gives an
account of the nature and the circumstances of the great work of St.
Augustine, and of the various judgments of eminent scholars upon it.
So far as a merely cursory glance can warrant us in judging of the
merit of the translation, it appears to us that the extremely
difficult task of rendering the Latin accurately into good English has
been successfully accomplished. The work itself has been considered by
some eminent scholars as one of the great masterpieces of human
genius. It is the first great work on the philosophy of history which
was ever written. It was the fruit of the latest and most mature
period of the great doctor’s life. Its plan embraces a comprehensive
defence of Christianity against the objections of the Roman statesmen
and philosophers of the fifth century. A vast number of interesting
topics are treated in it, so that, apart from the philosophical value
which it possesses, it is most interesting and curious as a museum of
antiquities from the epoch when paganism was passing away to give
place to Christianity. It is to be hoped that Catholics as well as
Protestants will patronize the truly noble and useful undertaking of
the Messrs. Clark and their literary _collaborateurs_, to enrich our      282
English libraries with these splendid patristic translations.

A Life of St. Augustine is also promised to accompany the selections
from his writings. From this we can scarcely expect as much
satisfaction as from the other parts of the undertaking. The theology
and opinions of the writer must unavoidably prevent him from
understanding and correctly representing a Catholic bishop and doctor,
and giving a perfectly complete and correct account of the state of
the church during the period in which he lived. No one but a Catholic
can achieve this task with success, although a Protestant who is
sufficiently learned, accurate, and skilled in the art of composition,
may make a perfectly satisfactory translation of Catholic works. It
were much to be desired that some competent Catholic scholar would
give us a biography of St. Augustine so complete and perfect that it
would supplant all others, and take rank as the standard history of
his life and times.

  LIGHT IN DARKNESS. A Treatise on the Obscure Night of the Soul. By
    the Rev. A. F. Hewit, of the Congregation of St. Paul. New York:
    Catholic Publication Society. 1871. Pp. 160.

This is a very small volume in bulk, and of very modest pretensions,
but of great merit, and treats with much truth and justice a very
important subject. It belongs to what is called _Mystic Theology_, and
gives us in a small compass the simpler elements of the science of the
saints, and cannot fail to interest all those who are entering upon a
life of Christian perfection, whether in religion or in the world. The
“obscure night of the soul,” as St. John of the Cross calls it, is
experienced in some degree by all whom the Holy Spirit is conducting
through purification, not to be effected without pain and sorrow, to
the highest and closest union with God possible while we are still in
the flesh. It is a deprivation of all sensible sweetness in devotion,
a desolation, a deadness of all but the very highest faculties of the
soul, in which all is dry and hard, and the soul discerns not a ray of
light to relieve the darkness that seems to pervade and envelop her
every act, and everything seems listless, prayer demands an effort,
and brings no consolation, and meditation is painful and fruitless.
This obscure night of the soul, sometimes called passive purgation, is
supernatural, the gift of the Holy Ghost, and is intended to try the
soul, to test its faith and confidence, to purify it, and enhance its
merit by bringing it in the end into joyful union with God.

If carefully distinguished from sadness and melancholy, which may
spring from the physical constitution and a variety of natural causes,
this inward desolation, in which the soul longs for light, for
spiritual life, and to behold the countenance of the Lord, is a great
good, and a proof that the Holy Spirit has not left us, but is present
within, and is preparing us for the joyful day that will dawn in the
soul, and permit us to ascend to the Mount of Vision with the saints.
Sensible sweetness, even visions, which are not seldom experienced by
one just entering a religious life, are baits to lure us on, or to
save us from discouragement, but they cannot create in us a robust and
solid piety. Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every
son that he receiveth. Far more profitable to the soul is this obscure
night in which the Lord hides his face from us, and leaves us
desolate, and yet does not leave us, nor cease to love and care for

Father Hewit explains the sources and solidity, the certainty, the
infallibility, of the science of the saints; shows the principles on
which it rests; describes the desolation of the soul due to the
discipline to which the Holy Spirit subjects the aspirant to Christian
perfection; gives plain and simple directions to distinguish it from
natural sadness or melancholy, and for the behavior of the soul while     283
suffering, and for deriving the greatest possible spiritual benefit
from it. He also gives us a criterion by which the operations of the
Holy Ghost may be distinguished from visionary illusions sent by Satan
to deceive and ruin the soul, which the spiritists make so much of.
His remarks on spiritism are just and opportune, are exceedingly
valuable, and should be pondered by every Catholic. The ravages of
spiritism are fearful.

The work is addressed solely to Catholics, and we think young and
inexperienced confessors and directors will find much in it to aid
them in their noble but arduous duties of directing souls in the way
of perfection. To the class of Christians for whom it is specially
intended, it will serve as a valuable and trustworthy guide, and will
assist them to profit by the many larger and fuller treatises on the
spiritual life whose excellence is unquestionable, and without
superseding them. We thank the author for the rich present he has made

   de Montalembert. Boston: Patrick Donahoe. 1872. 2 vols.

This is an American reprint of the English translation of Count
Montalembert’s great work. The English edition is not only very
splendid, but very costly. Mr. Donahoe’s edition is compressed into
two volumes, at the reduced price of eight dollars, and is
nevertheless very handsomely printed, with type sufficiently large and
clear, and in all other respects well brought out. We welcome its
appearance as a most fortunate event, and recommend the work most
heartily as one which every intelligent Catholic ought to read as a
glorious monument of his religion, and every literary man as one of
the finest historical and literary productions of the age.

It is without a question that the Count de Montalembert was one of the
greatest and noblest men of this century, whether in or out of the
Catholic Church. The present work is the most complete and splendid
monument of his genius and piety which he has left to perpetuate his
fame. It is no mere compilation of biographies of the common sort, but
a history of the great monastic institution in the West, of its
stupendous works, and of the civilization of which it was one of the
chief organizing powers. It includes some most important and little
known chapters in the history of the chief nations of Christendom. Its
copious and exact erudition is only equalled by the majestic eloquence
of the style in which it is written, and which the translator has well
rendered into English. There are a few passages in the introduction in
which the author has allowed a certain bitterness of feeling to
disturb the ordinarily pure current of his sentiments, and has
betrayed some signs of his sympathy with the errors of the party of
so-called Liberal Catholics. We do not consider this blemish, however,
sufficient to detract seriously from the value and merit of this great
work, or to make its perusal in any way dangerous. It is a work
thoroughly Catholic, and pervaded with the same spirit of loyalty to
the Holy See which the illustrious author has expressed in his
dedication of the work to Pius IX. Whatever he said or did in a
contrary spirit was a lamentable inconsistency, which we trust God has
pardoned, as the Holy Father has done in so tender and magnanimous a

  PETERS’S CATHOLIC CHOIR. A Monthly Magazine devoted to Catholic
    Church Music. New York: J. L. Peters.

The purpose of this publication is to offer in a cheap form selected
musical Masses, hymns, and motets for the use of our church choirs.       284
The selections, from a purely musical point of view, are as good as
publications of this nature generally contain.

    Compendious Narrative of Sacred History, brought down to the
    present Time of the Church, and complete in one Volume. By the
    Rev. Henry Formby. New York: The Catholic Publication Society,
    9 Warren St. 1871.

This is a book which deserves to find a place as a text-book in all
Catholic schools, and to be put by all Catholic parents into the hands
of their children. Even the very little ones will be found capable of
comprehending the easy and familiar English of the narrative; nor can
too much stress be laid on the importance of thus familiarizing them
from the start with the history of God’s dealings with men. For this
purpose, the plan of acquainting them with the Bible history simply is
far from sufficient. It leaves too great a gap between the past and
the present--as if sacred history had virtually come to an end
eighteen centuries ago, and since then everything had been merely
secular and profane. A well-instructed child needs to have the whole
of sacred history, from the creation of the world to the usurpation of
Rome by Victor Emanuel, laid before his eyes in a series the
connections of which are plain and unbroken. Such a simple historical
knowledge will be apt to prove the best safeguard of his faith in a
time when there is no longer any great temptation for him to abandon
it in favor of misbelief, but when open unbelief in the providence of
God is fast becoming his only real enemy. The task which Father Formby
has undertaken, of presenting this history in an easy and compendious
form, is one which he has very satisfactorily accomplished, and for
which there seemed to be a crying need.

We can only hope that American Catholics will make haste to avail
themselves of the results of his labors. The book is an attractive
one, very fully illustrated by pictures which, if they are not to be
called artistic, have at all events the merit of being often
suggestive, and the letterpress will be found good reading by older
readers as well as by the young ones.

    THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1872. Calculated for different Parallels of
    Latitude, and adapted for use throughout the Country. Illuminated
    cover, 12mo, pp. 144. New York: The Catholic Publication Society.

There are many good works to be done for our Catholic community, and
here is one of them. A little annual at a trifling price, yet, in
paper, typographical execution, and illustrations, wonderfully
attractive, now finds its way to over seventy thousand Catholic homes,
and gives to perhaps a quarter of a million of Catholic readers
information, instruction, and entertainment.

The material is new and healthy. It is a commentary on the communion
of saints. Catholics are not of one state or country, of one age or
century. We are a brotherhood embracing all. The young growing up wish
to know of the past glories of the church as the old love to speak of
them; and all desire information of the actual life of the church.

God’s hand is not shortened in the nineteenth century. He overlooks
the great and wise, and reveals himself to little ones, now as of old.
Bernadette Soubirous, whose likeness is given, kneels there, and all
cluster round her to hear the wonderful history of Lourdes. The lately
martyred Archbishop of Paris will be viewed with interest, and the
sketch of him will be imprinted on all minds. The beautiful portraits
of Adelaide Procter and Eugénie de Guérin bring to mind the
representative women of the church in our day, whom to know is to         285
love; and many thousands will here begin to appreciate those two
beautiful souls. In the history of the church in America, all will
feel that Catholicity is no stranger in the land when we see before us
the remains of a cathedral in Greenland, built in the twelfth century;
a bishop in Florida in the sixteenth, predecessor of the illustrious
Carroll in the last, and the saintly Flaget in our own.

Ireland, the fatherland of so many sons of our Holy Mother, is not
forgotten. The ruins of religious houses, caused by hate, and the
excellent portrait of the Liberator, O’Connell, show the close union
between Catholics of all lands and times.

This little attractive bouquet of Catholic flowers, rich with the
aroma of faith, will, by its suggestions, its information, and its
creditable appearance alone, keep alive and stimulate the true
Catholic feeling; and there can be no better work than to disseminate
it widely and more widely in every parish, until it finds its way to
every Catholic family in the land.

  LIFE OF THE REVEREND MOTHER JULIA, Foundress and First Superior
    of the Sisters of Notre Dame, of Namur. Translated from the
    French. With the History of the Order in the United States. New
    York: The Catholic Publication Society, 9 Warren Street. 1871.

Marie Rose Julia Billiart, the foundress of the Sisters of Notre Dame,
was born at Cuvilly, in Picardy, in 1751, and died in 1816. The life
from which this is translated was first published in 1862, for the use
of the Sisters, but will be found also of great interest to the
general reader. It is certainly so, or at least should be, in this
country, where they are so widely diffused, are doing so much for the
cause of Catholic education, and are so well known. Mother Julia was
also a saint, and the lives of the servants of God are always
interesting, especially when told in a natural and unaffected way. Her
whole life was an extraordinary one, though her congregation was not
established till 1803, when she had reached the age of fifty-two; its
foundation being, as it were, necessarily delayed by the disturbances
in France during the Revolution; but of course the greater part of
this memoir is occupied with her last years, which were more abundant
than those that preceded in visible service to others, though not
perhaps in merit to herself. At her death, the order was firmly
established, though not without passing through many trials and
difficulties, and had a number of houses in France and Belgium. It was
brought to this country in 1840, and to England three years later; it
now has seventeen houses there, and twenty in the United States,
having the care, in these two countries alone, of more than thirty
thousand children. The latter part of the book, as stated in the
title, is occupied with its foundation and establishment here; also an
interesting account is given of its introduction into England and
Guatemala, to which latter place they were sent in 1859.

We have before us a list of the houses of the Sisters in
Massachusetts, nine in number, at which nearly seven thousand children
are instructed, as well as over a thousand night-scholars; they have
also more than five thousand attending Sunday-school. It is very much
to be desired and hoped that so useful a body of religious may be
everywhere as abundant as in this favored state; and yet there are not
enough even there, and probably never will be. The words of our Lord
are always verified: “The harvest indeed is great, but the laborers
are few.” Still, there will, no doubt, be vocations when they are
really asked for.

The _Life of Mother Julia_ is well and clearly printed, and beautifully
bound; and the translation was made by an American lady fully qualified   286
for the task.

An excellent portrait of Mother Julia embellishes the book.

  THE FOUR GREAT EVILS OF THE DAY. By Henry Edward, Archbishop of
    Westminster. London: Burns, Oates & Co. 1871. Pp. 142. For sale by
    The Catholic Publication Society, New York.

The Four Great Evils exposed in these four lectures are the Revolt of
the Intellect against God, the Revolt of the Will against God, the
Revolt of Society against God, the Spirit of Antichrist. The author
shows how the revolt against the Roman Church and the Vicar of Christ
results in atheism, immorality, social anarchy, and the disruption of
the whole fabric of Christianity, involving the destruction of the
human race, and of the world, the Catholic Church excepted, which is
preserved by miracle to the end of time. These lectures are very
timely, and ought to be read by every reflecting person. The
Archbishop of Westminster is equal to the greatest of our modern
prelates in his clear insight into Catholic principles, and thorough
knowledge of the atheistic and communistic tendencies of
Protestantism. Hence the respect, fear, and hatred with which he is
regarded by the enemies of the church. One thing especially noticeable
in these lectures, and which we have observed with peculiar pleasure,
is the exhibition of the intellectual as well as moral degradation of
modern infidelity. The superstition and absurdity into which the proud
rebellion of the mind against the authority of the church has plunged
it is shown by Archbishop Manning, in a different way from that
employed by Dr. Newman, but with a force equally irresistible. We
recommend all our intelligent readers, and we presume that all our
readers are intelligent, who desire to master the true and pure
principles of the Catholic religion in their relation to the errors
and disorders of the day, to obtain and study carefully all the works
of the Archbishop of Westminster.

    Prepared by Charles F. Hudson, under the direction of Horace L.
    Hastings, editor of _The Christian_; revised and completed by Ezra
    Abbot, LL.D., Assistant Librarian of Harvard University. Second
    edition, revised. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Co. 1871.

This handy little volume is evidently the result of a good deal of
painstaking and conscientious labor. As the production of several
hands, it is a monument of somewhat heterogeneous scholarship. It
professes to be “critical”; and critical and scholarly we are sure it
is, so far as it is indebted to the contributions of Dr. Ezra Abbot, a
gentleman whose minute bibliographical knowledge is only equalled by
his rare modesty, and by his readiness to place his learning at the
disposal of others. To his careful hand, we take it, is due the
collection of various readings as given by Griesbach, Lachmann, and
the latest editions of Tischendorf and Tregelles. The student will
find in this compilation a mass of information which we do not
remember to have seen in so compact a form elsewhere. For the rest,
the work will doubtless fulfil the purpose announced by the
editor-in-chief, as a “book available to the mere English reader,” and
will be welcomed by evangelical ministers of all denominations who may
have felt more or less keenly the need of supplementing the defects in
their early classical education by some easy artificial helps. How
convenient, for example, when we run against the word γυνή, to find,
on the authority of Messrs. Hastings and Hudson, that, in a given
number of passages, the majority in fact, it signifies _woman_,
undoubtedly _woman_, whereas in several other given passages, including   287
1 Cor. ix. 5, it means _wife_--even though there may be some
misgivings about the “margin.” Whether or not it be “critical,” under
cover of scholarship, to turn a supposed Greek concordance into
nothing more nor less than a quiet vindication of the accuracy of the
King James Version, we leave it to ordinary unbelievers to determine.

  LIFE OF JOHN BUNYAN, with Notices of some of his
    Contemporaries, and Specimens of his Style. By D. A. Harsha, M.A.,
    author of “Life of Philip Doddrige, D.D.,” etc. Philadelphia: J.
    B. Lippincott & Co. 1871.

Nothing, we suppose, is more likely to strike the ordinary Catholic
reader, supposing him even to waste his time over books of the kind,
than the great meagreness and poverty of what are known by
Protestants as religious lives. Even a non-Catholic, like Mr.
Matthew Arnold, has somewhere commented on the superiority of
Catholic biographies to Protestant ones, with that air of easy
insolence which has made him anything but a pleasing subject for
contemplation to the majority of his countrymen and co-religionists.

Mr. Harsha’s life of the allegorizing tinker of Bedford can boast of
no advantage in this respect over other efforts of the same general
description. It is not, we should say, the fault of the biographer,
who seems to have genuine religious instincts, and to be principally
hampered by his ignorance of what true spirituality means, and the
poverty of the material he works in. These, however, are in his
position necessary evils.

This book has other faults for which he is more actively
responsible. A man who wonders that Bunyan should have been molested
for his religious views under what he, perhaps facetiously, calls
the “mild rule of Cromwell” (a characterization that John Evelyn would
have been as slow to endorse as any Catholic Irishman of Zedah) and is
puzzled to account for his freedom during the reign of the Second
James, needs something besides an acquaintance with the _Pilgrim’s
Progress_ and Bunyan’s sermons to qualify him for the task of a
biographer. Perhaps, however, a thorough knowledge of history would be
as successful an agent in the work of un-Protestantizing a sincere man
as any other merely human one that could be named.

  GRADUALE DE TEMPORE ET DE SANCTIS, juxta Ritum Sacrosanctæ Romanæ
    Ecclesiæ cum cantu Pauli V. Pont. Max. jussu reformato cui addita
    sunt officia postea approbata sub auspiciis Sanctissimi Domini
    Nostri Pii PP. IX. Curante Sacr. Rituum Congregatione, cum
    privilegio. Ratisbonæ, Neo-Eboraci et Cincinnatii: Sumptibus,
    chartis et typis Frederici Pustet.

About the time of the opening of the Œcumenical Council, the firm of
F. Pustet were permitted by special indult to publish a revised
edition of the Gradual known as the Medicean. A commission was
appointed by the Sacred Congregation of Rites to undertake this
revision, but the suspension of the Council and the political troubles
ensuing prevented the completion of their labors. A dispensation,
however, was granted to Mr. Pustet to publish and sell the work,
adding the portion yet unrevised as it stands in the original edition.
We reserve a fuller notice for some future date, when we hope to lay
before our readers a critical essay on the various editions of the
Gradual and other books of chant published in Europe and Canada.

  THE GRAND DEMONSTRATION in Baltimore and Washington, D. C., in honor
    of the XXVth Anniversary of the Election of Pius IX. to the Chair
    of St. Peter, June 17, 18, 19. A.D. 1871. Baltimore: John Murphy &

It would be scarcely possible to add anything on the general subject
of this handsome brochure--the theme of so many thousand eloquent pens    288
and voices. The celebration in the Province of Baltimore, however, was
an exceptional one, as became the oldest See in the United States.
Besides the addresses, letters, and resolutions, etc., which we
naturally look for in such a publication, it includes encyclical and
other letters from His Holiness, and some historical and chronological
matter which the reader will find highly useful.

  THE MARTYRS OF THE COLISEUM; or, Historical Records of the Great
    Amphitheatre of Ancient Rome. By the Rev. A. J. O’Reilly,
    Missionary Apostolic at St. Mary’s, Capetown. London: Burns,
    Oates, & Co. 1871. For sale by the Catholic Publication Society,
    New York.

The basis of the narratives of this volume is furnished by the ancient
_Acts of the Martyrs_. The story of several of the most illustrious
martyrs of the early ages is told by the author, according to history
and legend, with some embellishments of imagination, poetry, and
fancy. There is also an account of the history of the Coliseum itself,
as far as knowledge or probable conjecture can furnish it. The
author’s style is warm, exuberant, and brilliant. The volume is
instructive and entertaining, and ought to be a favorite, with young
people especially.

  MANUAL OF PIETY, for the use of Seminarians. Second American Edition.
    Baltimore: Published by John Murphy & Co., 182 Baltimore Street.

This is a new edition of an excellent and well-known manual for
seminarians. It can hardly be too highly commended either as regards
matter or form. It contains an immense amount of matter in a very
small space, and the type is clear and beautiful.

MR. ROBERT CODDINGTON has in press, and will publish about Christmas,
_The Vicar of Christ; or, Lectures upon the Office and Prerogatives of
our Holy Father the Pope_, by Rev. Thomas S. Preston, pastor of St.
Ann’s Church, New York, and Chancellor of the Diocese. It will be
published uniform in style with the other volumes of Father Preston’s

The Catholic Publication Society will publish, November 1, _Mary,
Queen of Scots, and Her Latest English Historian_, a narrative of the
principal events in the life of Mary Stuart, with some remarks on Mr.
Froude’s _History of England_, by James F. Meline. This work will
contain not only the thorough criticism of Mr. Froude’s _History of
England_ as far as made in the five articles on the subject in THE
CATHOLIC WORLD--articles which have attracted general attention, and
put Mr. Froude upon his defence--but also a complete narrative of the
life of Mary Stuart, with a review of those volumes of Mr. Froude’s
history not noticed in the articles.

MR. P. DONAHOE, Boston, will soon publish _To and from the Passion
Play at Oberammergau, Bavaria_, from the pen of the Rev. George H.
Doane, Chancellor of the Diocese of Newark. It will be dedicated to the
Rt. Rev. J. R. Bayley, D.D., Bishop of Newark.

KELLY, PIET & CO. announce as in press _The Martyrs of the
Coliseum_, by Rev. A. J. O’Reilly.

                          BOOKS RECEIVED.

  From CHARLES SCRIBNER & CO., New York: The Holy Bible according to
    the Authorized Version (A.D. 1611), with an Explanatory and Critical
    Commentary, and a Revision of the Translation, by Bishops and
    other Clergy of the Anglican Church. Edited by F. C. Cook, M.A.,
    Canon of Exeter. Vol. I. Part 1. Genesis-Exodus.

  From KAY & BROTHER, Philadelphia: A Collection of Leading Cases in
    the Law of Elections in the United States, with Notes and References
    to the latest Authorities. By Frederick C. Brightly.

                                 THE                                      289

                          CATHOLIC WORLD.

                VOL. XIV., No. 81.--DECEMBER, 1871.

     Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by
  REV. I. T. HECKER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at
                         Washington, D. C.

                   THE RECENT EVENTS IN FRANCE.

We have no occasion to dwell on the disastrous events of the war of
the second French Empire with Prussia, nor on the still more
disastrous results of the feeble efforts of the improvised republic to
drive back the German armies from French soil. They are too painful to
be dwelt on, and are, probably, as well known to our readers as to
ourselves. We may, however, remark that we regard it as a mistake to
represent the war as unprovoked by Prussia. The party that declares
the war is not always responsible for it. Prussia, by her duplicity,
her aggressive spirit, and her menacing attitude to France, gave to
the French government ample reason, according to what has long been
the usage with European nations, for declaring the war.

We have never been the partisans of Louis Napoleon; but it is only
simple justice to say that by his concessions of January, 1870, he had
ceased to be the absolute sovereign of France, and had become a
constitutional monarch, like the Queen of Great Britain and Ireland,
and the declaration of war against Prussia in July of the same year
was not his personal act, but the act of the Liberal ministry and the
French people, influenced, not unlikely, by the secret societies that
had sworn the Emperor’s destruction. Perhaps, when the facts are
better known, it will be clearly seen that the Emperor had really no
alternative but war with Prussia, or the loss of the French throne for
himself and dynasty. Though unprepared, he chose the war, as offering
at least a chance of success, and it is not improbable that the result
would have been less disastrous both for him and the nation if he had
been loyally sustained by the French people, and had not had a more
formidable enemy in his rear than in his front. The influences that
compelled him to consent to the declaration of war were unfriendly to
him, and both before and after the declaration were, not unlikely,
indirectly controlled by that astute but unprincipled diplomatist,
Bismarck, at present Chancellor of the new German Empire, and through     290
whose adroitness Germany has been Prussianized.

It now also appears that the disaster of Sedan was far less the fault
of the Emperor than of his marshals, who acted without his orders, and
without concert with one another. If Marshal MacMahon had fallen back
on the capital, as Trochu says he advised, instead of attempting to
relieve Metz, and given the nation time to rally and concentrate its
forces, it is probable the empire would have been saved, and the
Prussians been ultimately defeated and driven beyond the Rhine. Even
after the disaster of Sedan, the integrity of French territory might
have been saved, and peace obtained on far less onerous terms than
those which were finally imposed by the conqueror after the surrender
of Paris, but for the Parisian mob of the 4th of September, which
compelled the Corps Législatif to pronounce, illegally of course, the
escheat of the Emperor and the empire, to proclaim the republic, and
to suffer a so-called government of defence to be improvised. The
disaster of Sedan was great, but it was a mere bagatelle in comparison
with that of the revolution effected by the Parisian mob acting under
the direction of the secret societies, whose destructive power and
influence were so well and so truthfully set forth by Disraeli in his
_Lothair_, one of the most remarkable books recently published, and
which shows that its author fully understands the great questions,
movements, and tendencies of modern society. That revolution was the
real disaster, and Paris, not Prussia or Germany, has subjugated
France. The French, excepting a few lawyers, journalists, literary
dreamers, and the workingmen of the cities and towns, who demanded
“_la république démocratique et sociale_,” had no wish for a republic,
and were, and are, decidedly anti-republican at heart. The men
composing the so-called government of defence were, for the most part,
men who had not, and could not inspire it, the confidence of the
nation, were men without faith or solid principle, theorists and
declaimers, utterly destitute both of civil and military capacity,
distrusted, if not detested, by all Frenchmen who retained any sense
of religion or any love of country surpassing their love for their own
theories. France, perhaps, could have been saved by a loyal support of
the empire, and a hearty co-operation with the Imperial government
under the Empress-Regent, even after the disaster of Sedan, but not by
overthrowing it, and plunging the nation into the revolutionary abyss.
The government of defence only hastened the catastrophe by defaming
the Imperial government, calumniating it, and publishing every sort of
falsehood against it that malice could invent or render plausible, as
the event has proved, and all the world is beginning to see and admit.

But for the socialistic revolution, it is now known that, even after
the surrender of the Emperor, the Imperial government could have
obtained peace without any mutilation of French territory, and on
terms, if hard, at least such as could be borne. France would have
suffered the mortification of defeat, and would have been compelled to
indemnify, as a matter of course, Prussia for the expenses of the war;
but she would have suffered no loss of territory, and would have
remained, defeated indeed, but not conquered. Europe would have
mediated effectually in her favor, for the balance of power requires
her preservation; but the European nations could not intervene in favor   291
of a revolution which was a menace to each one of themselves, and
Prussia would not and could not treat with a revolutionary committee
that had no legal existence and no power to bind the nation.

The insurrection of Paris on the 18th of March, 1871, against the
Versailles government, was only the logical continuation of that of
the 4th of September against the empire. The same party that made the
one made the other. An omnibus would hold nearly all the republicans
in France that differ essentially or in principle from the Paris
Commune, and its suppression after a fearful struggle is the
condemnation of the revolution that overthrew the empire, and also of
the government that suppressed it. Its suppression, so absolutely
necessary if France or French society is to subsist, was simply the
revolution condemning and killing itself. No government can be founded
on the revolutionary principle, for that principle is destructive and
can found nothing; and hence it is that every revolution is compelled
to devour itself; and to be able to reconstruct and maintain political
or social order, it must deny its own principle, and as far as
possible undo its own work. Yet the Commune is only “scotched, not
killed,” and will rear its head again in the first moment a new
political crisis comes. A republic of law and order, respecting and
maintaining the rights of person and property, such as we regard our
own, is at present impracticable in every nation in Europe, with the
single exception of Switzerland, for it has no basis in the interior
life, the antecedents, the manners, customs, and usages of the people.
It was by the aid of non-republican France that the Parisian
insurgents were put down. There is in Europe no political _via media_
practicable as yet between the absolutism of Cæsar and the absolutism
of the people. Either Cæsar is in the place of God, or the people; and
the only religion this nineteenth century tolerates is either
monarchical absolutism or popular absolutism; and European society, as
we see, only swings like a pendulum from the one to the other, and
finds no liberty or chance for free development under either. Its real
progress is suspended.

At this moment, France lies prostrate with the iron heel of the
conqueror on her neck, and that conqueror, Prussia, a power that never
was known to have a noble or generous sentiment, and that has 1806 to
avenge. Prussia has not yet relaxed her hold on her prostrate foe, and
will not of her own accord, so long as a single sign of life remains.
France has now no legal government, no political organization, and,
what is the worst, recognizes no power competent to reorganize her
society, and reconstitute the state, and has recognized none since the
revolution of 1789. Since that worldwide event, she has had no
government which she felt herself bound in conscience to obey, or
towards which she had any genuine sentiment of loyalty. No government
has been able to count on the national support if it became
unfortunate, and ceased to gratify the national pride or vanity. The
principles of 1789, avowedly accepted as the basis of his government
by the Emperor, are destructive of the very sentiment of loyalty, and
deny the obligation in conscience of the people to obey authority any
longer than it suits their convenience. If a plebiscitum or the
popular vote could create a legal government, Louis Napoleon was and
is still the legal sovereign of the French people, and, through them,
of France. But the nation never had any sentiment of loyalty towards      292
him, and abandons him as it did his greater uncle the moment he
becomes unsuccessful. It never felt that it owed him allegiance, and
how could it since he professed to hold from it? His government was
based on a plebiscitum, and could it bind the nation? It was created
by the people, was their creature, and can the creator be loyal to or
bound by his own creation? The nation can be bound only by a power
above itself and be loyal only to an authority that comes from a
source independent of the people.

Louis Napoleon held from 1789, and had the weakness to believe in
plebiscitums. He seems never to have understood that universal
suffrage can only create an agency, not a government. He was a
disciple of the political philosophers of the eighteenth century, who
erected revolution into a principle. These philosophers of the
eighteenth century made no account of the continuity of the national
life, of national habits, customs, and usages, and assumed that the
convention might draw up an entirely new constitution according to an
abstract and preconceived theory, without regard to the antecedents or
past life of the nation, and without any support in the spiritual or
supernatural order above the nation, get it adopted by a plurality of
votes, and safely rely on _l’intérêt bien entendu_, or enlightened
self-interest, to preserve it and secure its successful practical
workings as the fundamental law of the nation. The whole history of
France for nearly a century, without any reference to our own
experience, refutes the absurd theory of the philosophers, or
sophists, rather. A French gentleman, still living, told us, before
the recent collapse of the second French Empire, that he had witnessed
seventeen revolutions or changes of government in his native country,
and he is in a fair way of living to see the number increased at least
to a score. No government created by and held from the people can
govern the people; and, if reason alone or the calculations of
interest were sufficient to sustain a government, no government or
political constitution would be necessary. Paper constitutions are
worthless, save so far as they express the living constitution of the
nation. “Constitutions,” Count de Maistre has well said, “are
generated, not made”; and the merit of the American constitution is in
the fact that it was born with the American people, not made by them.

France was originally constituted by the king, the nobility, the
church, with some feeble remains of the old Roman municipalities,
subsequently revived and expanded into the _tiers-état_. The balance
of her original constitution had been disturbed, it is true; the
church and the nobility had been greatly enfeebled by the inordinate
growth of monarchy on the one hand, and the expansion of the communal
power on the other; but these four fundamental elements of her
national constitution still subsisted in more or less force down to
the Revolution of 1789. That revolution swept away king, church, and
nobility, and proclaimed the _tiers-état_ the nation, without any
political organization or power to reconstitute legal or legitimate
government. No nation is competent to constitute itself, for till
constituted it is only a mass of individuals, incapable of any legal
national act. Since then France has been trying in vain to make
something out of nothing, and been continually alternating between the
mob and despotism--despotism suppressing the mob, and the mob deposing
despotism. She at this moment has no legal government, and the French     293
people recognize no power able to reconstitute the state. Her old
monarchical constitution, tempered by the church and her old nobility,
and restrained by provincial customs, usages, privileges, and
franchises, is swept away, and nothing remains of her political life
that can serve as the germ or basis of reorganization, or the
re-establishment of authority, competent, legally or morally, to bind
the nation, restore order, and protect liberty.

Worse than all else is the fact that 1789 swept away the church as a
power in the state, and left the state it wished to constitute without
any moral support, or power not dependent on the nation to sustain it.
It threw the management of public affairs into the hands of men and
parties that had no faith in God, who hated or despised religion, and
believed only in themselves and the perfectibility of the species.
This was the greatest evil of all. A nation may be politically
disorganized, and yet be able to recover and re-establish a legal
government, if it retains religion as an organized power, independent
of the nation; for it then retains a power that has its source in the
supernatural, above the people, and able to bind the national will in
conscience, and give consistency and a divine sanction to the national
ordinations. The first Napoleon had sense enough to see something of
this, and to understand that he could not reorganize disorganized
France without calling in religion to his aid; he therefore solicited
a concordat from the Holy See, and re-established the church. But he
had not sense enough to see and understand that even the church could
not aid him if holding from himself, or if subjected in her
administration to his own or the national will. He committed
the usual mistake of secular sovereigns, that of insisting on keeping
the control of the ecclesiastical administration in their respective
dominions each in his own hands, of using the church to control his
subjects, but allowing her no authority over himself.

Nothing can exceed the short-sightedness of secular sovereigns in
seeking to keep religion in their respective dominions subject to
their will as an adjunct of the police, rather than an independent
power holding from God, and alike supreme over sovereigns and
subjects. The present hostility to the church, even in old Catholic
nations, is in no small measure owing to the fact that the sovereigns
have sought to use her to preach submission, resignation, and patience
to their subjects, and to uphold the authority of the government,
however forgetful of its duties, tyrannical, or oppressive. They have
sought to make her their instrument in governing or, rather,
misgoverning their subjects, without the liberty to exercise the power
which, as the representative of the divine authority on earth, she
holds from God, to remind them of their duty to govern their subjects
wisely and justly, to rebuke and place them under interdict, and even
to declare their power forfeited when they persistently violate the
law of God and oppress the people. They thus render her odious to the
lovers of freedom. Hence we see the revolution far more bitter against
the church than against the sovereigns, who, having rendered her
odious by denying her the freedom and independence which are her
right, and without which she can render no service either to power or
to liberty, have everywhere abandoned her to the tender mercies of her
enemies, in the vain hope of conciliating the revolution and saving
their own heads. They throw her now as a sop to Cerberus.                 294

The power of religion to sustain authority against the insurrection
and rebellion of subjects, and liberty against the tyranny of the
prince, is in her being an organic power in the nation, but
independent of the national will, holding from God, not from the
nation or its sovereign, and free to declare and apply the divine law
alike to prince and people. Nationalized, she has no support outside
of the nation, no power not derived from it, and can give the nation
only what it already has in itself. It must follow, not lead the
nation, and share its fate, which it has no power to avert. What can
the Russian Church do to restrain the tyranny of the Czar? Or the
Church of England to check the progress of the revolution now going on
and threatening to sweep away king, nobility, and the church first of
all? What can it do before the democracy become omnipotent? Why is it
that no Gentile nation has ever shown any recuperative energy, but
because Gentilism, as the name implies, is nationalism, and the nation
has in it only a national religion, and nothing outside, above, or
independent of the national authority? The Gentile religion, deprived
of catholicity, had to follow the nation, and to share its corruption
and its fate. When the nation fell, it fell with it; and the nation,
when it fell, fell for ever, and disappeared from the list of nations.
Protestantism in its essential principle is a revolt against
catholicity, and the subjection of religion to the national will. It
is essentially a revival of nationalism, or Gentilism, and hence a
Protestant nation has no recuperative energy, and, were it to fall,
its fall would be like that of a Gentile nation, a fall without the
power to rise again. So it must be with every nation that has only a
national or a nationalized religion.

Napoleon, who wished the church only as an adjunct of his own power,
never understood anything of all this. He saw that the church was more
conservative than Protestantism, and in fact so by virtue of her
Catholicity, that she had a stronger hold on the French people, and
could serve him better than any Protestant sect; but he did not see
that the church, sought for a political end, is necessarily powerless
even to that end, and that she serves a political end only when she is
sought for her own sake, recognized and supported for a religious end,
or as the free and independent kingdom of God on earth. Not
understanding this, he refused her unrestrained liberty, and sought by
his own legislation to subject her in his own dominions to his own
will, and to compel her either to support his policy or to feel the
full weight of his vengeance. She must support him, wear his livery,
do his bidding, hold his enemies to be her enemies, or he would not
tolerate her at all. She, as the church of God, could not accept this
position and sink into a mere national church, however powerful the
nation. She asserted her independence, and her independence alike of
him and those he professed to govern. He commanded her to obey him:
she refused. He quarrelled with her, dragged her supreme pontiff from
his throne, despoiled him of his estates, imprisoned him, was
excommunicated, became powerless before his enemies, was defeated,
lost his throne, and was sent by his conquerors to fret his life away
as a prisoner of England on the barren isle of St. Helena, leaving
French society hardly less disorganized than he found it.

The Restoration which followed was a return toward legitimacy, and
under it France actually recuperated with a rapidity which seems          295
marvellous to unbelievers. But it humiliated the nation, because it
was imposed on it by foreign bayonets, and its work of reparation and
expiation necessarily made it unpopular with all who had profited by
the plunder and confiscations of the Revolution, or by the wars of the
Empire. The spirit of 1789 still possessed a large portion of the
population. The Bourbons returned, also, with the old Gallican
traditions of the relation of church and state, which had lost the
monarchy, and prepared the people for the old revolution. They would
have the church, indeed, but they would never recognize her rightful
supremacy; and, though giving France really the best government she
had had for a long time, they at length fell before the intrigues of a
younger branch of the family, supported by the combined factions of
the Bonapartists, republicans, and socialists.

The monarchy of July or the Barricades was, notwithstanding the
pretences of the _juste milieu_, or doctrinaires, a purely
revolutionary government, improvised in the interests of disorder,
without a shadow of legality, and without anything, in the nation or
in religion, on which it could rest; and from the first it was spurned
by the legitimists, the old national nobility, by the peasantry, the
larger part of the republicans, and supported only by the
_bourgeoisie_, or business classes, and the Bonapartists, the latter
of whom hoped to make it a stepping-stone to the restoration of the
Napoleonic empire. It had no hold on the nation, no power to
reconstitute it on a solid and permanent basis; and so, as a new
generation appeared on the stage, it fell without a struggle before
the Parisian mob. It was indifferent rather than avowedly hostile to
the church, but it gave free scope to the infidel press, warred
against the Jesuits, and maintained the infidel university in the
monopoly of education. It, however, indirectly served the cause of
religion by the little court favor the bishops could obtain, and who,
in consequence, retired, and looked after the interests of religion in
their respective dioceses, so that when a Parisian mob overthrew the
citizen-king in February, 1848, and proclaimed the republic, the
church was really more influential in France than she had been since
1682. She had influence enough to displace the party that made the
revolution from the control of public affairs, to defeat and crush the
reds and communists in the terrible days of June, 1848, to save French
society from utter dissolution, and maintain order under a republic
proclaimed by the friends of disorder. We are far from being convinced
that, if the bishops and clergy had continued to show the energy in
supporting the republic that they did in wresting it from the control
of the infidels and destructives, they would not have been able to
reconstitute French society on a Catholic and a republican basis, to
the advantage alike of religion and society.

Certain it is, the church, though not officially supported by the
republic, and had many and bitter enemies in France, was freer under
it than she had been since the great Western Schism, and had a fair
opportunity to prove to the world that she is wedded to no particular
form of government or political organization, and can subsist as well,
to say the least, in a republic as in a monarchy. We thought at the
time, and we still think, though no enemy to monarchy and no blind
defender of republicanism, that the French bishops and clergy
committed a grave blunder in abandoning the republic and surrendering     296
French society to the nephew of his uncle--a member of the Carbonari,
a known conspirator against the Pope in 1832, and a favorite with the
red republicans and socialists. It would be difficult to estimate the
damage they did to France and to the cause of religion throughout the
world. It will cost, perhaps, centuries of bitter struggle and
suffering on the part of Catholics, to repair the sad effects of that
blunder. But French Catholics had for ages been accustomed to rely on
royal support, and they lacked the robust and vigorous habits under
God of self-reliance. The bishops and clergy could easily have marched
to a martyrs’ death, but they had with all their experience never
learned the folly of putting their trust for the church in princes.
They remembered the Reign of Terror; they remembered, also, the
flesh-pots of Egypt, and shrank from the hunger, thirst, and fatigue
of the desert.

The new emperor found the French people divided into three principal
parties--the church or Catholic party, which included the Bourbonists
and the better part of the Orleanists; the republican party, properly
so-called; and the socialistic or extreme radical party, represented
in the recent civil war by the communists of Paris and of all Europe.
His policy on commencing his reign was avowedly to keep the control of
all these parties in his own hands, by leaving each party something to
hope from his government, and allowing no one to gain the ascendency,
and, as far as possible, engrossing the whole nation in the pursuit of
material goods. He acknowledged the sovereignty of the nation,
professed to hold from 1789, and favored universal suffrage, which was
in accordance with the views of the republican party; he adopted
measures to secure employment to the working-men of the cities and
towns, among whom was the great body of the socialists, or communists,
by his encouragement of expensive national and municipal works; and,
to retain his hold on them and to protect himself from the assassins
of the secret societies, he made his Italian campaign, drove the
Austrians out of Italy, and prepared the way for Italian unification,
and for despoiling the Holy Father of his temporal possessions and
sovereignty; raised the salaries paid to clergy as servants of the
state, and repaired churches and abbeys as national monuments at the
national expense, to please and secure the church party. But he
suppressed the freedom the church had enjoyed under the republic,
maintained the “organic articles” of his uncle, and all the old
Gallican edicts and legislation against the freedom and independence
of the church in full force, trusting that she would see a
compensation for her loss of liberty in the increased pomp and
splendor of her worship or the gilded slavery to which he reduced her.

The recrudescence of infidelity, atheism, or materialism was a marked
feature under the Second Empire, and the influence of religion daily
and hourly declined; and all the wisdom and energy of the government
seemed exerted to _despiritualize_, if we may be allowed the word, the
French nation, to extinguish whatever remained of its old chivalric
sentiments and its old love of glory, once so powerful in every French
heart, and to render the nation intent only on things of the earth,
earthy. His policy, being always that of half-measures, disguised as
moderation, was not suited to make him true friends. His Italian
campaign against Austria was pushed far enough to make Austrians his      297
enemies, but not far enough to make friends of the Italians. His
consent to the annexation to Sardinia of the Italian duchies, the
Neapolitan kingdom, and the Æmilian provinces of the Holy See, was
enough to alienate the friends of international law, and to offend all
conservatives and Catholics who had any sense of right or religion;
but not enough, so long as he protected the Holy Father in the
sovereignty of the city of Rome, to gain him the good-will of the
infidels, communists, secret societies, or of the partisans of Italian
unity. His policy of never pushing matters to extremes, and of winning
and controlling all parties, by leaving each something to hope from
him, but never what any one specially desired, necessarily resulted,
as might have been foreseen, in offending all parties, and in gaining
the confidence of no one. He had by his half-and-half measures
succeeded in alienating all parties in France, and, by his Crimean
war, his Italian policy, and his half-league with Bismarck to drive
Austria out of Germany and increase the territory and power of
Prussia, had succeeded equally well in losing the confidence of all
the European nations with which he had any relations, and in finding
himself without an ally or a friend.

The elections of 1869 disclosed the very unsatisfactory fact that he
really had no party in France, and no support but his own creatures,
and if he still retained a feeble majority in the popular vote, say of
five hundred thousand votes out of an aggregate of six millions and a
half, it was from a dread of another revolution, rather than from any
attachment to him personally or to his government. This led him to a
new line of policy, to abandon _personal_ government, to make large
concessions to what is called self-government, and to throw himself
into the arms of the apparently moderate liberals, as distinguished on
the one hand from the church party, and on the other from the
socialists, communists, or destructives, that is, of the feeblest and
least popular party in France, and consented to the war against
Prussia as his only chance of recovering, by military success, if he
gained it, his popularity with the nation. His military expedition
having failed, because he had, so to speak, _unmartialized_ his
empire, and because he was not really backed by the French people, he
was obliged to surrender himself a prisoner of war with his army at
Sedan, and his dynasty was expelled by a mob. He had abandoned the
Holy Father in order to serve the liberals at home and abroad,
deserted the cause of God, and God, and even the liberals, deserted

France is to-day not only prostrate under the iron heel of the
Prussian, but is without any government in which any party in the
nation has any confidence, and, if she recovers at all, her recovery
must be slow and painful, and subject to numerous relapses. Prussia,
as we have said, will not readily let go her hold, and never, so long
as she can help it, suffer her to rise from her present condition. The
remote cause is 1789, or rather the causes that led to that
uncalled-for and most disastrous revolution; but the proximate cause
we must look for in the lack of wise and practical statesmanship in
Louis Napoleon, who sought to govern France according to a
preconceived theory, worked out in his closet or his solitary studies.
When he took the reins of government, the Catholic party were really
in the ascendant; and, had he been a wise and practical statesman, he
would have seen that the only chance of reorganizing and governing        298
France was not in laboring to maintain an equilibrium of parties, but
in throwing himself resolutely on the side of the party, in studying
and sustaining, without any compromise with the enemies of God and
society, real Catholic interests, and in surrounding himself by
thorough-going Catholic statesmen. Catholicity alone offered any solid
basis for the state or for authority, order, or liberty. The other
parties in the nation were all, in varying degrees, the enemies alike
of authority and liberty, and none of them offered any solid basis of
government. He should, therefore, have placed his whole confidence in
Catholic France, and set them aside, and, if they rebelled, have
suppressed them, if necessary, by armed force. Had he done so, and
acted in concert with the Holy Father and the religious portion of the
nation, he would have reorganized France, given solidity to his power,
and permanence to his throne. But from policy or from conviction he
chose to hold from 1789, and was incapable of understanding that no
government that tolerates the revolutionary principle, or is based on
infidelity or the rejection of all spiritual or supernatural authority
above the nation, can stand. So-called self-government, without the
church of God, teaching and governing all men and nations in all